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diff --git a/old/7837-h.htm.2021-01-26 b/old/7837-h.htm.2021-01-26 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7cffbfe --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7837-h.htm.2021-01-26 @@ -0,0 +1,14586 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Nest-builder, by Beatrice Forbes-robertson Hale + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Nest Builder, by Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Nest Builder + +Author: Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale + + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7837] +This file was first posted on May 21, 2003 +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEST BUILDER *** + + + + +Text file produced by Tiffany Vergon, Charles Franks, Juliet +Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE NEST-BUILDER + </h1> + <h3> + <i>A NOVEL</i> + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale + </h2> + <h4> + Author Of “What Women Want” <br /> <br /> <br /> <i>With A Frontispiece By J. + Henry</i> + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>PART I</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> <b>PART II</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XIII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> <b>PART III</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> VII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> <b>PART IV</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> XIV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> <b>PART V</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> V </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I + </h2> + <h3> + MATE-SONG + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Outbound from Liverpool, the Lusitania bucked down the Irish Sea against a + September gale. Aft in her second-class quarters each shouldering from the + waves brought a sickening vibration as one or another of the ship's great + propellers raced out of water. The gong had sounded for the second + sitting, and trails of hungry and weary travelers, trooping down the + companionway, met files of still more uneasy diners emerging from the + saloon. The grinding jar of the vessel, the heavy smell of food, and the + pound of ragtime combined to produce an effect as of some sordid and + demoniac orgy—an effect derided by the smug respectability of the + saloon's furnishings. + </p> + <p> + Stefan Byrd, taking in the scene as he balanced a precarious way to his + seat, felt every hypercritical sense rising in revolt. Even the prosaic + but admirably efficient table utensils repelled him. “They are so useful, + so abominably enduring,” he thought. The mahogany trimmings of doors and + columns seemed to announce from every overpolished surface a pompous + self-sufficiency. Each table proclaimed the aesthetic level of the second + class through the lifeless leaves of a rubber plant and two imitation + cut-glass dishes of tough fruit. The stewards, casually hovering, lacked + the democracy which might have humanized the steerage as much as the + civility which would have oiled the workings of the first cabin. Byrd + resented their ministrations as he did the heavy English dishes of the + bill of fare. There were no Continental passengers near him. He had left + the dear French tongue behind, and his ears, homesick already, shrank + equally from the see-saw Lancashire of the stewards and the monotonous + rasp of returning Americans. + </p> + <p> + Byrd's left hand neighbor, a clergyman of uncertain denomination, had + tried vainly for several minutes to attract his attention by clearing his + throat, passing the salt, and making measured requests for water, bread, + and the like. + </p> + <p> + “I presume, sir,” he at last inquired loudly, “that you are an American, + and as glad as I am to be returning to our country?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” retorted Byrd, favoring his questioner with a withering stare, + “I am a Bohemian, and damnably sorry that I ever have to see America + again.” + </p> + <p> + The man of God turned away, pale to the temples with offense—a + high-bosomed matron opposite emitted a shocked “Oh!”—the faces of + the surrounding listeners assumed expressions either dismayed or + deprecating. Budding conversationalists were temporarily frost-bitten, and + the watery helpings of fish were eaten in a constrained silence. But with + the inevitable roast beef a Scot of unshakeable manner, decorated with a + yellow forehead-lock as erect as a striking cobra, turned to follow up + what he apparently conceived to be an opportunity for discussion. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not so strongly partial to the States mysel', ye ken, but I'll + confess it's a grand place to mak' money. Ye would be going there, + perhaps, to improve your fortunes?” + </p> + <p> + Byrd was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Also,” continued the Scot, quite unrebuffed, “it would be interesting to + know what exactly ye mean when ye call yoursel' a Bohemian. Would ye be + referring to your tastes, now, or to your nationality?” + </p> + <p> + His hand trembling with nervous temper, Byrd laid down his napkin, and + rose with an attempt at dignity somewhat marred by the viselike clutch of + the swivel chair upon his emerging legs. + </p> + <p> + “My mother was a Bohemian, my father an American. Neither, happily, was + Scotch,” said he, almost stammering in his attempt to control his extreme + distaste of his surroundings—and hurried out of the saloon, leaving + a table of dropped jaws behind him. + </p> + <p> + “The young man is nairvous,” contentedly boomed the Scot. “I'm thinking + he'll be feeling the sea already. What kind of a place would Bohemia, be, + d'ye think, to have a mother from?” turning to the clergyman. + </p> + <p> + “A place of evil life, seemingly,” answered that worthy in his + high-pitched, carrying voice. “I shall certainly ask to have my seat + changed. I cannot subject myself for the voyage to the neighborhood of a + man of profane speech.” + </p> + <p> + The table nodded approval. + </p> + <p> + “A traitor to his country, too,” said a pursy little man opposite, + snapping his jaws shut like a turtle. + </p> + <p> + A bony New England spinster turned deprecating eyes to him. “My,” she + whispered shrilly, “he was just terrible, wasn't he? But so handsome! I + can't help but think it was more seasickness with him than an evil + nature.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the subject of discussion, who would have writhed far more at + the spinster's palliation of his offense than at the men's disdain, lay in + his tiny cabin, a prey to an attack of that nervous misery which overtakes + an artist out of his element as surely and speedily as air suffocates a + fish. + </p> + <p> + Stefan Byrd's table companions were guilty in his eyes of the one + unforgivable sin—they were ugly. Ugly alike in feature, dress, and + bearing, they had for him absolutely no excuse for existence. He felt no + bond of common humanity with them. In his lexicon what was not beautiful + was not human, and he recognized no more obligation of good fellowship + toward them than he would have done toward a company of ground-hogs. He + lay back, one fine and nervous hand across his eyes, trying to obliterate + the image of the saloon and all its inmates by conjuring up a vision of + the world he had left, the winsome young cosmopolitan Paris of the art + student. The streets, the cafés, the studios; his few men, his many women, + friends—Adolph Jensen, the kindly Swede who loved him; Louise, + Nanette, the little Polish Yanina, who had said they loved him; the + slanting-glanced Turkish students, the grave Syrians, the democratic + un-British Londoners—the smell, the glamour of Paris, returned to + him with the nostalgia of despair. + </p> + <p> + These he had left. To what did he go? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + In his shivering, creaking little cabin, suspended, as it were, by the + uncertain waters between two lives, Byrd forced himself to remember the + America he had known before his Paris days. He recalled his birthplace—a + village in upper Michigan—and his mental eyes bored across the + pictures that came with the running speed of a cinematograph to his + memory. + </p> + <p> + The place was a village, but it called itself a city. The last he had seen + of it was the “depot,” a wooden shed surrounded by a waste of rutted snow, + and backed by grimy coal yards. He could see the broken shades of the + town's one hotel, which faced the tracks, drooping across their dirty + windows, and the lopsided sign which proclaimed from the porch roof in + faded gilt on black the name of “C. E. Trench, Prop.” He could see the + swing-doors of the bar, and hear the click of balls from the poolroom + advertising the second of the town's distractions. He could smell the + composite odor of varnish, stale air, and boots, which made the overheated + station waiting-room hideous. Heavy farmers in ear-mitts, peaked caps, and + fur collars spat upon the hissing stove round which their great hide boots + sprawled. They were his last memory of his fellow citizens. + </p> + <p> + Looking farther back Stefan saw the town in summer. There were trees in + the street where he lived, but they were all upon the sidewalk-public + property. In their yards (the word garden, he recalled, was never used) + the neighbors kept, with unanimity, in the back, washing, and in the + front, a porch. Over these porches parched vines crept—the town's + enthusiasm for horticulture went as far as that—and upon them + concentrated the feminine social life of the place. Of this intercourse + the high tones seemed to be giggles, and the bass the wooden thuds of + rockers. Street after street he could recall, from the square about the + “depot” to the outskirts, and through them all the dusty heat, the + rockers, gigglers, the rustle of a shirt-sleeved father's newspaper, and + the shrill coo-ees of the younger children. Finally, the piano—for + he looked back farther than the all-conquering phonograph. He heard “Nita, + Juanita;” he heard “Sweet Genevieve.” + </p> + <p> + Beyond the village lay the open country, level, blindingly hot, + half-cultivated, with the scorched foliage of young trees showing in the + ruins of what had been forest land. Across it the roads ran straight as + rulers. In the winter wolves were not unknown there; in the summer there + were tramps of many strange nationalities, farm hands and men bound for + the copper mines. For the most part they walked the railroad ties, or rode + the freight cars; winter or summer, the roads were never wholly safe, and + children played only in the town. + </p> + <p> + There, on the outskirts, was a shallow, stony river, but deep enough at + one point for gingerly swimming. Stefan seemed never to have been cool + through the summer except when he was squatting or paddling in this hole. + He remembered only indistinctly the boys with whom he bathed; he had no + friends among them. But there had been a little girl with starched white + skirts, huge blue bows over blue eyes, and yellow hair, whom he had + admired to adoration. She wanted desperately to bathe in the hole, and he + demanded of her mother that this be permitted. Stefan smiled grimly as he + recalled the horror of that lady, who had boxed his ears for trying to + lead her girl into ungodliness, and to scandalize the neighbors. The + friendship had been kept up surreptitiously after this, with interchange + of pencils and candy, until the little girl—he had forgotten her + name—put her tongue out at him over a matter of chewing-gum which he + had insisted she should not use. Revolted, he played alone again. + </p> + <p> + The Presbyterian Church Stefan remembered as a whitewashed praying box, + resounding to his father's high-pitched voice. It was filled with heat and + flies from without in summer, and heat and steam from within in winter. + The school, whitewashed again, he recalled as a succession of banging + desks, flying paper pellets, and the drone of undigested lessons. Here the + water bucket loomed as the alleviation in summer, or the red hot oblong of + the open stove in winter time. Through all these scenes, by an egotistical + trick of the brain, he saw himself moving, a small brown-haired boy, with + olive skin and queer, greenish eyes, entirely alien, absolutely lonely, + completely critical. He saw himself in too large, ill-chosen clothes, the + butt of his playfellows. He saw the sidelong, interested glances of little + girls change to curled lips and tossed heads at the grinning nudge of + their boy companions. He saw the harassed eyes of an anaemic teacher stare + uncomprehendingly at him over the pages of an exercise book filled with + colored drawings of George III and the British flag, instead of a + description of the battle of Bunker Hill. He remembered the hatred he had + felt even then for the narrowness of the local patriotism which had + prompted him to this revenge. As a result, he saw himself backed against + the schoolhouse wall, facing with contempt a yelling, jumping tangle of + boys who, from a safe distance, called upon the “traitor” and the “Dago” + to come and be licked. He felt the rage mount in his head like a burning + wave, saw a change in the eyes and faces of his foes, felt himself spring + with a catlike leap, his lips tight above his teeth and his arms moving + like clawed wheels, saw boys run yelling and himself darting between them + down the road, to fall at last, a trembling, sobbing bundle of reaction, + into the grassy ditch. + </p> + <p> + In memory Stefan followed himself home. The word was used to denote the + house in which he and his father lived. A portrait of his mother hung over + the parlor stove. It was a chalk drawing from a photograph, crudely done, + but beautiful by reason of the subject. The face was young and very round, + the forehead beautifully low and broad under black waves of hair. The nose + was short and proud, the chin small but square, the mouth gaily curving + around little, even teeth. But the eyes were deep and somber; there was + passion in them, and romance. Stefan had not seen that face for years, he + barely remembered the original, but he could have drawn it now in every + detail. If the house in which it hung could be called home at all, it was + by virtue of that picture, the only thing of beauty in it. + </p> + <p> + Behind the portrait lay a few memories of joy and heartache, and one final + one of horror. Stefan probed them, still with his nervous hand across his + eyes. He listened while his mother sang gay or mournful little songs with + haunting tunes in a tongue only a word or two of which he understood. He + watched while she drew from her bureau drawer a box of paints and some + paper. She painted for long hours, day after day through the winter, while + he played beside her with longing eyes on her brushes. She painted always + one thing—flowers—using no pencil, drawing their shapes with + the brush. Her flowers were of many kinds, nearly all strange to him, but + most were roses—pink, yellow, crimson, almost black. Sometimes their + petals flared like wings; sometimes they were close-furled. Of these + paintings he remembered much, but of her speech little, for she was silent + as she worked. + </p> + <p> + One day his mother put a brush into his hand. The rapture of it was as + sharp and near as to-day's misery. He sat beside her after that for many + days and painted. First he tried to paint a rose, but he had never seen + such roses as her brush drew, and he tired quickly. Then he drew a bird. + His mother nodded and smiled—it was good. After that his memory + showed him the two sitting side by side for weeks, or was it months?—while + the snow lay piled beyond the window—she with her flowers, he with + his birds. + </p> + <p> + First he drew birds singly, hopping on a branch, or simply standing, claws + and beaks defined. Then he began to make them fly, alone, and again in + groups. Their wings spread across the paper, wider and more sweepingly. + They pointed upward sharply, or lay flat across the page. Flights of tiny + birds careened from corner to corner. They were blue, gold, scarlet, and + white. He left off drawing birds on branches and drew them only in flight, + smudging in a blue background for the sky. + </p> + <p> + One day by accident he made a dark smudge in the lower left-hand corner of + his page. + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” asked his mother. + </p> + <p> + The little boy looked at it doubtfully for a moment, unwilling to admit it + a blot. Then he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Mother, Mother, that is America.” (Stefan heard himself.) “Look!” And + rapidly he drew a bird flying high above the blot, with its head pointed + to the right, away from it. + </p> + <p> + His mother laughed and hugged him quickly. “Yes, eastward,” she said. + </p> + <p> + After that all his birds flew one way, and in the left-hand lower corner + there was usually a blob of dark brown or black. Once it was a square, + red, white, and blue. + </p> + <p> + On her table his mother had a little globe which revolved above a brass + base. Because of this he knew the relative position of two places—America + and Bohemia. Of this country he thought his mother was unwilling to speak, + but its name fell from her lips with sighs, with—as it now seemed to + him—a wild longing. Knowing nothing of it, he had pictured it a + paradise, a land of roses. He seemed to have no knowledge of why she had + left it; but years later his father spoke of finding her in Boston in the + days when he preached there, penniless, searching for work as a teacher of + singing. How she became jettisoned in that—to her—cold and + inhospitable port, Stefan did not know, nor how soon after their marriage + the two moved to the still more alien peninsula of Michigan. + </p> + <p> + Into his memories of the room where they painted a shadow constantly + intruded, chilling them, such a shadow, deep and cold, as is cast by an + iceberg. The door would open, and his father's face, high and white with + ice-blue eyes, would hang above them. Instantly, the man remembered, the + boy would cower like a fledgling beneath the sparrow-hawk, but with as + much distaste as fear in his cringing. The words that followed always + seemed the same—he could reconstruct the scene clearly, but whether + it had occurred once or many times he could not tell. His father's voice + would snap across the silence like a high, tight-drawn string— + </p> + <p> + “Still wasting time? Have you nothing better to do? Where is your sewing? + And the boy—why is he not outside playing?” + </p> + <p> + “This helps me, Henry,” his mother answered, hesitating and low. “Surely + it does no harm. I cannot sew all the time.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a childish and vain occupation, however, and I disapprove of the + boy being encouraged in it. This of course you know perfectly well. Under + ordinary circumstances I should absolutely forbid it; as it is, I condemn + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Henry,” his mother's voice trembled, “don't ask me to give up his + companionship. It is too cold for me to be outdoors, and perhaps after the + spring I might not be with him.” + </p> + <p> + This sentence terrified Stefan, who did not know the meaning of it. He was + glad, for once, of his father's ridicule. + </p> + <p> + “That is perfectly absurd, the shallow excuse women always make their + husbands for self-indulgence,” said the man, turning to go. “You are a + healthy woman, and would be more so but for idleness.” + </p> + <p> + His wife called him back, pleadingly. “Please don't be angry with me, I'm + doing the best I can, Henry—the very best I can.” There was a sweet + foreign blur in her speech, Stefan remembered. + </p> + <p> + His father paused at the door. “I have shown you your duty, my dear. I am + a minister, and you cannot expect me to condone in my wife habits of + frivolity and idleness which I should be the first to reprimand in my + flock. I expect you to set an example.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” the woman wailed, “when you married me you loved me as I was—” + </p> + <p> + With a look of controlled annoyance her husband closed the door. Whether + the memory of his father's words was exact or not, Stefan knew their + effect by heart. The door shut, his mother would begin to cry, quietly at + first, then with deep, catching sobs that seemed to stifle her, so that + she rose and paced the room breathlessly. Then she would hold the boy to + her breast, and slowly the storm would change again to gentle tears. That + day there would be no more painting. + </p> + <p> + These, his earliest memories, culminated in tragedy. A spring day of + driving rain witnessed the arrival of a gray, plain-faced woman, who + mounted to his mother's room. The house seemed full of mysterious bustle. + Presently he heard moans, and rushed upstairs thinking his mother was + crying and needed him. The gray-haired woman thrust him from the bedroom + door, but he returned again and again, calling his mother, until his + father emerged from the study downstairs, and, seizing him in his cold + grip, pushed him into the sanctum and turned the key upon him. + </p> + <p> + Much later, a man whom Stefan knew as their doctor entered the room with + his father. A strange new word passed between them, and, in his + high-strung state, impressed the boy's memory. It was “chloroform.” The + doctor used the word several times, and his father shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No, doctor,” he heard him saying, “we neither of us approve of it. It is + contrary to the intention of God. Besides, you say the case is normal.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor seemed to be repeating something about nerves and hysteria. + “Exactly,” his father replied, “and for that, self-control is needed, and + not a drug that reverses the dispensation of the Almighty.” + </p> + <p> + Both men left the room. Presently the boy heard shrieks. Lying, a grown + man, in his berth, Stefan trembled at the memory of them. He fled in + spirit as he had fled then—out of the window, down the roaring, + swimming street, where he knew not, pursued by a writhing horror. Hours + later, as it seemed, he returned. The shades were pulled down across the + windows of his house. His mother was dead. + </p> + <p> + Looking back, the man hardly knew how the conviction had come to the child + that his father had killed his mother. A vague comprehension perhaps of + the doctor's urgings and his father's denials—a head-shaking mutter + from the nurse—the memory of all his mother's tears. He was hardly + more than a baby, but he had always feared and disliked his father—now + he hated him, blindly and intensely. He saw him as the cause not only of + his mother's tears and death, but of all the ugliness in the life about + him. “Bohemia,” he thought, would have been theirs but for this man. He + even blamed him, in a sullen way, for the presence in their house of a + tiny little red and wizened object, singularly ugly, which the gray-haired + woman referred to as his “brother.” Obviously, the thing was not a + brother, and his father must be at the bottom of a conspiracy to deceive + him. The creature made a great deal of noise, and when, by and by, it went + away, and they told him his brother too was dead, he felt nothing but + relief. + </p> + <p> + So darkened the one bright room in his childhood's mansion. Obscured, it + left the other chambers dingier than before, and filled with the ache of + loss. Slowly he forgot his mother's companionship, but not her beauty, nor + her roses, nor “Bohemia,” nor his hatred of the “America” which was his + father's. To get away from his native town, to leave America, became the + steadfast purpose of his otherwise unstable nature. + </p> + <p> + The man watched himself through high school. He saw himself still hating + his surroundings and ignoring his schoolfellows—save for an + occasional girl whose face or hair showed beauty. At this time the first + step in his plan of escape shaped itself—he must work hard enough to + get to college, to Ann Arbor, where he had heard there was an art course. + For the boy painted now, in all his spare time, not merely birds, but dogs + and horses, boys and girls, all creatures that had speed, that he could + draw in action, leaping, flying, or running against the wind. Even now + Stefan could warm to the triumph he felt the day he discovered the old + barn where he could summon these shapes undetected. His triumph was over + the arch-enemy, his father—who had forbidden him paint and brushes + and confiscated the poor little fragments of his mother's work that he had + hoarded. His father destined him for a “fitting” profession—the man + smiled to remember it—and with an impressive air of generosity gave + him the choice of three—the Church, the Law, or Medicine. Hate had + given him too keen a comprehension of his father to permit him the mistake + of argument. He temporized. Let him be sent to college, and there he would + discover where his aptitude lay. + </p> + <p> + So at last it was decided. A trunk was found, a moth-eaten bag. His cheap, + ill-cut clothes were packed. On a day of late summer he stepped for the + first time upon a train—beautiful to him because it moved—and + was borne southward. + </p> + <p> + At Ann Arbor he found many new things, rules, and people, but he brushed + them aside like flies, hardly perceiving them; for there, for the first + time, he saw photographs and casts of the world's great art. The first + sight, even in a poor copy, of the two Discoboli—Diana with her + swinging knee-high tunic—the winged Victory of Samothrace—to + see them first at seventeen, without warning, without a glimmering + knowledge of their existence! And the pictures! Portfolios of Angelo, of + the voluptuous Titian, of the swaying forms of Botticelli's maidens—trite + enough now—but then! + </p> + <p> + How long he could have deceived his father as to the real nature of his + interests he did not know. Already there had been complaints of cut + lectures, reprimands, and letters from home. Evading mathematics, science, + and divinity, he read only the English and classic subjects—because + they contained beauty—and drew, copying and creating, in every odd + moment. The storm began to threaten, but it never broke; for in his second + year in college the unbelievable, the miracle, happened—his father + died. They said he had died of pneumonia, contracted while visiting the + sick in the winter blizzards, and they praised him; but Stefan hardly + listened. + </p> + <p> + One fact alone stood out amid the ugly affairs of death, so that he + regarded and remembered nothing else. He was free—and he had wings! + His father left insurance, and a couple of savings-bank accounts, but + through some fissure of vanity or carelessness in the granite of his + propriety, he left no will. The sums, amounting in all to something over + three thousand dollars, came to Stefan without conditions, guardians, or + other hindrances. The rapture of that discovery, he thought, almost wiped + out his father's debt to him. + </p> + <p> + He knew now that not Bohemia, but Paris, was his El Dorado. In wild haste + he made ready for his journey, leaving the rigid trappings of his home to + be sold after him. But his dead father was to give him one more pang—the + scales were to swing uneven at the last. For when he would have packed the + only possession, other than a few necessities, he planned to carry with + him, he found his mother's picture gone. Dying, his father, it appeared, + had wandered from his bed, detached the portrait, and with his own hands + burnt it in the stove. The motive of the act Stefan could not comprehend. + He only knew that this man had robbed him of his mother twice. All that + remained of her was her wedding ring, which, drawn from his father's + cash-box, he wore on his little finger. With bitterness amid his joy he + took the train once more, and saw the lights of the town's shabby inn + blink good-bye behind its frazzled shades. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + Byrd had lived for seven years in Paris, wandering on foot in summer + through much of France and Italy. His little patrimony, stretched to the + last sou, and supplemented in later years by the occasional sale of his + work to small dealers, had sufficed him so long. His headquarters were in + a high windowed attic facing north along the rue des Quatre Ermites. His + work had been much admired in the ateliers, but his personal unpopularity + with, the majority of the students had prevented their admiration changing + to a friendship whose demands would have drained his small resources. + “Ninety-nine per cent of the Quarter dislikes Stefan Byrd,” an Englishman + had said, “but one per cent adores him.” Repeated to Byrd, this utterance + was accepted by him with much complacence, for, even more than the average + man, he prided himself upon his faults of character. His adoration of + Paris had not prevented him from criticizing its denizens; the habits of + mental withdrawal and reservation developed in his boyhood did not desert + him in the city of friendship, but he became more deeply aware of the + loneliness which they involved. He searched eagerly for the few whose + qualities of mind or person lifted them beyond reach of his demon of + disparagement, and he found them, especially among women. + </p> + <p> + To a minority of that sex he was unusually attractive, and he became a + lover of women, but as subjects for enthusiasm rather than desire. In + passion he was curious but capricious, seldom rapidly roused, nor long + held. In his relations with women emotion came second to mental + stimulation, so that he never sought one whose mere sex was her main + attraction. This saved him from much—he was experienced, but not + degraded. Of love, however, in the fused sense of body, mind, and spirit, + he knew nothing. Perhaps his work claimed too much from him; at any rate + he was too egotistical, too critical and self-sufficient to give easily. + Whether he had received such love he did not ask himself—it is + probable that he had, without knowing it, or understanding that he had not + himself given full measure in return. The heart of France is practical; + with all her ardor Paris had given Byrd desire and friendship, but not + romance. + </p> + <p> + In his last year, with only a few francs of his inheritance remaining, + Stefan had three pictures in the Beaux Arts. One of these was sold, but + the other two importuned vainly from their hanging places. Enormous + numbers of pictures had been exhibited that year. Every gallery, public + and private, was crowded; Paris was glutted with works of art. Stefan + faced the prospect of speedy starvation if he could not dispose of another + canvas. He had enough for a summer in Brittany, after which, if the + dealers could do nothing for him, he was stranded. Nevertheless, he + enjoyed his holiday light-heartedly, confident that his two large pictures + could not long fail to be appreciated. Returning to Paris in September, + however, he was dismayed to find his favorite dealers uninterested in his + canvases, and disinclined to harbor them longer. Portraits and landscapes, + they told him, were in much demand, but fantasies, no. His sweeping groups + of running, flying figures against stormy skies, or shoals of mermaids + hurrying down lanes of the deep sea, did not appeal to the fashionable + taste of the year. Something more languorous, more subdued, or, on the + other hand, more “chic,” was demanded. + </p> + <p> + In a high rage of disgust, Stefan hired a fiacre, and bore his children + defiantly home to their birthplace. Sitting in his studio like a ruffled + bird upon a spoiled hatching, he reviewed the fact that he had 325 francs + in the world, that the rent of his attic was overdue, and that his + pictures had never been so unmarketable as now. + </p> + <p> + At this point his one intimate man friend, Adolph Jensen, a Swede, + appeared as the deus ex machine. He had, he declared, an elder brother in + New York, an art dealer. This brother had just written him, describing the + millionaires who bought his pictures and bric-a-brac. His shop was crowded + with them. Adolph's brother was shrewd and hard to please, but let his + cher Stefan go himself to New York with his canvases, impress the brother + with his brilliance and the beauty of his work, and, undoubtedly, his + fortune would at once be made. The season in New York was in the winter. + Let Stefan go at once, by the fastest boat, and be first in the field—he, + Adolph, who had a little laid by, would lend him the necessary money, and + would write his brother in advance of the great opportunity he was sending + him. + </p> + <p> + Ultimately, with a very ill grace on Stefan's part—who could hardly + be persuaded that even a temporary return to America was preferable to + starvation—it was so arranged. The second-class passage money was + 250 francs; for this and incidentals, he had enough, and Adolph lent him + another 250 to tide him over his arrival. He felt unable to afford + adequate crating, so his canvases were unstretched and made into a roll + which he determined should never leave his hands. His clothing was packed + in two bags, one contributed by Adolph. Armed with his roll, and followed + by his enthusiastic friend carrying the bags, Stefan departed from the + Gare Saint-Lazare for Dieppe, Liverpool, and the Lusitania. + </p> + <p> + Reacting to his friend's optimism, Stefan had felt confident enough on + leaving Paris, but the discomforts of the journey had soon flattened his + spirits, and now, limp in his berth, he saw the whole adventure mistaken, + unreal, and menacing. In leaving the country of his adoption for that of + his birth, he now felt that he had put himself again in the clutches of a + chimera which had power to wither with its breath all that was rare and + beautiful in his life. Nursing a grievance against himself and fate, he at + last fell asleep, clothed as he was, and forgot himself for a time in such + uneasy slumber as the storm allowed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + The second-class deck was rapidly filling. Chairs, running in a double row + about the deck-house were receiving bundles of women, rugs, and babies. + Energetic youths, in surprising ulsters and sweaters, tramped in broken + file between these chairs and the bulwarks. Older men, in woolen + waistcoats and checked caps, or in the aging black of the small clergy and + professional class, obstructed, with a rooted constancy, the few clear + corners of the deck. Elderly women, with the parchment skin and dun + tailored suit of the “personally conducted” tourist, tied their heads in + veils and ventured into sheltered corners. On the boat-deck a game of + shuffleboard was in progress. Above the main companion-way the ship's + bands condescended to a little dance music on behalf of the second class. + The Scotchman, clad in inch-thick heather mixture, was already discussing + with all whom he could buttonhole the possibilities of a ship's concert. + In a word, it was the third day out, the storm was over, and the + passengers were cognizant of life, and of each other. + </p> + <p> + The Scot had gravitated to a group of men near the smoking-room door, and + having received from his turtle-jawed neighbor of the dinner table, who + was among them, the gift of a cigar, interrogated him as to musical gifts. + “I shall recite mesel',” he explained complacently, sucking in his smoke. + “Might we hope for a song, now, from you? I've asked yon artist chap, but + he says he doesna' sing.” + </p> + <p> + His neighbor also disclaimed talents. “Sorry I can't oblige you. Who wants + to hear a man sing, anyway? Where are your girls?” + </p> + <p> + “There seems to be a singular absence of bonny girrls on board,” replied + the Scot, twisting his erect forelock reflectively. + </p> + <p> + “Have you asked the English girl?” suggested a tall, rawboned New + Englander. + </p> + <p> + “Which English girrl?” demanded the Scot. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to him—which! Why, that one over there, you owl.” + </p> + <p> + The Scotchman's eyes followed the gesture toward a group of children + surrounding a tall girl who stood by the rail on the leeward side. She was + facing into the wind toward the smoking-room door. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, mon,” said the Scot, “till now I'd only seen the back of yon young + woman,” and he promptly strode down the deck to ask, and receive, the + promise of a song. + </p> + <p> + Stefan Byrd, after a silent breakfast eaten late to avoid his table + companions, had just come on deck. It had been misty earlier, but now the + sun was beginning to break through in sudden glints of brightness. The + deck was still damp, however, and the whole prospect seemed to the + emerging Stefan cheerless in the extreme. His eyes swept the gray, huddled + shapes upon the chairs, the knots of gossiping men, the clumsy, tramping + youths, with the same loathing that the whole voyage had hitherto inspired + in him. The forelocked Scot, tweed cap in hand, was crossing the deck. + “There goes the brute, busy with his infernal concert,” he thought, + watching balefully. Then he actually seemed to point, like a dog, limbs + fixed, eyes set, his face, with its salient nose, thrust forward. + </p> + <p> + The Scot was speaking to a tall, bareheaded girl, about whom half a dozen + nondescript children crowded. She was holding herself against the wind, + and from her long, clean limbs her woolen dress was whipped, rippling. The + sun had gleamed suddenly, and under the shaft of brightness her hair shone + back a golden answer. Her eyes, hardly raised to those of the tall + Scotchman, were wide, gray, and level—the eyes of Pallas Athene; her + features, too, were goddess-like. One hand upon the bulwarks, she seemed, + even as she listened, to be poised for flight, balancing to the sway of + the ship. + </p> + <p> + Stefan exhaled a great breath of joy. There was something beautiful upon + the ship, after all. He found and lit a cigarette, and squaring his + shoulders to the deckhouse wall, leaned back the more comfortably to + indulge what he took to be his chief mission—the art of perceiving + beauty. + </p> + <p> + The girl listened in silence till the Scotchman had finished speaking, and + replied briefly and quietly, inclining her head. The Scot, jotting + something in a pocket notebook, left her with an air of elation, and she + turned again to the children. One, a toddler, was picking at her skirt. + She bent toward him a smile which gave Stefan almost a stab of + satisfaction, it was so gravely sweet, so fitted to her person. She + stooped lower to speak to the baby, and the artist saw the free, rhythmic + motion which meant developed, and untrammeled muscles. Presently the + children, wriggling with joy, squatted in a circle, and the girl sank to + the deck in their midst with one quick and easy movement, curling her feet + under her. There proceeded an absurd game, involving a slipper and much + squealing, whose intricacies she directed with unruffled ease. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the wind puffed the hat of one of the small boys from his head, + carrying it high above their reach. In an instant the girl was up, + springing to her feet unaided by hand or knee. Reaching out, she caught + the hat as it descended slantingly over the bulwarks, and was down again + before the child's clutching hands had left his head. + </p> + <p> + A mother, none other than the prominently busted lady of Stefan's table, + blew forward with admiring cries of gratitude. Other matrons, vocative, + surrounded the circle, momentarily cutting off his view. He changed his + position to the bulwarks beside the group. There, a yard or two from the + gleaming head, he perched on the rail, feet laced into its supports, and + continued his concentrated observation. + </p> + <p> + “See yon chap,” remarked the Scot from the smoking-room door to which his + talent-seeking round of the deck had again brought him. “He's fair staring + the eyes oot o'his head!” + </p> + <p> + “Exceedingly annoying to the young lady, I should imagine,” returned his + table neighbor, the prim minister, who had joined the group. + </p> + <p> + “Hoots, she willna' mind the likes of him,” scoffed the other, with his + booming laugh. + </p> + <p> + And indeed she did not. Oblivious equally of Byrd and of her more distant + watchers, the English girl passed from “Hunt the Slipper” to “A Cold and + Frosty Morning,” and from that to story-telling, as absorbed as her small + companions, or as her watcher-in-chief. + </p> + <p> + Gradually the sun broke out, the water danced, huddled shapes began to + rise in their chairs, disclosing unexpected spots of color—a bright + tie or a patterned blouse—animation increased on all sides, and the + ring about the storyteller became three deep. + </p> + <p> + After a time a couple of perky young stewards appeared with huge iron + trays, containing thick white cups half full of chicken broth, and piles + of biscuits. Upon this, the pouter-pigeon lady bore off her small son to + be fed, other mothers did the same, and the remaining children, at the + lure of food, sidled off of their own accord, or sped wildly, whooping out + promises to return. For the moment, the story-teller was alone. Stefan, + seeing the Scot bearing down upon her with two cups of broth in his hand + and purpose in his eye, wakened to the danger just in time. Throwing his + cigarette overboard, he sprang lightly between her and the approaching + menace. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you be perfectly kind, and come for a walk?” he asked, stooping to + where she sat. The girl looked up into a pair of green-gold eyes set in a + brown, eager face. The face was lighted with a smile of dazzling + friendliness, and surmounted by an uncovered head of thick, brown-black + hair. Slowly her own eyes showed an answering smile. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, I should love to,” she said, and rising, swung off beside him, + just in time—as Stefan maneuvered it—to avoid seeing the Scot + and his carefully balanced offering. Discomfited, that individual consoled + himself with both cups of broth, and bided his time. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Stefan Byrd. I am a painter, going to America to sell some + pictures. I'm twenty-six. What is your name?” said Stefan, who never + wasted time in preliminaries and abhorred small talk—turning his + brilliant happy smile upon her. + </p> + <p> + “To answer by the book,” she replied, smiling too, “my name is Mary + Elliston. I'm twenty-five. I do odd jobs, and am going to America to try + to find one to live on.” + </p> + <p> + “What fun!” cried Stefan, with a faunlike skip of pleasure, as they turned + onto the emptier windward deck. “Then we're both seeking our fortunes.” + </p> + <p> + “Living, rather than fortune, in my case, I'm afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course you don't need a fortune, you carry so much gold with + you,” and he glanced at her shining hair. + </p> + <p> + “Not negotiable, unluckily,” she replied, taking his compliment as he had + paid it, without a trace of self-consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “Like the sunlight,” he answered. “In fact,”—confidentially—“I'm + afraid you're a thief; you've imprisoned a piece of the sun, which should + belong to us all. However, I'm not going to complain to the authorities, I + like the result too much. You don't mind my saying that, do you?” he + continued, sure that she did not. “You see, I'm a painter. Color means + everything to me—that and form.” + </p> + <p> + “One never minds hearing nice things, I think,” she replied, with a frank + smile. They were swinging up and down the windward deck, and as he talked + he was acutely aware of her free movements beside him, and of the blow of + her skirts to leeward. Her hair, too closely pinned to fly loose, yet + seemed to spring from her forehead with the urge of pinioned wings. Life + radiated from her, he thought, with a steady, upward flame—not + fitfully, as with most people. + </p> + <p> + “And one doesn't mind questions, does one—from real people?” he + continued. “I'm going to ask you lots more, and you may ask me as many as + you like. I never talk to people unless they are worth talking to, and + then I talk hard. Will you begin, or shall I? I have at least two hundred + things to ask.” + </p> + <p> + “It is my turn, though, I think.” She accepted him on his own ground, with + an open and natural friendliness. + </p> + <p> + “I have only one at the moment, which is, 'Why haven't we talked before?'” + and she glanced with a quiet humorousness at the few unpromising samples + of the second cabin who obstructed the windward deck. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good for you!” he applauded, “aren't they loathly!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, all right, only not stimulating—” + </p> + <p> + “And we are,” he finished for her, “so that, obviously, your question has + only one answer. We haven't talked before because I haven't seen you + before, and I haven't seen you because I have been growling in my cabin—voilà + tout!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never growl—it's such a waste of time,” she answered. “You'll + see, the second cabin isn't bad.” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly isn't, <i>now</i>,” rejoiced Stefan. “My turn for a + question. Have you relatives, or are you, like myself, alone in the + world?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite alone,” said Mary, “except for a married sister, who hardly counts, + as she's years older than I, and fearfully preoccupied with husband, + houses, and things.” She paused, then added, “She hasn't any babies, or I + might have stayed to look after them, but she has lots of money and + 'position to keep up,' and so forth.” + </p> + <p> + “I see her,” said Stefan. “Obviously, she takes after the <i>other</i> + parent. You are alone then. Next question—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, isn't it my turn again?” Mary interposed, smilingly. + </p> + <p> + “It is, but I ask you to waive it. You see, questions about <i>me</i> are + so comparatively trivial. What sort of work do you do?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I write a little,” she replied, “and I've been a governess and a + companion. But I'm really a victim of the English method of educating + girls. That's my chief profession—being a monument to its + inefficiency,” and she laughed, low and bell-like. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about that—I've never lived in England,” he questioned, + with eager interest. (“And oh, Pan and Apollo, her voice!” he thought.) + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she continued, “they bring us up so nicely that we can't do + anything—except <i>be</i> nice. I was brought up in a cathedral + town, right in the Close, and my dear old Dad, who was a doctor, attended + the Bishop, the Dean, and all the Chapter. Mother would not let us go to + boarding-school, for fear of 'influences'—so we had governesses at + home, who taught us nothing we didn't choose to learn. My sister Isobel + married 'well,' as they say, while I was still in the schoolroom. Her + husband belongs to the county—” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” interrupted Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you know what the county is? How delightful! The 'county' is the + county families—landed gentry—very ancient and swagger and all + that—much more so than the titled people often. It was very great + promotion for the daughter of one of the town to marry into the county—or + would have been except that Mother was county also.” She spoke with mock + solemnity. + </p> + <p> + “How delightfully picturesque and medieval!” exclaimed Stefan. “The + Guelphs and Ghibellines, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Mary replied, “only there is no feud, and it doesn't seem so + romantic when you're in it. The man my sister married I thought was + frightfully boring except for his family place, and being in the army, + which is rather decent. He talks,” she smiled, “like a phonograph with + only one set of records.” + </p> + <p> + “Wondrous Being—Winged Goddess—” chanted Stefan, stopping + before her and apostrophizing the sky or the boat-deck—“a goddess + with a sense of humor!” And he positively glowed upon her. + </p> + <p> + “About the first point I know nothing,” she laughed, walking on again + beside him, “but for the second,” and her face became a little grave, “you + have to have some humor if you are a girl in Lindum, or you go under.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, tell me all about it,” he urged. “I've never met an English girl + before, <i>nor</i> a goddess, and I'm so interested!” + </p> + <p> + They rested for a time against the bulwarks. The wind was dropping, and + the spume seethed against the black side of the ship without force from + the waves to throw it up to them in spray. They looked down into deep blue + and green water glassing a sky warm now, and friendly, in which high white + cumuli sailed slowly, like full-rigged ships all but becalmed. + </p> + <p> + “It is a very commonplace story with us,” Mary began. “Mother died a + little time after Isobel married, and Dad kept my governess on. I begged + to go to Girton, or any other college he liked, but he wouldn't hear of + it. Said he wanted a womanly daughter.” She smiled rather ruefully. “Dad + was doing well with his practice, for a small-town doctor, and had a good + deal saved, and a little of mother's money. He wanted to have more, so he + put it all into rubber. You've heard about rubber, haven't you?” she + asked, turning to Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “Not a thing,” he smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, every one in England was putting money into rubber last year, and + lots of people did well, but lots—didn't. Poor old Dad didn't—he + lost everything. It wouldn't have really mattered—he had his + profession—but the shock killed him, I think; that and being lonely + without Mother.” She paused a moment, looking into the water. “Anyhow, he + died, and there was nothing for me to do except to begin earning my living + without any of the necessary equipment.” + </p> + <p> + “What about the brother-in-law?” asked Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I could have gone to them—I wasn't in danger of + starvation. But,” she shook her head emphatically, “a poor relation! I + couldn't have stood that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he turned squarely toward her, his elbow on the rail, “I can't + help asking this, you know; where were the bachelors of Lindum?” + </p> + <p> + She smiled, still in her friendly, unembarrassed way. + </p> + <p> + “I know what you mean, of course. The older men say it quite openly in + England.—'Why don't a nice gel like you get married?'—It's + rather a long story.” (“Has she been in love?” Stefan wondered.) “First of + all, there are very few young men of one's own sort in Lindum; most of + them are in the Colonies. Those there are—one or two lawyers, + doctors, and squires' sons—are frightfully sought after.” She made a + wry face. “Too much competition for them, altogether, and—” she + seemed to take a plunge before adding—“I've never been successful at + bargain counters.” + </p> + <p> + He turned that over for a moment. “I see,” he said. “At least I should do, + if it weren't for it being you. Look here, Miss Elliston, honestly now, + fair and square—” he smiled confidingly at her—“you're not + asking me to believe that the competition in your ease didn't appear in + the other sex?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Byrd,” she answered straightly, “in my world girls have to have more + than a good appearance.” She shrugged her shoulders rather disdainfully. + “I had no money, and I had opinions.” + </p> + <p> + (“She's been in love—slightly,” he decided.) “Opinions,” he echoed, + “what kind? Mustn't one have any in Lindum?” + </p> + <p> + “Young girls mustn't—only those they are taught,” she replied. “I + read a good deal, I sympathized with the Liberals. I was even—” her + voice dropped to mock horror—“a Suffragist!” + </p> + <p> + “I've heard about that,” he interposed eagerly, “though the French women + don't seem to care much. You wanted to vote? Well, why ever not?” + </p> + <p> + She gave him the brightest smile he had yet received. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how nice of you!” she cried. “You really mean that?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't see it any other way. I've always liked and believed in women + more than men. I learnt that in childhood,” he added, frowning. + </p> + <p> + “Splendid! I'm so glad,” she responded. “You see, with our men it's + usually the other way round. My ideas were a great handicap at home.” + </p> + <p> + “So you decided to leave?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I went to London and got a job teaching some children sums and + history—two hours every morning. In the afternoons I worked at + stories for the magazines, and placed a few, but they pay an unknown + writer horribly badly. I lived with an old lady as companion for two + months, but that was being a poor relation minus the relationship—I + couldn't stand it. I joined the Suffragists in London—not the + Militants—I don't quite see their point of view—and marched in + a parade. Brother-in-law heard of it, and wrote me I could not expect + anything from them unless I stopped it.” She laughed quietly. + </p> + <p> + Stefan flushed. He pronounced something—conclusively—in + French. Then—“Don't ask me to apologize, Miss Elliston.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't,” reassuringly. “I felt rather like that, too. I wrote that I + didn't expect anything as it was. Then I sat down and thought about the + whole question of women in England and their chances. I had a hundred + pounds and a few ornaments of Mother's. I love children, but I didn't want + to be a governess. I wanted to stand alone in some place where my head + wouldn't be pushed down every time I tried to raise it. I believed in + America people wouldn't say so often, 'Why doesn't a nice girl like you + get married?' so I came, and here I am. That's the whole story—a + very humdrum one.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, here you are, thank God!” proclaimed Stefan devoutly. “What + magnificent pluck, and how divine of you to tell me it all! You've saved + me from suicide, almost. These people immolate me.” + </p> + <p> + “How delightfully he exaggerates!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + “What thousands of things we can talk about,” he went on in a burst of + enthusiasm. “What a perfectly splendid time we are going to have!” He all + but warbled. + </p> + <p> + “I hope so,” she answered, smilingly, “but there goes the gong, and I'm + ravenous.” + </p> + <p> + “Dinner!” he cried scornfully; “suet pudding, all those horrible people—you + want to leave this—?” He swept his arm over the glittering water. + </p> + <p> + “I don't, but I want my dinner,” she maintained. + </p> + <p> + This checked his spirits for a moment; then enlightenment seemed to burst + upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Glorious creature!” he apostrophized her. “She must be fed, or she would + not glow with such divine health! That gong was for the first table, and + I'm not in the least hungry. Nevertheless, we will eat, here and now.” + </p> + <p> + She demurred, but he would have his way, demanding it in celebration of + their meeting. He found the deck steward, tipped him, and exacted the + immediate production of two dinners. He ensconced Miss Elliston in some + one else's chair, conveniently placed, settled her with some one else's + cushions, which he chose from the whole deck for their color—a clean + blue—and covered her feet with the best rug he could find. She + accepted his booty with only slight remonstrance, being too frankly + engaged by his spirits to attempt the role of extinguisher. He settled + himself beside her, and they lunched delightedly, like children, on chops + and a rice pudding. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + It is not too easy to appropriate a pretty girl on board ship. There are + always young men who expect the voyage to offer a flirtation, and who + spend much ingenuity in heading each other off from the companionship of + the most attractive damsels. But the “English girl” was not in the + “pretty” class. She was a beauty, of the grave and pure type which implies + character. All the children knew her; all the women and men watched her; + but few of the latter had ventured to speak to her, even before Stefan + claimed her as his monopoly. For this he did, from the moment of their + first encounter. To him nobody on the ship existed but her, and he assumed + the right to show it. + </p> + <p> + He had trouble from only two people. One was the Scotchman, McEwan, whose + hide seemed impervious to rebuffs, and who would charge into a + conversation with the weight of a battering ram, planting himself + implacably in a chair beside Miss Elliston, and occasionally reducing even + Stefan to silence. The other was Miss Elliston herself. She was kind, she + was friendly, she was boyishly frank. But occasionally she would withdraw + into herself, and sometimes would disappear altogether into her cabin, to + be found again, after long search, telling stories to some of the + children. On such occasions Stefan roamed the decks and saloons very like + a hungry wolf, snapping with intolerable rudeness at any one who spoke to + him. This, however, few troubled to do, for he was cordially disliked, + both for his own sake and because of his success with Miss Elliston. That + success the ship could not doubt. Though she was invariably polite to + every one, she walked and talked only with him or the children. She was, + of course, above the social level of the second-class; but this the + English did not resent, because they understood it, nor the Americans, + because they were unaware of it. On the other hand, English and Americans + alike resented Byrd, whom they could neither place nor understand. These + two became the most conspicuous people in the cabin, and their every + movement was eagerly watched and discussed, though both remained entirely + oblivious to it. Stefan was absorbed in the girl, that was clear; but how + far she might be in him the cabin could not be sure. She brightened when + he appeared. She liked him, smiled at him, and listened to him. She + allowed him to monopolize her. But she never sought him out, never snubbed + McEwan for his intrusions into their tête-à-têtes, seemed not to be + “managing” the affair in any way. Used to more obvious methods, most of + the company were puzzled. They did not understand that they were watching + the romance of a woman who added perfect breeding to her racial + self-control. Mary Elliston would never wear her feelings nakedly, nor + allow them to ride her out of hand. + </p> + <p> + Not so Stefan, who was, as yet unknowingly, experiencing romantic love for + the first time. This girl was the most glorious creature he had ever + known, and the most womanly. Her sex was the very essence of her; she had + no need to wear it like a furbelow. She was utterly different from the + feminine, adroit women he had known; there was something cool and deep + about her like a pool, and withal winged, like the birds that fly over it. + She was marvelous—marvelous! he thought. What a find! + </p> + <p> + His spirit flung itself, kneeling, to drink at the pool—his + imagination reached out to touch the wings. For the first time in his life + he was too deeply enthralled to question himself or her. He gloried in her + openly, conspicuously. + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the fifth day they had their first dispute. They were + sitting on the boat deck, aft, watching the wake of the ship as it twisted + like an uncertain white serpent. Stefan was sketching her, as he had done + already several times when he could get her apart from hovering children—he + could not endure being overlooked as he worked. “They chew gum in my ear, + and breathe down my neck,” he would explain. + </p> + <p> + He had almost completed an impression of her head against the sky, with a + flying veil lifting above it, when a shadow fell across the canvas, and + the voice of McEwan blared out a pleased greeting. + </p> + <p> + “Weel, here ye are!” exclaimed that mountain of tweed, lowering himself + onto a huge iron cleat between which and the bulwarks the two were sitting + cross-legged. “I was speerin' where ye'd both be.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, McEwan, can't you speak English?” exclaimed Byrd, with quick + exasperation. + </p> + <p> + “I hae to speak the New York lingo when I get back there, ye ken,” replied + the Scot with imperturbable good humor, “so I like to use a wee bit o' the + guid Scotch while I hae the chance.” + </p> + <p> + “A wee bit!” snorted Stefan, and “Good morning, Mr. McEwan, isn't it + beautiful up here?” interposed Miss Elliston, pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “It's grand,” replied the Scotchman, “and ye look bonnie i' the sun,” he + added simply. + </p> + <p> + “So Mr. Byrd thinks. You see he has just been painting me,” she answered + smilingly, indicating, with a touch of mischief, the drawing that Stefan + had hastily slipped between them. + </p> + <p> + The Scotchman stooped, and, before Stefan could stop him, had the sketch + in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “It's a guid likeness,” he pronounced, “though I dinna care mesel' for yon + new-fangled way o' slappin' on the color. I'll mak'ye a suggestion—” + But he got no further, for Stefan, incoherent with irritation, snatched + the sketch from his hands and broke out at him in a stammering torrent of + French of the Quarter, which neither of his listeners, he was aware, could + understand. Having safely consigned all the McEwans of the universe to + pig-sties and perdition, he walked off to cool himself, the sketch under + his arm, leaving both his hearers incontinently dumb. + </p> + <p> + McEwan recovered first. “The puir young mon suffers wi' his temper, + there's nae dooting,” said he, addressing himself to the task of + entertaining his rather absent-minded companion. + </p> + <p> + His advantage lasted but a few moments, however. Byrd, repenting his + strategic error, returned, and in despair of other methods succeeded in + summoning a candid smile. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, McEwan,” said he, with the charm of manner he knew so well how + to assume, “don't mind my irritability; I'm always like that when I'm + painting and any one interrupts—it sends me crazy. The light's just + right, and it won't be for long. I can't possibly paint with anybody + round. Won't you, like a good fellow, get out and let me finish?” + </p> + <p> + His frankness was wonderfully disarming, but in any case, the Scot was + always good nature's self. + </p> + <p> + “Aye, I ken your nairves trouble ye,” he replied, lumbering to his feet, + “and I'll no disobleege ye, if the leddy will excuse me?” turning to her. + </p> + <p> + Miss Elliston, who had not looked at Stefan since his outburst, murmured + her consent, and the Scot departed. + </p> + <p> + Stefan exploded into a sigh of relief. “Thank heaven! Isn't he maddening?” + he exclaimed, reassembling his brushes. “Isn't he the most fatuous idiot + that ever escaped from his native menagerie? Did you hear him commence to + criticize my work? The oaf! I'm afraid—” glancing at her face—“that + I swore at him, but he deserved it for butting in like that, and he + couldn't understand what I said.” His tone was slightly, very slightly, + apologetic. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think that's the point, is it?” asked the girl, in a very cool + voice. She was experiencing her first shock of disappointment in him, and + felt unhappy; but she only appeared critical. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he asked, dashed. + </p> + <p> + “Whether he understood or not.” She was still looking away from him. “It + was so unkind and unnecessary to break out at the poor man like that—and,” + her voice dropped, “so horribly rude.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Stefan answered uncomfortably, “I can't be polite to people like + that. I don't even try.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I know you don't. That's what I don't like,” Mary replied, even more + coldly. She meant that it hurt her, obscured the ideal she was + constructing of him, but she could not have expressed that. + </p> + <p> + He painted for a few minutes in a silence that grew more and more + constrained. Then he threw down his brush. “Well, I can't paint,” he + exclaimed in an aggrieved tone, “I'm absolutely out of tune. You'll have + to realize I'm made like that. I can't change, can't hide my real self.” + As she still did not speak, he added, with an edge to his voice, “I may as + well go away; there's nothing I can do here.” He stood up. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you had better,” she replied, very quietly. Her throat was aching + with hurt, so that she could hardly speak, but to him she appeared + indifferent. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” he exclaimed shortly, and strode off. + </p> + <p> + For some time she remained where he had left her, motionless. She felt + very tired, without knowing why. Presently she went to her cabin and lay + down. + </p> + <p> + Mary did not see Stefan again until after the midday meal, though by the + time she appeared on deck he had been waiting and searching for her for an + hour. When he found her it was in an alcove of the lounge, screened from + the observation of the greater part of the room. She was reading, but as + he came toward her she looked up and closed her book. Before he spoke both + knew that their relation to each other had subtly changed. They were + self-conscious; the hearts of both beat. In a word, their quarrel had + taught them their need of each other. + </p> + <p> + He took her hand and spoke rather breathlessly. + </p> + <p> + “I've been looking for you for hours. Thank God you're here. I was + abominable to you this morning. Can you possibly forgive me? I'm so + horribly lonely without you.” He was extraordinarily handsome as he stood + before her, looking distressed, but with his eyes shining. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I can,” she murmured, while a weight seemed to roll off her + heart—and she blushed, a wonderful pink, up to the eyes. + </p> + <p> + He sat beside her, still holding her hand. “I must say it. You are the + most beautiful thing in the world. The—most—beautiful!” They + looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he exclaimed with a long breath, jumping up again and half pulling + her after him in a revulsion of relief, “come on deck and let's walk—and + talk—or,” he laughed excitedly, “I don't know what I shall do next!” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed, and they almost sped round the deck, he looking spiritually + intoxicated, and she, calm by contrast, but with an inward glow as though + behind her face a rose was on fire. The deck watched them and nodded its + head. There was no doubt about it now, every one agreed. Bets began to + circulate on the engagement. A fat salesman offered two to one it was + declared before they picked up the Nantucket light. The pursy little + passenger snapped an acceptance. “I'll take you. Here's a dollar says the + lady is too particular.” The high-bosomed matron confided her fears for + the happiness of the girl, “who has been real kind to Johnnie,” to the + spinster who had admired Stefan the first day out. Gossip was universal, + but through it all the two moved radiant and oblivious. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + McEwan had succeeded in his fell design of getting up a concert, and the + event was to take place that night. Miss Elliston, who had promised to + sing, went below a little earlier than usual to dress for dinner. Byrd had + tried to dissuade her from taking part, but she was firm. + </p> + <p> + “It's a frightful bother,” she said, “but I can't get out of it. I + promised Mr. McEwan, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't say any further what I think of McEwan,” replied Stefan, + laughing. “Instead, I'll heap coals of fire on him by not trying any + longer to persuade you to turn him down.” + </p> + <p> + As she left, Stefan waved her a gay “Grand succès!” but he was already + prey to an agony of nervousness. Suppose she didn't make a success, or—worse + still—suppose she <i>did</i> make a success—by singing bad + music! Suppose she lacked art in what she did! <i>She</i> was perfection; + he was terrified lest her singing should not be. His fastidious brain + tortured him, for it told him he would love her less completely if she + failed. + </p> + <p> + Like most artists, Stefan adored music, and, more than most, understood + it. Suppose—just suppose—she were to sing Tosti's “Good-bye!” + He shuddered. Yet, if she did not sing something of that sort, it would + fall flat, and she would be disappointed. So he tortured himself all + through dinner, at which he did not see her, for he had been unable to get + his place changed to the first sitting with hers. He longed to keep away + from the concert, yet knew that he could not. At last, leaving his dessert + untouched, he sought refuge in his cabin. + </p> + <p> + The interval that must be dragged through while the stewards cleared the + saloon Stefan occupied in routing from Adolph's huge old Gladstone his one + evening suit. He had not at first dreamed of dressing, but many of the + other men had done so, and he determined that for her sake he must play + the game at least to that extent. Byrd added the scorn of the artist to + the constitutional dislike of the average American for conventional + evening dress. His, however, was as little conventional as possible, and + while he nervously adjusted it he could not help recognizing that it was + exceedingly becoming. He tore a tie and destroyed two collars, however, + before the result satisfied him, and his nerves were at leaping pitch when + staccato chords upon the piano announced that the concert had begun. He + found a seat in the farthest corner of the saloon, and waited, penciling + feverish circles upon the green-topped table to keep his hands steady. + </p> + <p> + Mary Elliston's name was fourth on the program, and came immediately after + McEwan's, who was down for a “recitation.” Stefan managed to sit through + the piano-solo and a song by a seedy little English baritone about “the + rolling deep.” But when the Scot began to blare out, with tremendous + vehemence, what purported to be a poem by Sir Walter Scott, Stefan, his + forehead and hands damp with horror, could endure no more, and fled, + pushing his way through the crowd at the door. He climbed to the deck and + waited there, listening apprehensively. When the scattered applause warned + him that the time for Mary's song had come, he found himself utterly + unable to face the saloon again. Fortunately the main companionway gave on + a well opening directly over the saloon; and it was from the railing of + this well that Stefan saw Mary, just as the piano sounded the opening + bars. + </p> + <p> + She stood full under the brilliant lights in a gown of white chiffon, low + in the neck, which drooped and swayed about her in flowing lines of grace. + Her hair gleamed; her arms showed slim, white, but strong. And “Oh, my + golden girl!” his heart cried to her, leaping. Her lips parted, and quite + easily, in full, clear tones that struck the very center of the notes, she + began to sing. “Good girl, <i>good girl!”</i> he thought. For what she + sang was neither sophisticated nor obvious—was indeed the only thing + that could at once have satisfied him and pleased her audience. “Under the + greenwood tree—” the notes came gay and sweet. Then, “Fear no more + the heat o' the sun—” and the tones darkened. Again, “Oh, mistress + mine—” they pulsed with happy love. Three times Mary sang—the + immortal ballads of Shakespeare—simply, but with sure art and + feeling. As the last notes ceased, “Love's a stuff will not endure,” and + the applause broke out, absolute peace flooded Stefan's heart. + </p> + <p> + In a dream he waited for her at the saloon door, held her coat, and + mounted beside her to the boat deck. Not until they stood side by side at + the rail, and she turned questioningly toward him, did he speak. + </p> + <p> + “You were perfect, without flaw. I can't tell you—” he broke off, + wordless. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so glad—glad that you were pleased,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + They leant side by side over the bulwarks. They were quite alone, and the + moon was rising. There are always liberating moments at sea when the + spirit seems to grow—to expand to the limits of sky and water, to + become one with them. Such a moment was theirs, the perfect hour of + moonrise on a calm and empty sea. The horizon was undefined. They seemed + suspended in limitless ether, which the riding moon pierced with a swale + of living brightness, like quicksilver. They heard nothing save the hidden + throb and creak of the ship, mysterious yet familiar, as the night itself. + It was the perfect time. Stefan turned to her. Her face and hair shone + silver, glorified. They looked at each other, their eyes strange in the + moonlight. They seemed to melt together. His arms were round her, and they + kissed. + </p> + <p> + A little later he began to talk, and it was of his young mother, dead + years ago in Michigan, that he spoke. “You are the only woman who has ever + reminded me of her, Mary. The only one whose beauty has been so divinely + kind. All my life has been lonely between losing her and finding you.” + </p> + <p> + This thrilled her with an ache of mother-pity. She saw him misunderstood, + unhappy, and instantly her heart wrapped him about with protection. In + that moment his faults were all condoned—she saw them only as the + fruits of his loneliness. + </p> + <p> + Later, “Mary,” he said, “yours is the most beautiful of all names. Poets + and painters have glorified it in every age, but none as I shall do”; and + he kissed her adoringly. + </p> + <p> + Again, he held his cheek to hers. “Beloved,” he whispered, “when we are + married” (even as he spoke he marveled at himself that the word should + come so naturally) “I want to paint you as you really are—a goddess + of beauty and love.” + </p> + <p> + She thrilled in response to him, half fearful, yet exalted. She was his, + utterly. + </p> + <p> + As they clung together he saw her winged, a white flame of love, a goddess + elusive even in yielding. He aspired, and saw her, Cytheria-like, shining + above yet toward him. But her vision, leaning on his heart, was of those + two still and close together, nestling beneath Love's protecting wings, + while between their hands she felt the fingers of a little child. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + That night Mary and Stefan spoke only of love, but the morning brought + plans. Before breakfast they were together, pacing the sun-swept deck. + </p> + <p> + Mary took it for granted that their engagement would continue till + Stefan's pictures were sold, till they had found work, till their future + was in some way arranged. Stefan, who was enormously under her influence, + and a trifle, in spite of his rapture, in awe of her sweet reasonableness, + listened at first without demur. After breakfast, however, which they ate + together, he occupying the place of a late comer at her table after + negotiation with the steward, his impatient temperament asserted itself in + a burst. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest one,” he cried, when they were comfortably settled in their + favorite corner of the boat deck, “listen! I'm sure we're all wrong. I + know we are. Why should you and I—” and he took her hand—“wait + and plan and sour ourselves as little people do? We've both got to live, + haven't we? And we are going to live; you don't expect we shall starve, do + you?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” triumphantly, “why shouldn't we live together? Why, it would + be absurd not to, even from the base and practical point of view. Think of + the saving! One rent instead of two—one everything instead of two!” + His arm gave her a quick pressure. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but—” she demurred. + </p> + <p> + He turned on her suddenly. “You don't want to wait for trimmings—clothes, + orange blossoms, all that stuff—do you?” he expostulated. + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not, foolish one,” she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, where's the difficulty?” exultingly. + </p> + <p> + She could not answer—could hardly formulate the answer to herself. + Deep in her being she seemed to feel an urge toward waiting, toward + preparation, toward the collection of she knew not what small household + gods. It was as if she wished to make fair a place to receive her + sacrament of love. But this she could not express, could not speak to him + of the vision of the tiny hand. + </p> + <p> + “You're brave, Mary. Your courage was one of the things I most loved in + you. Let's be brave together!” His smile was irresistibly happy. + </p> + <p> + She could not bear that he should doubt her courage, and she wanted + passionately not to take that smile from his face. She began to weaken. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” he cried, fired by the instinct to make the courage of their + mating artistically perfect. “I've told you about my pictures. I know they + are good—I know I can sell them in New York. But let's not wait for + that. Let's bind ourselves together before we put our fortunes to the + touch! Then we shall be one, whatever happens. We shall have that.” He + kissed her, seeing her half won. + </p> + <p> + “You've got five hundred dollars, I've only got fifty, but the pictures + are worth thousands,” he went on rapidly. “We can have a wonderful week in + the country somewhere, and have plenty left to live on while I'm + negotiating the sale. Even at the worst,” he exulted, “I'm strong. I can + work at anything—with you! I don't mind asking you to spend your + money, sweetheart, because I <i>know</i> my things are worth it five times + over.” + </p> + <p> + She was rather breathless by this time. He pressed his advantage, holding + her close. + </p> + <p> + “Beloved, I've found you. Suppose I lost you! Suppose, when you were + somewhere in the city without me, you got run over or something.” Even as + she was, strained to him, she saw the horror that the thought conjured in + his eyes, and touched his cheek with her hand, protectingly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he pleaded, “don't let us run any risks with our wonderful + happiness, don't let us ever leave each other!” He looked imploringly at + her. + </p> + <p> + She saw that for Stefan what he urged was right. Her love drew her to him, + and upon its altar she laid her own retarding instinct in happy sacrifice. + She drew his head to hers, and holding his face in the cup of her hands, + kissed him with an almost solemn tenderness. This was her surrender. She + took upon herself the burden of his happiness, even as she yielded to her + own. It was a sacrament. He saw it only as a response. + </p> + <p> + Later in the day Stefan sought out the New England spinster, Miss Mason, + who sat opposite to him at table. He had entirely ignored her hitherto, + but he remembered hearing her talk familiarly about New York, and his male + instinct told him that in her he would find a ready confidante. Such she + proved, and a most flattered and delighted one. Moreover she proffered all + the information and assistance he desired. She had moved from Boston five + years ago, she said, and shared a flat with a widowed sister uptown. If + they docked that night Miss Elliston could spend it with them. The best + and cheapest places to go to near the city, she assured him, were on Long + Island. She mentioned one where she had spent a month, a tiny village of + summer bungalows on the Sound, with one small but comfortable inn. + Questioned further, she was sure this inn would be nearly empty, but not + closed, now in mid-September. She was evidently practical, and + pathetically eager to help. + </p> + <p> + Unwilling to stay his plans, however, on such a feeble prop, Byrd hunted + up the minister, whom he took to be a trifle less plebeian than most of + the men, and obtained from him an endorsement of Miss Mason's views. The + man of God, though stiff, was too conscientious to be unforgiving, and on + receiving Stefan's explanation congratulated him sincerely, if with + restraint. He did not know Shadeham personally, he explained, but he knew + similar places, and doubted if Byrd could do better. + </p> + <p> + Mary, all enthusiasm now that her mind was made up, was enchanted at the + prospect of a tiny seaside village for their honeymoon. In gratitude she + made herself charming to Miss Mason until Stefan, impatient every moment + that he was not with her, bore her away. + </p> + <p> + They docked at eight o'clock that night. Stefan saw Mary and Miss Mason to + the door of their flat, and would have lingered with them, but they were + both tired with the long process of customs inspection. Moreover, Mary + said that she wanted to sleep well so as to look “very nice” for him + to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Imperturbable divinity!” admired Stefan, in mock amazement. “I shall not + sleep at all. I am far too happy; but to you, what is a mere marriage?” + </p> + <p> + The jest hurt her a little, and seeing it, he was quick with loverlike + recompense. They parted on a note of deep tenderness. He lay sleepless, as + he had prophesied, at the nearest cheap hotel, companioned by visions at + once eagerly masculine and poetically exalted. Mary slept fitfully, but + sweetly. + </p> + <p> + The next morning they were married. Stefan's first idea had been the City + Hall, as offering the most expeditious method, but Mary had been firm for + a church. A sight of the municipal authorities from whom they obtained + their license made of Stefan an enthusiastic convert to her view. “All the + ugliness and none of the dignity of democracy,” he snorted as they left + the building. They found a not unlovely church, half stifled between tall + buildings, and were married by a curate whose reading of the service was + sufficiently reverent. For a wedding ring Mary had that of Stefan's + mother, drawn from his little finger. + </p> + <p> + By late afternoon they were in Shadeham, ensconced in a small wooden hotel + facing a silent beach and low cliffs shaded with scrub-oak. The house was + clean, and empty of other guests, and they were given a pleasant room + overlooking the water. From its windows they watched the moon rise over + the sea as they had watched her two nights before on deck. She was the + silver witness to their nuptials. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II + </h2> + <h3> + MATED + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Mary found Stefan an ideal lover. Their marriage, entered into with such, + headlong adventurousness, seemed to unfold daily into more perfect bloom. + The difficulties of his temperament, which had been thrown into sharp + relief by the crowded life of shipboard, smoothed themselves away at the + touch of happiness and peace. No woman, Mary realized, could wish for a + fuller cup of joy than Stefan offered her in these first days of their + mating. She was amazed at herself, at the suddenness with which love had + transmuted her, at the ease with which she adjusted herself to this new + world. She found it difficult to remember what kind of life she had led + before her marriage—hardly could she believe that she had ever lived + at all. + </p> + <p> + As for Stefan, he wasted no moments in backward glances. He neither + remembered the past nor questioned the future, but immersed himself + utterly in his present joy with an abandonment he had never experienced + save in painting. Questioned, he would have scoffed at the idea that life + for him could ever hold more than his work, and Mary. + </p> + <p> + Thus absorbed, Stefan would have allowed the days to slip into weeks + uncounted. But on the ninth day Mary, incapable of a wholly carefree + attitude, reminded him that they had planned only a week of holiday. + </p> + <p> + “Let's stay a month,” he replied promptly. + </p> + <p> + But Mary had been questioning her landlord about New York. + </p> + <p> + “It appears,” she explained, “that every one moves on the first of + October, and that if one hasn't found a studio by then, it is almost + impossible to get one. He says he has heard all the artists live round + about Washington Square, but that even there rents are fearfully high. + It's at the foot of Fifth Avenue, he says, which sounds very fashionable + to me, but he explains it is too far 'down town.'” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Fifth Avenue is the great street, I understand,” said Stefan, “and + my dealer's address is on Fourth, so he's in a very good neighborhood. I + don't know that I should like Washington Square—it sounds so + patriotic.” + </p> + <p> + “Fanatic!” laughed Mary. “Well, whether we go there or not, it's evident + we must get back before October the first, and it's now September the + twenty-fourth.” + </p> + <p> + “Angel, don't let's be mathematical,” he replied, pinching the lobe of her + ear, which he had proclaimed to be entrancingly pretty. “I can't add; tell + me the day we have to leave, and on that day we will go.” + </p> + <p> + “Three days from now, then,” and she sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! Not only three more days of heaven, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + “It will hurt dreadfully to leave,” she agreed, “but,” and she nestled to + him, “it won't be any less heaven there, will it, dearest?” + </p> + <p> + This spurred him to reassurance. “Of course not,” he responded, quickly + summoning new possibilities of delight. “Imagine it, you haven't even seen + my pictures yet.” They had left them, rolled, at Miss Mason's. “And I want + to paint you—really paint you—not just silly little sketches + and heads, but a big thing that I can only do in a studio. Oh, darling, + think of a studio with you to sit to me! How I shall work!” His + imagination was fired; instantly he was ready to pack and leave. + </p> + <p> + But they had their three days more, in the golden light of the Indian + summer. Three more swims, in which Stefan could barely join for joy of + watching her long lines cutting the water in her close English bathing + dress. Three more evening walks along the shimmering sands. Three more + nights in their moon-haunted room within sound of the slow splash of the + waves. And, poignant with the sadness of a nearing change, these days were + to Mary the most exquisite of all. + </p> + <p> + Their journey to the city, on the little, gritty, perpetually stopping + train was made jocund by the lively anticipations of Stefan, who was in a + mood of high confidence. + </p> + <p> + They had decided from the first to try their fortunes in New York that + winter; not to return to Paris till they had established a sure market for + Stefan's work. He had halcyon plans. Masterpieces were to be painted under + the inspiration of Mary's presence. His success in the Beaux Arts would be + an Open Sesame to the dealers, and they would at once become prosperous,—for + he had the exaggerated continental idea of American prices. In the spring + they would return to Paris, so that Mary should see it first at its most + beautiful. There they would have a studio, making it their center, but + they would also travel. + </p> + <p> + “Spain, Italy, Greece, Mary—we will see all the world's masterpieces + together,” he jubilated. “You shall be my wander-bride.” And he sang her + little snatches of gay song, in French and Italian, thrumming an imaginary + guitar or making castanets of his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “I will paint you on the Acropolis, Mary, a new Pallas to guard the + Parthenon.” His imagination leapt from vista to vista of the future, each + opening to new delights. Mary's followed, lured, dazzled, a little + hesitant. Her own visions, unformulated though they were, seemed of + somewhat different stuff, but she saw he could not conceive them other + than his, and yielded her doubts happily. + </p> + <p> + At the Pennsylvania Station they took a taxicab, telling the driver they + wanted a hotel near Washington Square. The amount registered on the meter + gave Mary an apprehensive chill, but Stefan paid it carelessly. A moment + later he was in raptures, for, quite unexpectedly, they found themselves + in a French hotel. + </p> + <p> + “What wonderful luck—what a good omen!” he cried. “Mary, it's almost + like Paris!” and he broke into rapid gesticulating talk with the desk + clerk. Soon they were installed in a bright little room with French prints + on the walls, a gay old-fashioned wall paper and patterned curtains. + Stefan assured her it was extraordinarily cheap for New York. While she + freshened her face and hair he dashed downstairs, ignoring the elevator—which + seemed to exist there only as an American afterthought—in search of + a packet of French cigarettes. Finding them, he was completely in his + element, and leant over the desk puffing luxuriously, to engage the clerk + in further talk. From him he obtained advice as to the possibilities of + the neighborhood in respect of studios, and armed with this, bounded up + the stairs again to Mary. Presently, fortified by a pot of tea and + delicious French rolls, they sallied out on their quest. + </p> + <p> + That afternoon they discovered two vacant studios. One was on a top floor + on Washington Square South, a big room with bathroom and kitchenette + attached and a small bedroom opening into it. The other was an attic just + off the Square. It had water, but no bathroom, was heated only by an open + fire, and consisted of one large room with sufficient light, and a large + closet in which was a single pane of glass high up. The studio contained + an abandoned model throne, the closet a gas ring and a sink. The rent of + the first apartment was sixty dollars a month; of the second, twenty-five. + Both were approached by a dark staircase, but in one case there was a + carpet, in the other the stairs were bare, dirty, and creaking, while from + depths below was wafted an unmistakable odor of onions and cats. + </p> + <p> + Mary, whose father's rambling sunny house in Lindum with its Elizabethan + paneling and carvings had been considered dear at ninety pounds a year, + was staggered at the price of these mean garrets, the better of which she + felt to be quite beyond their reach. Even Stefan was a little dashed, but + was confident that after his interview with Adolph's brother sixty dollars + would appear less formidable. + </p> + <p> + “You should have seen my attic in Paris, Mary—absolutely falling to + pieces—but then I didn't mind, not having a goddess to house,” and + he pressed her arm. “For you there should be something spacious and bright + enough to be a fitting background.” He glanced up a little ruefully at the + squalid house they had just left. + </p> + <p> + But she was quick to reassure him, her courage mounting to sustain his. + “We could manage perfectly well in the smaller place for a time, dearest, + and how lucky we don't have to take a lease, as we should in England.” Her + mind jumped to perceive any practical advantage. Already, mentally, she + was arranging furniture in the cheaper place, planning for a screen, a tin + tub, painting the dingy woodwork. They asked for the refusal of both + studios till the next day, and for that evening left matters suspended. + </p> + <p> + In the morning, Stefan, retrieving his canvases from Miss Mason's flat, + sought out the dealer, Jensen. Walking from Fifth Avenue, he was surprised + at the cheap appearance of the houses on Fourth, only one block away. He + had expected to find Adolph's brother in such a great stone building as + those he had just passed, with their show windows empty save for one piece + of tapestry or sculpture, or a fine painting brilliant against its + background of dull velvet. Instead, the number on Fourth Avenue proved a + tumbledown house of two stories, with tattered awnings flapping above its + shop-window, which was almost too grimy to disclose the wares within. + These were a jumble of bric-a-brac, old furniture of doubtful value, + stained prints, and one or two blackened oil paintings in tarnished + frames. With ominous misgivings, Stefan entered the half-opened door. The + place was a confused medley of the flotsam and jetsam of dwelling houses, + and appeared to him much more like a pawnbroker's than the business place + of an art dealer. From its dusty shadows a stooped figure emerged, + gray-haired and spectacled, which waited for Stefan to speak with an air + of patient humbleness. + </p> + <p> + “This isn't Mr. Jensen's, is it?” Stefan asked, feeling he had mistaken + the number. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Jensen. What can I do for you?” replied the man in a toneless + voice. + </p> + <p> + “You are Adolph's brother?” incredulously. + </p> + <p> + At the name the gray face flushed pathetically. Jensen came forward, + pressing his hands together, and peered into Stefan's face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am,” he answered, “and you are Mr. Byrd that he wrote to me about. + I'd hoped you weren't coming, after all. Well,” and he waved his hand, + “you see how it is.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan was completely dismayed. “Why,” he stammered, “I thought you were + so successful—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry.” Jensen dropped his eyes, picking nervously at his coat. “You + see, I am the eldest brother; a man does not like to admit failure. I may + be sold up any time now. I wanted Adolph not to guess, so I—wrote—him—differently.” + He flushed painfully again. Stefan was silent, too taken aback for speech. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, Mr. Byrd,” Jensen stammered on, striking his hands together + impotently, “for all its wealth, this is a city of dead hopes. It's been a + long fight, but it's over now.... Yes, you are Adolph's friend, and I + can't so much as buy a sketch from you. It's quite, quite over.” And + suddenly he sank his head in his hands, while Stefan stood, infinitely + embarrassed, clutching his roll of canvases. After a moment Jensen, + mastering himself, lifted his head. His lined, prematurely old face showed + an expression at once pleading and dignified. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't dream what I wrote would do any harm, Mr. Byrd, but now of + course you will have to explain to Adolph—?” + </p> + <p> + Stefan, moved to sympathy, held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Jensen, you've put me in an awful hole, worse than you know. + But why should I say anything? Let Adolph think we're both millionaires,” + and he grinned ruefully. + </p> + <p> + Jensen straightened and took the proffered hand in one that trembled. + “Thank you,” he said, and his eyes glistened. “I'm grateful. If there were + only something I could do—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, give me the names of some dealers,” said Stefan, to whom scenes + were exquisitely embarrassing, anxious to be gone. + </p> + <p> + Jensen wrote several names on a smudged half sheet of paper. “These are + the best. Try them. My introduction wouldn't help, I'm afraid,” bitterly. + </p> + <p> + On that Stefan left him, hurrying with relief from the musty atmosphere of + failure into the busy street. Though half dazed by the sudden subsidence + of his plans, unable to face as yet the possible consequences, he had his + pictures, and the names of the real dealers; confidence still buoyed him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Three hours later Mary, anxiously waiting, heard Stefan's step approach + their bedroom door. Instantly her heart dropped like lead. She did not + need his voice to tell her what those dragging feet announced. She sprang + to the door and had her arms round his neck before he could speak. She + took the heavy roll of canvases from him and half pushed him into the + room's one comfortable arm-chair. Kneeling beside him, she pressed her + cheek to his, stroking back his heat-damped hair. “Darling,” she said, + “you are tired to death. Don't tell me about your day till you've rested a + little.” + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes, leaning back. He looked exhausted; every line of his + face drooped. In spite of his tan, it was pale, with hollows under the + eyes. It was extraordinary that a few hours should make such a change, she + thought, and held him close, comfortingly. + </p> + <p> + He did not speak for a long time, but at last, “Mary,” he said, in a flat + voice, “I've had a complete failure. Nobody wants my things. This is what + I've let you in for.” His tone had the indifferent quality of extreme + fatigue, but Mary was not deceived. She knew that his whole being craved + reassurance, rehabilitation in its own eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you old foolish darling, you're too tired to know what you're + talking about,” she cried, kissing him. “Wait till you've had something to + eat.” She rang the bell—four times for the waiter, as the card over + it instructed her. “Failure indeed!” she went on, clearing a small table, + “there's no such word! One doesn't grow rich in a day, you know.” She + moved silently and quickly about, hung up his hat, stood the canvases in a + corner, ordered coffee, rolls and eggs, and finally unlaced Stefan's shoes + in spite of his rather horrified if feeble protest. + </p> + <p> + Not until she had watched him drink two cups of coffee and devour the food—she + guessed he had had no lunch—did she allow him to talk, first + lighting his cigarette and finding a place for herself on the arm of his + chair. By this time Stefan's extreme lassitude, and with it his despair, + had vanished. He brightened perceptibly. “You wonder,” he exclaimed, + catching her hand and kissing it, “now I can tell you about it.” With his + arm about her he described all his experiences, the fiasco of the Jensen + affair and his subsequent interviews with Fifth Avenue dealers. “They are + all Jews, Mary. Some are decent enough fellows, I suppose, though I hate + the Israelites!” (“Silly boy!” she interposed.) “Others are horrors. None + of them want the work of an American. Old masters, or well known + foreigners, they say. I explained my success at the Beaux Arts. Two of + them had seen my name in the Paris papers, but said it would mean nothing + to their clients. Hopeless Philistines, all of them! I do believe I should + have had a better chance if I'd called myself Austrian, instead of + American, and I only revived my American citizenship because I thought it + would be an asset!” He laughed, ironically. “They advised me to have a + one-man show, late in the winter, so as to get publicity.” + </p> + <p> + “So we will then,” interposed Mary confidently. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, child,” he exclaimed, half irritably, “you don't suppose I + could have a gallery for nothing, do you? God knows what it would cost. + Besides, I haven't enough pictures—and think of the frames!” He sat + up, fretfully. + </p> + <p> + She saw his nerves were on edge, and quickly offered a diversion. + “Stefan,” she cried, jumping to her feet and throwing her arms back with a + gesture the grace of which did not escape him even in his impatient mood, + “I haven't even seen the pictures yet, you know, and can't wait any + longer. Let me look at them now, and then I'll tell you just how idiotic + those dealers were!” and she gave her bell-like laugh. “I'll undo them.” + Her fingers were busy at the knots. + </p> + <p> + “I hate the sight of that roll,” said Stefan, frowning. “Still—” and + he jumped up, “I do immensely want you to see them. I know <i>you'll</i> + understand them.” Suddenly he was all eagerness again. He took the + canvases from her, undid them and, casting aside the smaller ones, spread + the two largest against the wall, propping their corners adroitly with + chairs, an umbrella, and a walking stick. “Don't look yet,” he called + meanwhile. “Close your eyes.” He moved with agile speed, instinctively + finding the best light and thrusting back the furniture to secure a + clearer view. “There!” he cried. “Wait a minute—stand here. <i>Now</i> + look!” triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + Mary opened her eyes. “Why, Stefan, they're wonderful!” she exclaimed. But + even as she spoke, and amidst her sincere admiration, her heart, very + slightly, sank. She knew enough of painting to see that here was genius. + The two fantasies, one representing the spirits of a wind-storm, the other + a mermaid fleeing a merman's grasp, were brilliant in color, line and + conception. They were things of beauty, but it was a beauty strange, + menacing, subhuman. The figures that tore through the clouds urged on the + storm with a wicked and abandoned glee. The face of the merman almost + frightened her; it was repellent in its likeness at once to a fish and a + man. The mermaid's face was less inhuman, but it was stricken with a + horrid terror. She was swimming straight out of the picture as if to fling + herself, shrieking, into the safety of the spectator's arms. The pictures + were imaginative, powerful, arresting, but they were not pleasing. Few + people, she felt, would care to live with them. After a long scrutiny she + turned to her husband, at once glorying in the strength of his talent and + troubled by its quality. + </p> + <p> + “You are a genius, Stefan,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You really like them?” he asked eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I think they are wonderful!” He was satisfied, for it was her heart, not + her voice, that held a reservation. + </p> + <p> + Stefan showed her the smaller canvases, some unfinished. Most were of + nymphs and winged elves, but there were three landscapes. One of these, a + stream reflecting a high spring sky between banks of young meadow grass, + showed a little faun skipping merrily in the distance. The atmosphere was + indescribably light-hearted. Mary smiled as she looked at it. The other + two were empty of figures; they were delicately graceful and alluring, but + there was something lacking in them—-what, she could not tell. She + liked best a sketch of a baby boy, lost amid trees, behind which + wood-nymphs and fauns peeped at him, roguish and inquisitive. The boy was + seated on the ground, fat and solemn, with round, tear-wet eyes. He was so + lonely that Mary wanted to hug him; instead, she kissed Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “What a duck of a baby, dearest!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he was a nice kid—belonged to my concierge,” he answered + carelessly. “The picture is sentimental, though. This is better,” and he + pointed to another mermaid study. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's splendid,” she answered, instinctively suppressing a sigh. She + began to realize a little what a strange being she had married. With an + impulsive need of protection she held him close, hiding her face in his + neck. The reality of his arms reassured her. + </p> + <p> + That day they decided, at Mary's urging, to take the smaller studio at + once, abandoning the extravagance of hotel life. In practical manners she + was already assuming a leadership which he was glad to follow. She + suggested that in the morning he should take his smaller canvases, and try + some of the less important dealers, while she made an expedition in search + of necessary furniture. To this he eagerly agreed. + </p> + <p> + “It seems horrible to let you do it alone, but it would be sacrilegious to + discuss the price of saucepans with a goddess,” he explained. “Are you + sure you can face the tedium?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I shall love it!” she cried, astonished at such an expression. + </p> + <p> + He regarded her whimsically. “Genius of efficiency, then I shall leave it + to you. Such things appal me. In Paris, my garret was furnished only with + pictures. I inherited the bed from the last occupant, and I think Adolph + insisted on finding a pillow and a frying-pan. He used to come up and cook + for us both sometimes, when he thought I had been eating too often at + restaurants. He approved of economy, did Adolph.” Stefan was lounging on + the bed, with his perpetual cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “He must be a dear,” said Mary. She had begun to make a shopping list. + “Tell me, absurd creature, what you really need in the studio. There is a + model throne, you will remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll get my own easel and stool,” he replied quickly. “There's + nothing else, except of course a table for my paints. A good solid one,” + he added with emphasis. “I'll tell you what,” and he sat up. “I go out + early to-morrow on my dealer hunt. I force myself to stay out until late + afternoon. When I return, behold! The goddess has waved her hand, and + invisible minions—” he circled the air with his cigarette—“have + transported her temple across the square. There she sits enthroned, + waiting for her acolyte. How will that do?” He turned his radiant smile on + her. + </p> + <p> + “Splendid,” she answered, amused. “I only hope the goddess won't get + chipped in the passage.” + </p> + <p> + She thought of the dusty studio, of brooms and scrubbing brushes, but she + was already wise enough in wife-lore not to mention them. Mary came of a + race whose women had always served their men. It did not seem strange to + her, as it might have to an American, that the whole labor of their + installation should devolve on her. + </p> + <p> + With her back turned to him, she counted over their resources, calculating + what would be available when their hotel bill was paid. Except for a + dollar or two, Stefan had turned his small hoard over to her. “It's all + yours anyway, dearest,” he had said, “and I don't want to spend a cent + till I have made something.” They had spent very little so far; she was + relieved to realize that the five hundred dollars remained almost intact. + While Stefan continued to smoke luxuriously on the bed, she jotted down + figures, apportioning one hundred and fifty dollars for six months' rent, + and trying to calculate a weekly basis for their living expenses. She knew + that they were both equally ignorant of prices in New York, and determined + to call in the assistance of Miss Mason. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan,” she said, taking up the telephone, “I'm going to summon a + minion.” She explained to Miss Mason over the wire. “We are starting + housekeeping to-morrow, and I know absolutely nothing about where to shop, + or what things ought to cost. Would it be making too great demands on your + kindness if I asked you to meet me here to-morrow morning and join me in a + shopping expedition?” + </p> + <p> + The request, delivered in her civil English voice, enchanted Miss Mason, + who had to obtain all her romance vicariously. “I should just love to!” + she exclaimed, and it was arranged. + </p> + <p> + Mary then telephoned that they would take the studio—a technicality + which she knew Stefan had entirely forgotten—and notified the hotel + office that their room would be given up next morning. + </p> + <p> + “O thou above rubies and precious pearls!” chanted Stefan from the bed. + </p> + <p> + After dinner they sat in Washington Square. Their marriage moon was + waning, but still shone high and bright. Under her the trees appeared + etherealized, and her light mingled in magic contest with the white beams + of the arc lamps near the arch. Above each of these, a myriad tiny moths + fluttered their desirous wings. Under the trees Italian couples wandered, + the men with dark amorous glances, the girls laughing, their necks gay + with colored shawls. Brightly ribboned children, black-haired, played + about the benches where their mothers gossiped. There was enchantment in + the tired but cooling air. + </p> + <p> + Stefan was enthusiastic. “Look at the types, Mary! The whole place is + utterly foreign, full of ardor and color. I have cursed America without + cause—here I can feel at home.” To her it was all alien, but her + heart responded to his happiness. + </p> + <p> + On the bench next them sat a group of Italian women. From this a tiny boy + detached himself, plump and serious, and, urged by curiosity, gradually + approached Mary, his velvet eyes fixed on her face. She lifted him, + resistless, to her knee, and he sat there contentedly, sucking a colored + stick of candy. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Stefan!” she cried; “isn't he a lamb?” + </p> + <p> + Stefan cast a critical glance at the baby. “He's paintable, but horribly + sticky,” he said. “Let's move on before he begins to yell. I want to see + the effect from the roadway of these shifting groups under the trees. It + might be worth doing, don't you think?” and he stood up. + </p> + <p> + His manner slightly rebuffed Mary, who would gladly have nursed the little + boy longer. However, she gently lowered him and, rising, moved off in + silence with Stefan, who was ignorant of any offense. The rest of their + outing passed sweetly enough, as they wandered, arm in arm, about the + square. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + The next morning Stefan started immediately after his premier déjeuner of + rolls and coffee in quest of the less important dealers, taking with him + only his smaller canvases. “I'll stay away till five o'clock, not a minute + longer,” he admonished. Mary, still seated in the dining-room over her + English bacon and eggs—she had smilingly declined to adopt his + French method of breakfasting—glowed acquiescence, and offered him a + parting suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “Be sure to show them the baby in the wood.” + </p> + <p> + “Why that one?” he questioned. “You admit it isn't the best.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, but neither are they the best connoisseurs. You'll see.” She + nodded wisely at him. + </p> + <p> + “The oracle has spoken—I will obey,” he called from the door, + kissing his fingers to her. She ventured an answering gesture, knowing the + room empty save for waiters. She was almost as unselfconscious as he, but + had her nation's shrinking from any public expression of emotion. + </p> + <p> + Hardly had he gone when the faithful Miss Mason arrived, her mild eyes + almost youthful with enthusiasm. Prom a black satin reticule of dimensions + beyond all proportion to her meager self she drew a list of names on which + she discoursed volubly while Mary finished her breakfast. + </p> + <p> + “You'll get most everything at this first place,” she said. “It's pretty + near the biggest department store in the city, and only two blocks from + here—ain't that convenient? You can deal there right along for + everything in the way of dry goods.” + </p> + <p> + Mary had no conception of what either a department store or dry goods + might be, but determined not to confound her mentor by a display of such + ignorance. + </p> + <p> + “Seemed to me, though, you might get some things second hand, so I got a + list of likely places from my sister, who's lived in New York longer'n I + have. I thought mebbe—” her tone was tactful—“you didn't want + to waste your money any?” + </p> + <p> + Mary was impressed again, as she had been before her wedding, by the + natural good manners of this simple and half educated woman. “Why is it,” + she wondered to herself, “that one would not dream of knowing people of + her class at home, but rather likes them here?” She did not realize as yet + that for Miss Mason no classes existed, and that consequently she was as + much at ease with Mary, whose mother had been “county,” as she would be + with her own colored “help.” + </p> + <p> + “You guessed quite rightly, Miss Mason,” Mary smiled. “I want to spend as + little as possible, and shall depend on you to prevent my making + mistakes.” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I know all there is t' know 'bout economy,” nodded Miss Mason, + and, as if by way of illustration, drew from her bag a pair of cotton + gloves, for which she exchanged her kid ones, rolling these carefully + away. “They get real mussed shopping,” she explained. + </p> + <p> + Within half an hour, Mary realized that she would have been lost indeed + without her guide. First they inspected the studio. Mary had had a vague + idea of cleaning it herself, but Miss Mason demanded to see the janitress, + and ascended, after a ten minutes' emersion in the noisome gloom of the + basement, in high satisfaction. “She's a dago,” she reported, “but not so + dirty as some, and looks a husky worker. It's her business to clean the + flats for new tenants, but I promised her fifty cents to get the place + done by noon, windows and all. She seemed real pleased. She says her + husband will carry your coal up from the cellar for a quarter a week; I + guess it will be worth it to you. You don't want to give the money to him + though,” she admonished, “the woman runs everything. I shouldn't + calc'late,” she sniffed, “he does more'n a couple of real days' work a + month. They mostly don't.” + </p> + <p> + So the first problem was solved, and it was the same with all the rest. + Many dollars did Miss Mason save the Byrds that day. Mary would have + bought a bedstead and screened it, but her companion pointed out the + extravagance and inconvenience of such a course, and initiated her + forthwith into the main secret of New York's apartment life. + </p> + <p> + “You'll want your divan new,” she said, and led her in the great + department store to a hideous object of gilded iron which opened into a + double bed, and closed into a divan. At first Mary rejected this + Janus-faced machine unequivocally, but became a convert when Miss Mason + showed her how cretonne (she pronounced it “<i>cree</i>ton”) or rugs would + soften its nakedness to dignity, and how bed-clothes and pillows were + swallowed in its maw by day to be released when the studio became a + sleeping room at night. + </p> + <p> + These trappings they purchased at first hand, and obliging salesmen + promised Miss Mason with their lips, but Mary with their eyes, that they + should go out on the noon delivery. For other things, however, the two + searched the second-hand stores which stand in that district like logs in + a stream, staying abandoned particles of the city's ever moving current. + Here they bought a high, roomy chest of drawers of painted pine, a Morris + chair, three single chairs, and a sturdy folding table in cherry, quite + old, which Mary felt to be a “find,” and which she destined for Stefan's + paints. Miss Mason recommended a “rocker,” and Mary, who had had visions + of stuffed English easy chairs, acquiesced on finding in the rocker and + Morris types the only available combinations of cheapness and comfort. A + second smaller table of good design, two brass candlesticks, and a little + looking-glass in faded greenish gilt, rejoiced Mary's heart, without + unreasonably lightening her pocket. During these purchases Miss Mason's + authority paled, but she reasserted herself on the question of iceboxes. + One dealer's showroom was half full of them, and Miss Mason pounced on a + small one, little used, marked six dollars. “That's real cheap—you + couldn't do better—it's a good make, too.” Mary had never seen an + ice-box in her life, and said so, striking Miss Mason almost dumb. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure we shouldn't need such a thing,” she demurred. + </p> + <p> + Recovering speech, Miss Mason launched into the creed of the ice-box—its + ubiquity, values and economies. Mary understood she was receiving her + second initiation into flat life, and mentally bracketed this new cult + with that of the divan. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Miss Mason. In Rome, et cetera,” she capitulated, and paid for + the ice-box. + </p> + <p> + Thanks to her friend, their shopping had been so expeditious that the day + was still young. Mary was fired by the determination to have some sort of + nest for her tired and probably disheartened husband to return to that + evening, and Miss Mason entered whole-heartedly into the scheme. The + transportation of their scattered purchases was the main difficulty, but + it yielded to the little spinster's inspiration. A list of their + performances between noon and five o'clock would read like the description + of a Presidential candidate's day. They dashed back to the studio and + reassured themselves as to the labors of the janitress. Miss Mason + unearthed the lurking husband, and demanded of him a friend and a + hand-cart. These she galvanized him into producing on the spot, and sent + the pair off armed with a list of goods to be retrieved. In the midst of + this maneuver the department store's great van faithfully disgorged their + bed and bedding. Hardly waiting to see these deposited, the two hurried + out in quest of sandwiches and milk. + </p> + <p> + “I guess we're the lightning home-makers, all right,” was Miss Mason's + comment as they lunched. + </p> + <p> + Returning to the department store they bought and brought away with them a + kettle, a china teapot (“Fifteen cents in the basement,” Miss Mason + instructed), three cups and saucers, six plates, a tin of floor-polish and + a few knives, forks, and spoons. Meanwhile they had telephoned the hotel + to send over the baggage. When the street car dropped them near the studio + they found the two Italians seated on the steps, the furniture and baggage + in the room, and Mrs. Corriani wiping her last window pane. “I shall want + your husband again for this floor,” commanded the indefatigable Miss + Mason, opening her tin of polish, “and his friend for errands.” They fell + upon their task. + </p> + <p> + An hour later the spinster dropped into the rocking chair. “Well, we've + done it,” she said, “and I don't mind telling you I'm tuckered out.” + </p> + <p> + Mary's voice answered from the sink, where she was sluicing her face and + arms. + </p> + <p> + “You've been a marvel—the whole thing has been Napoleonic—and + I simply don't know how to thank you.” She appeared at the door of the + closet, which was to serve as kitchenette and bathroom, drying her hands. + </p> + <p> + “My, your face is like a rose! <i>You</i> don't look tired any!” exclaimed + the spinster. “As for thanks, why, it's been a treat to me. I've felt like + I was a girl again. But we're through now, and I've got to go.” She rose. + “I guess I'll enjoy my sleep to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't go, Miss Mason, stay for tea and let my husband thank you too.” + </p> + <p> + But the little New Englander again showed her simple tact. “No, no, my + dear, it's time I went, and you and Mr. Byrd will want to be alone + together your first evening,” and she pulled on her cotton gloves. + </p> + <p> + At the door Mary impulsively put her arms round Miss Mason and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “You have been good to me—I shall never forget it,” she whispered, + almost loath to let this first woman friend of her new life go. + </p> + <p> + Alone, Mary turned to survey the room. + </p> + <p> + The floor, of wide uneven planks, was bare, but it carried a dark stain, + and this had been waxed until it shone. The walls, painted gray, had + yielded a clean surface to the mop. The grate was blackened. On either + side of it stood the two large chairs, and Mary had thrown a strip of + bright stuff over the cushions of the Morris. Beside this chair stood the + smaller table, polished, and upon it blue and white tea things. Near the + large window stood the other table, with Stefan's palette, paint tubes, + and brushes in orderly array, and a plain chair beside it, while centered + at that end was the model-throne. Opposite the fireplace the divan fronted + the wall, obscured by Mary's steamer rug and green deck cushion. At the + end of the room the heavy chest of drawers, with its dark walnut paint, + faced the window, bearing the gilded mirror and a strip of embroidery. On + the mantlepiece stood Mary's traveling clock and the two brass + candlesticks, and above it Stefan's pastoral of the stream and the dancing + faun was tacked upon the wall. She could hear the kettle singing from the + closet, through the open door of which a shaft of sunlight fell from the + tiny window to the floor. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Mary opened her arms. “Home,” she whispered, “home.” Tears + started to her eyes. With a caressing movement she leant her face against + the wall, as to the cheek of her lover. + </p> + <p> + But emotion lay deep in Mary—she was ashamed that it should rise to + facile tears. “Silly girl,” she thought, and drying her eyes proceeded + more calmly to her final task, which was to change her dress for one + fitted to honor Stefan's homecoming. + </p> + <p> + Hardly was she ready when she heard his feet upon the stair. Her heart + leapt with a double joy, for he was springing up two steps at a time, + triumph in every bound. The door burst open; she was enveloped in a + whirlwind embrace. “Mary,” he gasped between kisses, “I've sold the boy—sold + him for a hundred! At the very last place—just as I'd given up. You + beloved oracle!” + </p> + <p> + Then he held her away from him, devouring with his eyes her glowing face, + her hair, and her soft blue dress. “Oh, you beauty! The day has been a + thousand years long without you!” He caught her to him again. + </p> + <p> + Mary's heart was almost bursting with happiness as she clung to him. Here, + in the home she had prepared, he had brought her his success, and their + love glorified both. Her emotion left her wordless. Another moment, and + his eyes swept the room. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mary!” It was a shout of joy. “You magician, you miracle-worker! + It's beautiful! Don't tell me how you did it—” hastily—“I + couldn't understand. It's enough that you waved your hand and beauty + sprang up! Look at my little faun dancing—we must dance too!” He + lilted a swaying air, and whirled her round the room with gipsy glee. His + face looked like the faun's, elfin, mischievous, happy as the springtime. + </p> + <p> + At last he dropped into a chair. Then Mary fetched her teakettle. They + quenched their thirst, she shared his cigarette, they prattled like + children. It was late before they remembered to go out in search of + dinner, hours later before they dropped asleep upon the gilded Janus-faced + couch that had become for Mary the altar of a sacrament. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + Mary's original furnishings had cost her less than a hundred dollars. In + the first days of their housekeeping she made several additions, and + Stefan contributed a large second-hand easel, a stool, and a piece of + strangely colored drapery for the divan. This he discovered during a walk + with Mary, in the window of an old furniture dealer, and instantly fell a + victim to. He was so delighted with it that Mary had not the heart to veto + its purchase, though it was a sad extravagance, costing them more than a + week's living expenses. The stuff was of oriental silk, shot with a + changing sheen, of colors like a fire burning over water, which made it + seem a living thing in their hands. The night they took it home Stefan lit + six candles in its honor. + </p> + <p> + In spite of these expenses Mary banked four hundred dollars, leaving + herself enough in hand for a fortnight to come, for she found that they + could live on twenty-five dollars a week. She calculated that they must + make, as an absolute minimum, to be safe, one hundred dollars a month, for + she was determined, if possible, not to draw further upon their hoard. + This was destined for a future use, the hope of which trembled constantly + in her heart. All her plans centered about this hope, but she still + forebore to speak of it to Stefan, even as she had done before their + marriage. Perhaps she instinctively feared a possible lack of response in + him. Meanwhile, she must safeguard her nest. + </p> + <p> + In spite of Stefan's initial success, Mary wondered if his art would at + first yield the necessary monthly income, and cast about for some means by + which she could increase his earnings. She had come to America to attain + independence, and there was nothing in her code to make dependence a + necessary element of marriage. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan,” she said one morning, as she sat covering a cushion, while he + worked at one of the unfinished pastorals, “you know I sold several short + stories for children when I was in London. I think I ought to try my luck + here, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “You don't need to, sweetheart,” he replied. “Wait till I've finished this + little thing. You see if the man I sold the boy to won't jump at it for + another hundred.” And he whistled cheerily. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure he will,” she smiled. “Still, I should like to help.” + </p> + <p> + “Do it if you want to, Beautiful, only I can't associate you with pens and + typewriters. I'm sure if you were just to open your mouth, and sing, out + there in the square—” he waved a brush—“people would come + running from all over the city and throw yellow and green bills at you + like leaves, till you had to be dug out with long shovels by those funny + street-cleaners who go about looking dirty in white clothes. You would be + a nymph in a shower of gold—only the gold would be paper! How like + America!” He whistled again absently, touching the canvas with delicate + strokes. + </p> + <p> + “You are quite the most ridiculous person in the world,” she laughed at + him. “You know perfectly well that my voice is much too small to be of + practical value.” + </p> + <p> + “But I'm not being practical, and you mustn't be literal, darling—goddesses + never should.” + </p> + <p> + “Be practical just for a moment then,” she urged, “and think about my + chances of selling stories.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't,” he said absently, holding his brush suspended. “Wait a + minute, I've got an idea! That about the shower of gold—I know—Danaë!” + he shouted suddenly, throwing down his palette. “That's how I'll paint + you. I've been puzzling over it for days. Darling, it will be my chef + d'oeuvre!” He seized her hands. “Think of it! You standing under a great + shaft of sun, nude, exalted, your hands and eyes lifted. About you gold, + pouring down in cataracts, indistinguishable from the sunlight—a + background of prismatic fire—and your hair lifting into it like + wings!” He was irradiated. + </p> + <p> + She had blushed to the eyes. “You want me to sit to you—like that!” + Her voice trembled. + </p> + <p> + He gazed at her in frank amazement. “Should you mind?” he asked, amazed. + “Why, you rose, you're blushing. I believe you're shy!” He put his arms + around her, smiling into her face. “You wouldn't mind, darling, for me!” + he urged, his cheek to hers. “You are so glorious. I've always wanted to + paint your glory since the first day I saw you. You <i>can't</i> mind!” + </p> + <p> + He saw she still hesitated, and his tone became not only surprised but + hurt. He could not conceive of shame in connection with beauty. Seeing + this she mastered her shrinking. He was right, she felt—she had + given him her beauty, and a denial of it in the service of his art would + rebuff the God in him—the creator. She yielded, but she could not + express the deeper reason for her emotion. As he was so oblivious, she + could not bring herself to tell him why in particular she shrank from + sitting as Danaë. He had not thought of the meaning of the myth in + connection with her all-absorbing hope. + </p> + <p> + “Promise me one thing,” she pleaded. “Don't make the face too like me—just + a little different, dearest, please!” + </p> + <p> + This a trifle fretted him. + </p> + <p> + “I don't really see why; your face is just the right type,” he puzzled. “I + shan't sell the picture, you know. It will be for us—our marriage + present to each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless, I ask it, dearest.” With that he had to be content. + </p> + <p> + Stefan obtained that afternoon a full-length canvas, and the sittings + began next morning. He was at his most inspiring, laughed away Mary's + stage fright, posed her with a delight which, inspired her, too, so that + she stood readily as he suggested, and made half a dozen lightning + sketches to determine the most perfect position, exclaiming + enthusiastically meanwhile. + </p> + <p> + When absorbed, Stefan was a sure and rapid worker. Mary posed for him + every morning, and at the end of a week the picture had advanced to a + thing of wonderful promise and beauty. Mary would stand before it almost + awed. Was this she, she pondered, this aspiring woman of flame? It + troubled her a little that his ideal of her should rise to such splendor; + this apotheosis left no place for the pitying tenderness of love, only for + its glory. The color of this picture was like the sound of silver + trumpets; the heart-throb of the strings was missing. Mary was neither + morbid nor introspective, but at this time her whole being was keyed to + more than normal comprehension. Watching the picture, seeing that it was a + portrayal not of her but of his love for her, she wondered if any woman + could long endure the arduousness of such deification, or if a man who had + visioned a goddess could long content himself with a mortal. + </p> + <p> + The face, too, vaguely troubled her. True to his promise, Stefan had not + made it a portrait, but its unlikeness lay rather in the meaning and + expression than in the features. These differed only in detail from her + own. A slight lengthening of the corners of the eyes, a fuller and wider + mouth were the only changes. But the expression amidst its exaltation held + a quality she did not understand. Translated into music, it was the call + of the wood-wind, something wild and unhuman flowing across the silver + triumph of the horns. + </p> + <p> + Of these half questionings, however, Mary said nothing, telling Stefan + only what she was sure of, that the picture would be a masterpiece. + </p> + <p> + The days were shortening. Stefan found the light poor in the afternoons, + and had to take part of the mornings for work on his pastoral. This he + would have neglected in his enthusiasm for the Danaë, but for Mary's + urgings. He obeyed her mandates on practical issues with the unquestioning + acceptance of a child. His attitude suggested that he was willing to be + worldly from time to time if his Mary—not too often—told him + to. + </p> + <p> + The weather had turned cool, and Mr. Corriani brought them up their first + scuttle of coal. They were glad to drink their morning coffee and eat + their lunch before the fire, and Mary's little sable neck-piece, relic of + former opulence, appeared in the evenings when they sought their dinner. + This they took in restaurants near by—quaint basements, or back + parlors of once fine houses, where they were served nutritious meals on + bare boards, in china half an inch thick. Autumn, New York's most + beautiful season, was in the air with its heart-lightening tang; energy + seemed to flow into them as they breathed. They took long walks in the + afternoons to the Park, which Stefan voted hopelessly banal; to the + Metropolitan Museum, where they paid homage to the Sorollas and the + Rodins; to the Battery, the docks, and the whole downtown district. This + they found oppressive at first, till they saw it after dark from a ferry + boat, when Stefan became fired by the towerlike skyscrapers sketched in + patterns of light against the void. + </p> + <p> + Immediately he developed a cult for these buildings. “America's one + creation,” he called them, “monstrous, rooted repellently in the earth's + bowels, growing rank like weeds, but art for all that.” He made several + sketches of them, in which the buildings seemed to sway in a drunken + abandonment of power. “Wicked things,” he named them, and saw them + menacing but fascinating, titanic engines that would overwhelm their + makers. He and Mary had quite an argument about this, for she thought the + skyscrapers beautiful. + </p> + <p> + “They reach sunward, Stefan, they do not menace, they aspire,” she + objected. + </p> + <p> + “The aspiration is yours, Goddess. They are only fit symbols of a + super-materialism. Their strength is evil, but it lures.” + </p> + <p> + He was delighted with his drawings. Mary, who was beginning to develop + civic pride, told him they were goblinesque. + </p> + <p> + “Clever girl, that's why I like them,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + Late in October Stefan sold his pastoral, though only for seventy-five + dollars. This disappointed him greatly. He was anxious to repay his debt + to Adolph, but would not accept the loan of it from his wife. Mary renewed + her determination to be helpful, and sent one of her old stories to a + magazine, but without success. She had no one to advise her as to likely + markets, and posted her manuscript to two more unsuitable publications, + receiving it back with a printed rejection slip. + </p> + <p> + Her fourth attempt, however, was rewarded by a note from the editor which + gave her much encouragement. Children's stories, he explained, were + outside the scope of his magazine, but he thought highly of Mrs. Byrd's + manuscript, and advised her to submit it to one of the women's papers—he + named several—where it might be acceptable. Mary was delighted by + this note, and read it to Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “Splendid!” he cried, “I had no idea you had brought any stories over with + you. Guarded oracle!” he added, teasingly. + </p> + <p> + “Oracles don't tell secrets unless they are asked,” she rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “True. And now I do ask. Give me the whole secret—read me the + story,” he exclaimed, promptly putting away his brushes, lighting a + cigarette, and throwing himself, eagerly attentive, into the Morris chair. + </p> + <p> + Mary prepared to comply, gladly, if a little nervously. She had been + somewhat hurt at his complete lack of interest in her writing; now she was + anxious for his approbation. Seated in the rocking chair she read aloud + the little story in her clear low voice. When she had finished she found + Stefan regarding her with an expression affectionate but somewhat + quizzical. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, you have almost a maternal air, sitting there reading so lovingly + about a baby. It's a new aspect—the rocker helps. I've never quite + liked that chair—it reminds me of Michigan.” + </p> + <p> + Mary had flushed painfully, but he did not notice it in the half light of + the fire. It had grown dark as she read. + </p> + <p> + “But the story, Stefan?” she asked, her tone obviously hurt. He jumped up + and kissed her, all contrition. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, it sounded beautiful in your voice, and I'm sure it is. In fact + I know it is. But I simply don't understand that type of fiction; I have + no key to it. So my mind wandered a little. I listened to the lovely + sounds your voice made, and watched the firelight on your hair. You were + like a Dutch interior—quite a new aspect, as I said—and I got + interested in that.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was abashed and disappointed. For the first time she questioned + Stefan's generosity, contrasting his indifference with her own absorbed + interest in his work. She knew her muse trivial by comparison with his, + but she loved it, and ached for the stimulus his praise would bring. + </p> + <p> + Beneath the wound to her craftsmanship lay another, in which the knife was + turning, but she would not face its implication. Nevertheless it oppressed + her throughout the evening, so that Stefan commented on her silence. That + night as she lay awake listening to his easy breathing, for the first time + since her marriage her pillow was dampened by tears. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + In the nest morning's sun Mary's premonitions appeared absurd. Stefan + waked in high spirits, and planned a morning's work on his drawings of the + city, while Mary, off duty as a model, decided to take her story in person + to the office of one of the women's papers. As she crossed the Square and + walked up lower Fifth Avenue she had never felt more buoyant. The sun was + brilliant, and a cool breeze whipped color into her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + The office to which she was bound was on the north side of Union Square. + Crossing Broadway, she was held up half way over by the traffic. As she + waited for an opening her attention was attracted by the singular antics + of a large man, who seemed to be performing some kind of a ponderous fling + upon the curbstone opposite. A moment more and she grasped that the dance + was a signal to her, and that the man was none other than McEwan, sprucely + tailored and trimmed in the American fashion, but unmistakable for all + that. She crossed the street and shook hands with him warmly, delighted to + see any one connected with the romantic days of her voyage. McEwan's smile + seemed to buttress his whole face with teeth, but to her amazement he + greeted her without a trace of Scotch accent. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said he, pumping both her hands up and down in his enormous fist, + “here's Mrs. Byrd! That's simply great. I've been wondering where I could + locate you both. Ought to have nosed you out before now, but my job keeps + me busy. I'm with a magazine house, you know—advertising manager.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know,” answered Mary, whose head was whirling. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” he grinned at her, “you're surprised at my metamorphosis. I allow + myself a month every year of my native heath, heather-mixture, and burr—I + like to do the thing up brown. The rest of the time I'm a Gothamite, of + necessity. Some time, when I've made my pile, I shall revert for keeps, + and settle down into a kilt and a castle.” + </p> + <p> + Much amused by this unsuspected histrionic gift, Mary walked on beside + McEwan. He was full of interest in her affairs, and she soon confided to + him the object of her expedition. + </p> + <p> + “You're just the man to advise me, being on a paper,” she said, and added + laughing, “I should have been terrified of you if I'd known that on the + ship.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'm glad I kept it dark. You say your stuff is for children? Where + were you going to?” + </p> + <p> + She told him. + </p> + <p> + “A woman's the boss of that shop. She's O.K. and so's her paper, but her + prices aren't high.” He considered. “Better come to our shop. We run two + monthlies and a weekly, one critical, one household, one entirely for + children. The boss is a great pal of mine. Name of Farraday—an + American. Come on!” And he wheeled her abruptly back the way they had + come. She followed unresistingly, intensely amused at his quick, jerky + sentences and crisp manner—the very antithesis of his former + Scottish heaviness. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. McEwan, what an actor you would have made!” + </p> + <p> + She smiled up at him as she hurried at his side. He looked about with + pretended caution, then stooped to her ear. + </p> + <p> + “Hoots, lassie!” he whispered, with a solemn wink. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan will never believe this!” she said, bubbling with laughter. + </p> + <p> + At the door of a building close to the corner where they had met he + stopped, and for a moment his manner, though not his voice, assumed its + erstwhile weightiness. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind!” he held up an admonishing forefinger. “I do the talking. + What do you know about business? Nothing!” His hand swept away possible + objections. “I know your work.” She gasped, but the finger was up again, + solemnly wagging. “And I say it's good. How many words?” he half snapped. + </p> + <p> + “Three thousand five hundred,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Then I say, two hundred dollars—not a cent less—and what I + say <i>goes</i>, see?” The finger shot out at her, menacing. + </p> + <p> + “I leave it to you, Mr. McEwan,” she answered meekly, and followed him to + the lift, dazed. “This,” she said to herself, “simply is not happening!” + She felt like Alice in Wonderland. + </p> + <p> + They shot up many stories, and emerged into a large office furnished with + a switch-board, benches, tables, desks, pictures, and office boys. A + ceaseless stenographic click resounded from behind an eight-foot + partition; the telephone girl seemed to be engaged conjointly on a novel + and a dozen plugs; the office boys were diligent with their chewing gum; + all was activity. Mary felt at a loss, but the great McEwan, towering over + the switchboard like a Juggernaut, instantly compelled the operator's eyes + from their multiple distractions. “Good morning, Mr. McEwan—Spring + one-O-two-four,” she greeted him. + </p> + <p> + “'Morning. T'see Mr. Farraday,” he economized. + </p> + <p> + “M'st Farraday—M'st McEwan an' lady t'see you. Yes. M'st Farraday'll + see you right away. 'Sthis three-one hundred? Hold th' line, please,” said + the operator in one breath, connecting two calls and waving McEwan forward + simultaneously. Mary followed him down a long corridor of doors to one + which he opened, throwing back a second door within it. + </p> + <p> + They entered a sunny room, quiet, and with an air of spacious order. + Facing them was a large mahogany table, almost bare, save for a vase which + held yellow roses. Flowers grew in a window box and another vase of white + roses stood on a book shelf. Mary's eyes flew to the flowers even before + she observed the man who rose to greet them from beyond the table. He was + very tall, with the lean New England build. His long, bony face was + unhandsome save for the eyes and mouth, which held an expression of great + sweetness. He shook hands with a kindly smile, and Mary took an instant + liking to him, feeling In his presence the ease that comes of + class-fellowship. He looked, she thought, something under forty years old. + </p> + <p> + “I am fortunate. You find me in a breathing spell,” he was saying. + </p> + <p> + “He's the busiest man in New York, but he always has time,” McEwan + explained, and, indeed, nothing could have been more unhurried than the + whole atmosphere of both man and room. Mary said so. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I must have quiet or I can't work,” Farraday replied. “My windows + face the back, you see, and my walls are double; I doubt if there's a + quieter office in New York.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor a more charming, I should think,” added Mary, looking about at the + restful tones of the room, with its landscapes, its beautifully chosen old + furniture, and its flowers. + </p> + <p> + “The owner thanks you,” he acknowledged, with his kindly smile. + </p> + <p> + “Business, business,” interjected McEwan, who, Mary was amused to observe, + approximated much more to the popular idea of an American than did his + friend. “I've brought you a find, Farraday. This lady writes for children—she's + printed stuff in England. I haven't read it, but I know it's good because + I've seen her telling stories to the kids by the hour aboard ship, and you + couldn't budge them. You can see,” he waved his hand at her, “that her + copy would be out of the ordinary run.” + </p> + <p> + This absurdity would have embarrassed Mary but that Mr. Farraday turned on + her a smile which seemed to make them allies in their joint comprehension + of McEwan's advocacy. + </p> + <p> + “She's got a story with her for you to see,” went on that enthusiast. + “I've told her if it's good enough for our magazine it's two hundred + dollars good enough. There's the script.” He took it from her, and + flattened it out on Farraday's table. “Look it over and write her.” + </p> + <p> + “What's your address?” he shot at Mary. She produced it. + </p> + <p> + “I'll remember that,” McEwan nodded; “coming round to see you. There you + are, James. We won't keep you. You have no time and I have less. Come on, + Mrs. Byrd.” He made for the door, but Farraday lifted his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Too fast, Mac,” he smiled. “I haven't had a chance yet. A mere American + can't keep pace with the dynamic energy you store in Scotland. Where does + it come from? Do you do nothing but sleep there?” + </p> + <p> + “Much more than that. He practises the art of being a Scotchman,” laughed + Mary. + </p> + <p> + “He has no need to practise. You should have heard him when he first came + over,” said Farraday. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you two are going to discuss me, I'll leave you at it; I'm not a + highbrow editor; I'm the poor ad man—my time means money to me.” + McEwan opened the door, and Mary rose to accompany him. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you sit down again, Mrs. Byrd? I'd like to ask you a few + questions,” interposed Farraday, who had been turning the pages of Mary's + manuscript. “Mac, you be off. I can't focus my mind in the presence of a + human gyroscope.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got to beat it,” agreed the other, shaking hands warmly with Mary. + “But don't you be taken in by him; he likes to pretend he's slow, but he's + really as quick as a buzz-saw. See you soon,” and with a final wave of the + hand he was gone. + </p> + <p> + “Now tell me a little about your work,” said Farraday, turning on Mary his + kind but penetrating glance. She told him she had published three or four + stories, and in what magazines. + </p> + <p> + “I only began to write fiction a year ago,” she explained. “Before that + I'd done nothing except scribble a little verse at home.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of verse?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just silly little children's rhymes.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you sold any of them?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I never tried.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see them,” he said, to her surprise. “I could use them + perhaps if they were good. As for this story,” he turned the pages, “I see + you have an original idea. A child bird-tamer, dumb, whose power no one + can explain. Before they talk babies can understand the birds, but as soon + as they learn to speak they forget bird language. This child is dumb, so + he remembers, but can't tell any one. Very pretty.” + </p> + <p> + Mary gasped at his accurate summary of her idea. He seemed to have + photographed the pages in his mind at a glance. + </p> + <p> + “I had tried to make it a little mysterious,” she said rather ruefully. + His smile reassured her. + </p> + <p> + “You have,” he nodded, “but we editors learn to get impressions quickly. + Yes,” he was reading as he spoke, “I think it likely I can use this. The + style is good, and individual.” He touched a bell, and handed the + manuscript to an answering office boy. “Ask Miss Haviland to read this, + and report to me to-day,” he ordered. + </p> + <p> + “I rarely have time to read manuscripts myself,” he went on, “but Miss + Haviland is my assistant for our children's magazine. If her judgment + confirms mine, as I feel sure it will, we will mail you a cheque to-night, + Mrs. Byrd—according to our friend McEwan's instructions—” and + he smiled. + </p> + <p> + Mary blushed with pleasure, and again rose to go, with an attempt at + thanks. The telephone bell had twice, with a mere thread of sound, + announced a summons. The editor took up the receiver. “Yes, in five + minutes,” he answered, hanging up and turning again to Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Don't go yet, Mrs. Byrd; allow me the luxury of postponing other business + for a moment. We do not meet a new contributor and a new citizen every + day.” He leant back with an air of complete leisure, turning to her his + kindly, open smile. She felt wonderfully at her ease, as though this man + and she were old acquaintances. He asked more about her work and that of + her husband. + </p> + <p> + “We like to have some personal knowledge of our authors; it helps us in + criticism and suggestion,” he explained. + </p> + <p> + Mary described Stefan's success in Paris, and mentioned his sketches of + downtown New York. Farraday looked interested. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see those,” he said. “We have an illustrated review in + which we sometimes use such things. If you are bringing me your verses, + your husband might care to come too, and show me the drawings.” + </p> + <p> + Again the insistent telephone purred, and this time he let Mary go, + shaking her hand and holding the door for her. + </p> + <p> + “Bring the verses whenever you like, Mrs. Byrd,” was his farewell. + </p> + <p> + When she had gone, James Farraday returned to his desk, lit a cigar, and + smoked absently for a few moments, staring out of the window. Then he + pulled his chair forward, and unhooked the receiver. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + Mary hurried home vibrant with happiness, and ran into the studio to find + Stefan disconsolately gazing out of the window. He whirled at her + approach, and caught her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Wicked one! I thought, like Persephone, you had been carried off by Dis + and his wagon,” he chided. “I could not work when I realized you had been + gone so long. Where have you been?” He looked quite woebegone. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I'm so glad you missed me,” she cried from his arms. Then, unable to + contain her delight, she danced to the center of the room, and, throwing + back her head, burst into song. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” + chanted Mary full-throated, her chest expanded, pouring out her gratitude + as whole-heartedly as a lark. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, I can see your wings,” interrupted Stefan excitedly. “You're + soaring!” He seized a stick of charcoal and dashed for paper, only to + throw down his tools again in mock despair. “Pouf, you're beyond sketching + at this moment—you need a cathedral organ to express you. What has + happened? Have you been sojourning with the immortals?” + </p> + <p> + But Mary had stopped singing, and dropped on the divan as if suddenly + tired. She held out her arms to Stefan, and he sat beside her, lover-like. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dearest,” she said, her voice vibrating with tenderness, “I've wanted + so to help, and now I think I've sold a story, and I've found a chance for + your New York drawings. I'm so happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you mysterious creature, your eyes have tears in them—and all + because you've helped me! I've never seen your tears, Mary; they make your + eyes like stars lost in a pool.” He kissed her passionately, and she + responded, but waited eagerly to hear him praise her success. After a + moment, however, he got up and wandered to his drawing board. + </p> + <p> + “You say you found a chance for these,” indicating the sketches. “How + splendid of you! Tell me all about it.” He was eagerly attentive, but she + might never have mentioned her story. Apparently, that part of her report + simply had not registered in his brain. + </p> + <p> + Mary's spirits suddenly dropped. She had come from an interview in which + she was treated as a serious artist, and her husband could not even hear + the account of her success. She rose and began to prepare their luncheon, + recounting her adventures meanwhile in a rather flat voice. Stefan + listened to her description of McEwan's metamorphosis only half + credulously. + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell me,” he commented, “that the cloven hoof will not out. Do you + mean to say it's to him that you owe this chance?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I don't see how we can take favors from that brute,” he said, running his + hands moodily into his pockets. + </p> + <p> + Mary looked at him in frank astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand you, Stefan,” she said. “Mr. McEwan was kindness + itself, and I am grateful to him, but there can be no question of + receiving favors on your part. He introduced me to Mr. Farraday as a + writer, and it was only through me that your work was mentioned at all.” + She was hurt by his narrow intolerance, and he saw it. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, goddess, don't flash your lightnings at me.” He laughed gaily, + and sat down to his luncheon. Throughout it Mary listened to a detailed + account of his morning's work. + </p> + <p> + Next day she received by the first post a cheque for two hundred dollars, + with a formal typewritten note from Farraday, expressing pleasure, and a + hope that the Household Publishing Company might receive other manuscripts + from her for its consideration. Stefan was setting his pallette for a + morning's work on the Danaë. She called to him rather constrainedly from + the door where she had opened the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan, I've received a cheque for two hundred dollars for my story.” + </p> + <p> + “That's splendid,” he answered cheerfully. “If I sell these sketches we + shall be quite rich. We must move from this absurd place to a proper + studio flat. Mary shall have a white bathroom, and a beautiful blue and + gold bed. Also minions to set food before her. Tra-la-la,” and he hummed + gaily. “I'm ready to begin, beloved,” he added. + </p> + <p> + As Mary prepared for her sitting she could not subdue a slight feeling of + irritation. Apparently she might never, even for a moment, enjoy the + luxury of being a human being with ambitions like Stefan's own, but must + remain ever pedestaled as his inspiration. She was irked, too, by his + hopelessly unpractical attitude toward affairs. She would have enjoyed the + friendly status of a partner as a wholesome complement to the ardors of + marriage. She knew that her husband differed from the legendary bohemian + in having a strictly upright code in money matters, but she wished it + could be less visionary. He mentally oscillated between pauperism and + riches. Let him fail to sell a picture and he offered to pawn his coat; + but the picture sold, he aspired to hire a mansion. In a word, she began + to see that he was incapable either of foresight or moderation. Could she + alone, she wondered, supply the deficiency? + </p> + <p> + That evening when they returned from dinner, which as a rare treat they + had eaten in the café of their old hotel, they found McEwan waiting their + arrival from a seat on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Here you are,” his hearty voice called to them as they labored up the + last flight. “I was determined not to miss you. I wanted to pay my + respects to the couple, and see how the paint-slinging was getting on.” + </p> + <p> + Mary, knowing now that the Scotchman was not the slow-witted blunderer he + had appeared on board ship, looked at him with sudden suspicion. Was she + deceived, or did there lurk a teasing gleam in those blue eyes? Had McEwan + used the outrageous phrase “paint-slinging” with malice aforethought? She + could not be sure. But if his object was to get a rise from Stefan, he was + only partly successful. True, her husband snorted with disgust, but, at a + touch from her and a whispered “Be nice to him,” restrained himself + sufficiently to invite McEwan in with a frigid show of politeness. But + once inside, and the candles lighted, Stefan leant glumly against the + mantelpiece with his hands in his pockets, evidently determined to leave + their visitor entirely on Mary's hands. + </p> + <p> + McEwan was nothing loath. He helped himself to a cigarette, and proceeded + to survey the walls of the room with interest. + </p> + <p> + “Nifty work, Mrs. Byrd. You must be proud of him,” and again Mary seemed + to catch a glint in his eye. “These sketches now,” he approached the table + on which lay the skyscraper studies. “Very harsh—cruel, you might + say—but clever, yes, <i>sir</i>, mighty clever.” Mary saw Stefan + writhe with irritation at the other's air of connoisseur. She shot him a + glance at once amused and pleading, but he ignored it with a shrug, as if + to indicate that Mary was responsible for this intrusion, and must expect + no aid from him. + </p> + <p> + McEwan now faced the easel which held the great Danaë, shrouded by a + cloth. + </p> + <p> + “Is this the latest masterpiece—can it be seen?” he asked, turning + to his host, his hand half stretched to the cover. + </p> + <p> + Mary made an exclamation of denial, and started forward to intercept the + hand. But even as she moved, dismay visible on her face, the perverse + devil which had been mounting in Stefan's brain attained the mastery. She + had asked him to be nice to this jackass—very well, he would. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's the best thing I've done, McEwan. As you're a friend of both + of us, you ought to see it,” he exclaimed, and before Mary could utter a + protest had wheeled the easel round to the light and thrown back the + drapery. He massed the candles on the mantelpiece. “Here,” he called, + “stand here where you can see properly. Mythological, you see, Danaë. What + do you think of it?” There were mischief and triumph in his tone, and a + shadow of spite. + </p> + <p> + Mary had blushed crimson and stood, incapable of speech, in the darkest + corner of the room. McEwan had not noticed her protest, it had all + happened so instantaneously. He followed Stefan's direction, and faced the + canvas expectantly. There was a long silence. Mary, watching, saw the + spruce veneer of metropolitanism fall from their guest like a discarded + mask—the grave, steady Highlander emerged. Stefan's moment of malice + had flashed and died—he stood biting his nails, already too ashamed + to glance in Mary's direction. At last McEwan turned. There was homage in + his eyes, and gravity. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Byrd,” he said, and his deep voice carried somewhat of its old + Scottish burr, “I owe ye an apology. I took ye for a tricky young mon, + clever, but better pleased with yersel' than ye had a right to be. I see + ye are a great artist, and as such, ye hae the right even to the love of + that lady. Now I will congratulate her.” He strode over to Mary's corner + and took her hand. “Dear leddy,” he said, his native speech still more + apparent, “I confess I didna think the young mon worthy, and in me + blunderin' way, I would hae kept the two o' ye apart could I hae done it. + But I was wrong. Ye've married a genius, and ye can be proud o' the way + ye're helping him. Now I'll bid ye good night, and I hope ye'll baith + count me yer friend in all things.” He offered his hand to Stefan, who + took it, touched. Gravely he picked up his hat, and opened the door, + turning for a half bow before closing it behind him. + </p> + <p> + Stefan knew that he had behaved unpardonably, that he had been betrayed + into a piece of caddishness, but McEwan had given him the cue for his + defense. He hastened to Mary and seized her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, forgive me. I knew you didn't want the picture shown, but it's + got to be done some day, hasn't it? It seemed a shame for McEwan not to + see what you have inspired. I ought not to have shown it without asking + you, but his appreciation justified me, don't you think?” His tone coaxed. + </p> + <p> + Mary was choking back her tears. Explanations, excuses, were to her + trivial, nor was she capable of them. Wounded, she was always dumb, and to + discuss a hurt seemed to her to aggravate it. + </p> + <p> + “Don't let's talk about it, Stefan,” she murmured. “It seemed to me you + showed the picture because I did not wish it—that's what I don't + understand.” She spoke lifelessly. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, you mustn't think that,” he urged. “I was irritated, and I'm + horribly sorry, but I do think it should be shown.” + </p> + <p> + But Mary was not deceived. If only for a moment, he had been disloyal to + her. The urge of her love made it easy to forgive him, but she knew she + could not so readily forget. + </p> + <p> + Though she put a good face on the incident, though Stefan was his most + charming self throughout the evening, even though she refused to recognize + the loss, one veil of illusion had been stripped from her heart's image of + him. + </p> + <p> + In his contrite mood, determined to please her, Stefan recalled the matter + of her stories, and for the first time spoke of her success with + enthusiasm. He asked her about the editor, and offered to go with her the + next morning to show Mr. Farraday his sketches. + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything else to take him?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Mary. “I am to show him some verses I wrote at home in + Lindum. Just little songs for children.” + </p> + <p> + “Verses,” he exclaimed; “how wonderful! I knew you were a goddess and a + song-bird, but not that you were a poet, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor am I; they are the most trifling things.” + </p> + <p> + “I expect they are delicious, like your singing. Read them to me, + beloved,” he begged. + </p> + <p> + But Mary would not. He pressed her several times during the evening, but + for the first time since their marriage he found he could not move her to + compliance. + </p> + <p> + “Please don't bother about them, Stefan. They are for children; they would + not interest you.” + </p> + <p> + He felt himself not wholly forgiven. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + A day or two later the Byrds went together to the office of the Household + Publishing Company and sent in their names to Mr. Farraday. This time they + had to wait their turn for admittance for over half an hour, sharing the + benches of the outer office with several men and women of types ranging + from the extreme of aestheticism to the obviously commercial. The office + was hung with original drawings of the covers of the firm's three + publications—The Household Review, The Household Magazine, and The + Child at Home. Stefan prowled around the room mentally demolishing the + drawings, while Mary glanced through the copies of the magazines that + covered the large central table. She was impressed by the high level of + makeup and illustration in all three periodicals, contrasting them with + the obvious and often inane contents of similar English publications. At a + glance the sheets appeared wholesome, but not narrow; dignified, but not + dull. She wondered how much of their general tone they owed to Mr. + Farraday, and determined to ask McEwan more about his friend when next she + saw him. Her speculations were interrupted by Stefan, who somewhat + excitedly pulled her sleeve, pointing to a colored drawing of a woman's + head on the wall behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Mary!” he ejaculated. “Rotten bourgeois art, but an interesting + face, eh? I wonder if it's a good portrait. It says in the corner, 'Study + of Miss Felicity Berber.' An actress, I expect. Look at the eyes; subtle, + aren't they? And the heavy little mouth. I've never seen a face quite like + it.” He was visibly intrigued. + </p> + <p> + Mary thought the face provocative, but somewhat unpleasant. + </p> + <p> + “It's certainly interesting—the predatory type, I should think,” she + replied. “I'll bet it's true to life—the artist is too much of a + fool to have created that expression,” Stefan went on. “Jove, I should + like to meet her, shouldn't you?” he asked naïvely. + </p> + <p> + “Not particularly,” said Mary, smiling at him. “She'll have to be your + friend; she's too feline for me.” + </p> + <p> + “The very word, observant one,” he agreed. + </p> + <p> + At this point their summons came. Mary was very anxious that her husband + should make a good impression. “I hope you'll like him, dearest,” she + whispered as for the second time the editor's door opened to her. + </p> + <p> + Farraday shook hands with them pleasantly, but turned his level glance + rather fixedly on her husband, Mary thought, before breaking into his + kindly smile. Stefan returned the smile with interest, plainly delighted + at the evidences of taste that surrounded him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry you should have had to wait so long,” said Farraday. “I'm + rarely so fortunately unoccupied as on your first visit, Mrs. Byrd. You've + brought the verses to show me? Good! And Mr. Byrd has his drawings?” He + turned to Stefan. “America owes you a debt for the new citizen you have + given her, Mr. Byrd. May I offer my congratulations?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” beamed Stefan, “but you couldn't, adequately, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Obviously not,” assented the other with a glance at Mary. “Our mutual + friend, McEwan, was here again yesterday, with a most glowing account of + your work, Mr. Byrd; he seems to have adopted the rôle of press agent for + the family.” + </p> + <p> + “He's the soul of kindness,” said Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a thoroughly good sort,” Stefan conceded. “Here are the New York + sketches,” he went on, opening his portfolio on Farraday's desk. “Half a + dozen of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, just a moment,” interposed the editor, who had opened Mary's + manuscript. “Your wife's work takes precedence. She is an established + contributor, you see,” he smiled, running his eyes over the pages. + </p> + <p> + Stefan sat down. “Of course,” he said, rather absently. + </p> + <p> + Farraday gave an exclamation of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Byrd, these are good; unusually so. They have the Stevenson flavor + without being imitations. A little condensation, perhaps—I'll pencil + a few suggestions—but I must have them all. I would not let another + magazine get them for the world! Let me see, how many are there! Eight. We + might bring them out in a series, illustrated. What if I were to offer the + illustrating to Mr. Byrd, eh?” He put down the sheets and glanced from + wife to husband, evidently charmed with his idea. “What do you think, Mr. + Byrd? Is your style suited to her work?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Stefan looked thoroughly taken aback. He laughed shortly. “I'm a painter, + Mr. Farraday, not an illustrator. I haven't time to undertake that kind of + thing. Even these drawings,” he indicated the portfolio, “were done in + spare moments as an amusement. My wife suggested placing them with you—I + shouldn't have thought of it.” + </p> + <p> + To Mary his tone sounded needlessly ungracious, but the editor appeared + not to notice it. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he replied suavely. “Of course, if you don't + illustrate—I'm sorry. The collaboration of husband and wife would + have been an attraction, even though the names were unknown here. I'll get + Ledward to do them.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan sat up. “You don't mean Metcalf Ledward, the painter, do you?” he + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Farraday quietly; “he often does things for us—our + policy is to popularize the best American artists.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan was nonplused. Ledward illustrating Mary's rhymes! He felt + uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think he would get the right atmosphere better perhaps than + anyone?” queried Farraday, who seemed courteously anxious to elicit + Stefan's opinion. Mary interposed hastily. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Farraday, he can't answer you. I'm afraid I've been stupid, but I was + so pessimistic about these verses that I wouldn't show them to him. I + thought I would get an outside criticism first, just to save my face,” she + hurried on, anxious in reality to save her husband's. + </p> + <p> + “I pleaded, but she was obdurate,” contributed Stefan, looking at her with + reproach. + </p> + <p> + Farraday smiled enlightenment. “I see. Well, I shall hope you will change + your mind about the illustrations when you have read the poems—that + is, if your style would adapt itself. Now may I see the sketches?” and he + held out his hand for them. + </p> + <p> + Stefan rose with relief. Much as he adored Mary, he could not comprehend + the seriousness with which this man was taking the rhymes which she + herself had described as “just little songs for children.” He was the more + baffled as he could not dismiss Farraday's critical pretensions with + contempt, the editor being too obviously a man of cultivation. Now, + however, that attention had been turned to his own work, Stefan was at his + ease. Here, he felt, was no room for doubts. + </p> + <p> + “They are small chalk and charcoal studies of the spirit of the city—mere + impressions,” he explained, putting the drawings in Farraday's hands with + a gesture which belied the carelessness of his words. + </p> + <p> + Farraday glanced at them, looked again, rose, and carried them to the + window, where he examined them carefully, one by one. Mary watched him + breathlessly, Stefan with unconcealed triumph. Presently he turned again + and placed them in a row on the bare expanse of his desk. He stood looking + silently at them for a moment more before he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Byrd,” he said at last, “this is very remarkable work.” Mary exhaled + an audible breath of relief, and turned a glowing face to Stefan. “It is + the most remarkable work,” went on the editor, “that has come into this + office for some time past. Frankly, however, I can't use it.” + </p> + <p> + Mary caught her breath—Stefan stared. The other went on without + looking at them: + </p> + <p> + “This company publishes strictly for the household. Our policy is to send + into the average American home the best that America produces, but it must + be a best that the home can comprehend. These drawings interpret New York + as you see it, but they do not interpret the New York in which our readers + live, or one which they would be willing to admit existed.” + </p> + <p> + “They interpret the real New York, though,” interposed Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “Obviously so, to you,” replied the editor, looking at him for the first + time. “For me, they do not. These drawings are an arraignment, Mr. Byrd, + and—if you will pardon my saying so—a rather bitter and + inhuman one. You are not very patriotic, are you?” His keen eyes probed + the artist. + </p> + <p> + “Emphatically no,” Stefan rejoined. “I'm only half American by birth, and + wholly French by adoption.” + </p> + <p> + “That explains it,” nodded Farraday gravely. “Well, Mr. Byrd, there are + undoubtedly publications in which these drawings could find a place, and I + am only sorry that mine are not amongst them. May I, however, venture to + offer you a suggestion?” + </p> + <p> + Stefan was beginning to look bored, but Mary interposed with a quick “Oh, + please do!” Farraday turned to her. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Byrd, you will bear me out in this, I think. Your husband has genius—that + is beyond question—but he is unknown here as yet. Would it not be a + pity for him to be introduced to the American public through these rather + sinister drawings? We are not fond of the too frank critic here, you + know,” he smiled, whimsically. “You may think me a Philistine, Mr. Byrd,” + he continued, “but I have your welfare in mind. Win your public first with + smiles, and later they may perhaps accept chastisement from you. If you + have any drawings in a different vein I shall feel honored in publishing + them”—his tone was courteous—“if not, I should suggest that + you seek your first opening through the galleries rather than the press. + Whichever way you decide, if I can assist you at all by furnishing + introductions, I do hope you will call on me. Both for your wife's sake + and for your own, it would be a pleasure. And now”—gathering up the + drawings—“I must ask you both to excuse me, as I have a long string + of appointments. Mrs. Byrd, I will write you our offer for the verses. I + don't know about the illustrations; you must consult your husband.” They + found themselves at the door bidding him goodbye: Mary with a sense of + disappointment mingled with comprehension; Stefan not knowing whether the + more to deplore what he considered Farraday's Philistinism, or to admire + his critical acumen. + </p> + <p> + “His papers and his policy are piffling,” he summed up at last, as they + walked down the Avenue, “but I must say I like the man himself—he is + the first person of distinction I have seen since I left France.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Oh! The first?” queried Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Darling,” he seized her hand and pressed it, “I said the first person, + not the first immortal!” He had a way of bestowing little endearments in + public, which Mary found very attractive, even while her training obliged + her to class them as solecisms. + </p> + <p> + “I felt sure you would like him. He seems to me charming,” she said, + withdrawing the hand with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Grundy!” he teased at this. “Yes, the man is all right, but if that is a + sample of their attitude toward original work over here we have a pretty + prospect of success. 'Genius, get thee behind me!' would sum it up. + Imbeciles!” He strode on, his face mutinous. + </p> + <p> + Mary was thinking. She knew that Farraday's criticism of her husband's + work was just. The word “sinister” had struck home to her. It could be + applied, she felt, with equal truth to all his large paintings but one—the + Danaë. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan,” she asked, “what did you think of his advice to win the public + first by smiles?” + </p> + <p> + “Tennysonian!” pronounced Stefan, using what she knew to be his final + adjective of condemnation. + </p> + <p> + “A little Victorian, perhaps,” she admitted, smiling at this succinct + repudiation. “Nevertheless, I'm inclined to think he was right. There is a + sort of Pan-inspired terror in your work, you know.” + </p> + <p> + He appeared struck. “Mary, I believe you've hit it!” he exclaimed, + suddenly standing still. “I've never thought of it like that before—the + thing that makes my work unique, I mean. Like the music of Pan, it's + outside humanity, because I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't say that, dear,” she interrupted, shocked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am. I hate my kind—all except a handful. I love beauty. It + is not my fault that humanity is ugly.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was deeply disturbed. Led on by a chance phrase of hers, he was + actually boasting of just that lack which was becoming her secret fear for + him. She touched his arm, pleadingly. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan, don't speak like that; it hurts me dreadfully. It is awful for + any one to build up a barrier between himself and the world. It means much + unhappiness, both for himself and others.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed affectionately at her. “Why, sweet, what do we care? I love you + enough to make the balance true. You are on my side of the barrier, + shutting me in with beauty.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that your only reason for loving me?” she asked, still distressed. + </p> + <p> + “I love you because you have a beautiful body and a beautiful mind—because + you are like a winged goddess of inspiration. Could there be a more + perfect reason?” + </p> + <p> + Mary was silent. Again the burden of his ideal oppressed her. There was no + comfort in it. It might be above humanity, she felt, but it was not of it. + Again her mind returned to the pictures and Farraday's criticism. + “Sinister!” So he would have summed up all the others, except the Danaë. + To that at least the word could not apply. Her heart lifted at the + realization of how truly she had helped Stefan. In his tribute to her + there was only beauty. She knew now that her gift must be without + reservation. + </p> + <p> + Home again, she stood long before the picture, searching its strange face. + Was she wrong, or did there linger even here the sinister, half-human + note? + </p> + <p> + “Stefan,” she said, calling him to her, “I was wrong to ask you not to + make the face like me. It was stupid—'Tennysonian,' I'm afraid.” She + smiled bravely. “It <i>is</i> me—your ideal of me, at least—and + I want you to make the face, too, express me as I seem to you.” She leant + against him. “Then I want you to exhibit it. I want you to be known first + by our gift to each other, this—which is our love's triumph.” She + was trembling; her face quivered—he had never seen her so moved. She + fired him. + </p> + <p> + “How glorious of you, darling!” he exclaimed, “and oh, how beautiful you + look! You have never been so wonderful. If I could paint that rapt face! + Quick, I believe I can get it. Stand there, on the throne.” He seized his + pallette and brushes and worked furiously while Mary stood, still flaming + with her renunciation. In a few minutes it was done. He ran to her and + covered her face with kisses. “Come and look!” he cried exultingly, + holding her before the canvas. + </p> + <p> + The strange face with its too-wide eyes and exotic mouth was gone. + Instead, she saw her own purely cut features, but fired by such exultant + adoration as lifted them to the likeness of a deity. The picture now was + incredibly pure and passionate—the very flaming essence of love. + Tears started to her eyes and dropped unheeded. She turned to him + worshiping. + </p> + <p> + “Beloved,” she cried, “you are great, great. I adore you,” and she kissed + him passionately. + </p> + <p> + He had painted love's apotheosis, and his genius had raised her love to + its level. At that moment Mary's actually was the soul of flame he had + depicted it. + </p> + <p> + That day, illumined by the inspiration each had given each, was destined + to mark a turning point in their common life. The next morning the + understanding which Mary had for long instinctively feared, and against + which she had raised a barrier of silence, came at last. + </p> + <p> + She was standing for some final work on the Danaë, but she had awakened + feeling rather unwell, and her pose was listless. Stefan noticed it, and + she braced herself by an effort, only to droop again. To his surprise, she + had to ask for her rest much sooner than usual; he had hitherto found her + tireless. But hardly had she again taken the pose than she felt herself + turning giddy. She tottered, and sat down limply on the throne. He ran to + her, all concern. + </p> + <p> + “Why, darling, what's the matter, aren't you well?” She shook her head. + “What can be wrong?” She looked at him speechless. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, dearest, has anything upset you?” he went on with—it + seemed to her—incredible blindness. + </p> + <p> + “I can't stand in that pose any longer, Stefan; this must be the last + time,” she said at length, slowly. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her as she sat, pale-faced, drooping on the edge of the + throne. Suddenly, in a flash, realization came to him. He strode across + the room, looked again, and came back to her. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mary, are you going to have a baby?” he asked, quite baldly, with a + surprised and almost rueful expression. + </p> + <p> + Mary flushed crimson, tears of emotion in her eyes. “Oh, Stefan, yes. I've + known it for weeks; haven't you guessed?” Her arms reached to him blindly. + </p> + <p> + He stood rooted for a minute, looking as dumfounded as if an earthquake + had rolled under him. Then with a quick turn he picked up her wrap, folded + it round her, and took her into his arms. But it was a moment too late. He + had hesitated, had not been there at the instant of her greatest need. Her + midnight fears were fulfilled, just as her instinct had foretold. He was + not glad. There in his arms her heart turned cold. + </p> + <p> + He soon rallied; kissed her, comforted her, told her what a fool he had + been; but all he said only confirmed her knowledge. “He is not glad. He is + not glad,” her heart beat out over and over, as he talked. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not tell me sooner, darling? Why did you let me tire you like + this?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Impossible to reply. “Why didn't you know?” her heart cried out, and, “I + wasn't tired until to-day,” her lips answered. + </p> + <p> + “But why didn't you tell me?” he urged. “I never even guessed. It was + idiotic of me, but I was so absorbed in our love and my work that this + never came to my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “But at first, Stefan?” she questioned, probing for the answer she already + knew, but still clinging to the hope of being wrong. “I never talked about + it because you didn't seem to care. But in the beginning, when you + proposed to me—the day we were married—at Shadeham—did + you never think of it then?” Her tone craved reassurance. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no,” he half laughed. “You'll think me childish, but I never did. I + suppose I vaguely faced the possibility, but I put it from me. We had each + other and our love—that seemed enough.” + </p> + <p> + She raised her head and gazed at him in wide-eyed pain. “But, Stefan, + what's marriage <i>for?</i>” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + He puckered his brows, puzzled. “Why, my dear, it's for love—companionship—inspiration. + Nothing more so far as I am concerned.” They stared nakedly at each other. + For the first time the veils were stripped away. They had felt themselves + one, and behold! here was a barrier, impenetrable as marble, dividing each + from the comprehension of the other. To Stefan it was inconceivable that a + marriage should be based on anything but mutual desire. To Mary the + thought of marriage apart from children was an impossibility. They had + come to their first spiritual deadlock. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> + <p> + Love, feeling its fusion threatened, ever makes a supreme effort for + reunity. In the days that followed, Stefan enthusiastically sought to + rebuild his image of Mary round the central fact of her maternity. He + became inspired with the idea of painting her as a Madonna, and recalled + all the famous artists of the past who had so glorified their hearts' + mistresses. + </p> + <p> + “You are named for the greatest of all mothers, dearest, and my picture + shall be worthy of the name,” he would cry. Or he would call her + Aphrodite, the mother of Love. “How beautiful our son will be—another + Eros,” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Mary rejoiced in his new enthusiasm, and persuaded herself that his + indifference to children was merely the result of his lonely bachelorhood, + and would disappear forever at the sight of his own child. Now that her + great secret was shared she became happier, and openly commenced those + preparations which she had long been cherishing in thought. Miss Mason was + sent for, and the great news confided to her. They undertook several + shopping expeditions, as a result of which Mary would sit with a pile of + sewing on her knee while Stefan worked to complete his picture. Miss Mason + took to dropping in occasionally with a pattern or some trifle of wool or + silk. Mary was always glad to see her, and even Stefan found himself + laughing sometimes at her shrewd New England wit. For the most part, + however, he ignored her, while he painted away in silence behind the great + canvas. + </p> + <p> + Mary had received twelve dollars for each of her verses—ninety-six + dollars in all. Before Christmas Stefan sold his pastoral of the dancing + faun for one hundred and twenty-five, and Mary felt that financially they + were in smooth water, and ventured to discuss the possibility of larger + quarters. For these they were both eager, having begun to feel the + confinement of their single room; but Mary urged that they postpone moving + until spring. + </p> + <p> + “We are warm and snug here for the winter, and by spring we shall have + saved something substantial, and really be able to spread out,” she + argued. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, wise one, we will hold in our wings a little longer,” he + agreed, “but when we do fly, it must be high.” His brush soared in + illustration. + </p> + <p> + She had discussed with him the matter of the illustrations for her verses + as soon as she received her cheque from Farraday. They had agreed that it + would be a pity for him to take time for them from his masterpiece. + </p> + <p> + “Besides, sweetheart,” he had said, “I honestly think Ledward will do them + better. His stuff is very graceful, without being sentimental, and he + understands children, which I'm afraid I don't.” He shrugged regretfully. + “Didn't you paint that adorable lost baby?” she reminded him. “I've always + grieved that we had to sell it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll buy it back for you, or paint you another better one,” he offered + promptly. + </p> + <p> + So the verses went to Ledward, and the first three appeared in the + Christmas number of The Child at Home, illustrated—as even Stefan + had to admit—with great beauty. + </p> + <p> + Mary would have given infinitely much for his collaboration, but she had + not urged it, feeling he was right in his refusal. + </p> + <p> + As Christmas approached they began to make acquaintances among the + polyglot population of the neighborhood. Their old hotel, the culinary + aristocrat of the district, possessed a cafe in which, with true French + hospitality, patrons were permitted to occupy tables indefinitely on the + strength of the slenderest orders. Here for the sake of the French + atmosphere Stefan would have dined nightly had Mary's frugality permitted. + As it was, they began to eat there two or three nights a week, and dropped + in after dinner on many other nights. They would sit at a bare round table + smoking their cigarettes, Mary with a cup of coffee, Stefan with the + liqueur he could never induce her to share, and watching the groups that + dotted the other tables. Or they would linger at the cheapest of their + restaurants and listen to the conversation of the young people, + aggressively revolutionary, who formed its clientele. These last were + always noisy, and assumed as a pose manners even worse than those they + naturally possessed. Every one talked to every one else, regardless of + introductions, and Stefan had to summon his most crushing manner to + prevent Mary from being monopolized by various very youthful and visionary + men who openly admired her. He was inclined to abandon the place, but Mary + was amused by it for a time, bohemianism being a completely unknown + quantity to her. + </p> + <p> + “Don't think this is the real thing,” he explained; “I've had seven years + of that in Paris. This is merely a very crass imitation.” + </p> + <p> + “Imitation or not, it's most delightfully absurd and amusing,” said she, + watching the group nearest her. This consisted of a very short and rotund + man with hair a la Paderewski and a frilled evening shirt, a thin man of + incredible stature and lank black locks, and a pretty young girl in a + tunic, a tam o' shanter, enormous green hairpins, and tiny patent-leather + shoes decorated with three inch heels. To her the lank man, who wore a red + velvet shirt and a khaki-colored suit reminiscent of Mr. Bernard Shaw, was + explaining the difference between syndicalism and trade-unionism in the + same conversational tone which men in Lindum had used in describing to + Mary the varying excellences of the two local hunts. “I.W.W.” and “A.F. of + L.” fell from his lips as “M.F.H.” and “J.P.” used to from theirs. The + contrast between the two worlds entertained her not a little. She thought + all these young people looked clever, though singularly vulgar, and that + her old friends would have appeared by comparison refreshingly clean and + cultivated, but quite stupid. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Stefan, are dull, correct people always so clean, and clever and + original ones usually so unwashed?” she wondered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the unwashed stage is like the measles,” he replied; “you are bound + to catch it in early life.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that's true. I know even at Oxford the Freshmen go through an + utterly ragged and disreputable phase, in which they like to pretend they + have no laundry bill.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it advertises their emancipation. I went through it in Paris, but + mine was a light case.” + </p> + <p> + “And brief, I should think,” smiled Mary, to whom Stefan's feline + perfection of neatness was one of his charms. + </p> + <p> + At the hotel, on the other hand, the groups, though equally individual, + lacked this harum-scarum quality, and, if occasionally noisy, were clean + and orderly. + </p> + <p> + “Is it because they can afford to dress better?” Mary asked on their next + evening there, noting the contrast. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Stefan. “That velvet shirt cost as much probably as half a + dozen cotton ones. These people have more, certainly, or they wouldn't be + here—but the real reason is that they are a little older. The other + crowd is raw with youth. These have begun to find themselves; they don't + need to advertise their opinions on their persons.” He was looking about + him with quite a friendly eye. + </p> + <p> + “You don't seem to hate humanity this evening, Stefan,” Mary commented. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he grinned. “I confess these people are less objectionable than + most.” He spoke in rapid French to the waiter, ordering another drink. + </p> + <p> + “And the language,” he continued. “If you knew what it means to me to hear + French!” + </p> + <p> + Mary nodded rather ruefully. Her French was of the British school-girl + variety, grammatically precise, but with a hopeless, insular accent. After + a few attempts Stefan had ceased trying to speak it with her. “Darling,” + he had begged, “don't let us—it is the only ugly sound you make.” + </p> + <p> + One by one they came to know the habitués of these places. In the + restaurant Stefan was detested, but tolerated for the sake of his wife. + “Beauty and the Beast” they were dubbed. But in the hotel café he made + himself more agreeable, and was liked for his charming appearance, his + fluent French, and his quick mentality. The “Villagers,” as these people + called themselves, owing to their proximity to New York's old Greenwich + Village, admired Mary with ardor, and liked her, but for a time were + baffled by her innate English reserve. Mentally they stood round her like + a litter of yearling pups about a stranger, sniffing and wagging friendly + but uncertain tails, doubtful whether to advance with affectionate + fawnings or to withdraw to safety. This was particularly true of the men—the + women, finding Mary a stanch Feminist, and feeling for her the sympathy a + bride always commands from her sex, took to her at once. The revolutionary + group on the other hand would have broken through her pleasant aloofness + with the force—and twice the speed—of a McEwan, had Stefan + not, with them, adopted the role of snarling watchdog. + </p> + <p> + One of Mary's first after dinner friendships was made at the hotel with a + certain Mrs. Elliott, who turned out to be the President of the local + Suffrage Club. Scenting a new recruit, this lady early engaged the Byrds + in conversation and, finding Mary a believer, at once enveloped her in the + camaraderie which has been this cause's gift to women all the world over. + They exchanged calls, and soon became firm friends. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Elliot was an attractive woman in middle life, of slim, graceful + figure and vivacious manner. She had one son out in the world, and one in + college, and lived in a charming house just off the Avenue, with an adored + but generally invisible husband, who was engaged in business downtown. As + a girl Constance Elliot had been on the stage, and had played smaller + Shakespearean parts in the old Daly Company, but, bowing to the code of + her generation, had abandoned her profession at marriage. Now, in middle + life, too old to take up her calling again with any hope of success, yet + with her mental activity unimpaired, she found in the Suffrage movement + her one serious vocation. + </p> + <p> + “I am nearly fifty, Mrs. Byrd,” she said to Mary, “and have twenty good + years before me. I like my friends, and am interested in philanthropy, but + I am not a Jack-of-all-trades by temperament. I need work—a real job + such as I had when the boys were little, or when I was a girl. We are all + working hard enough to win the vote, but what we shall fill the hole in + our time with when we have it, I don't know. It will be easy for the + younger ones—but I suppose women like myself will simply have to pay + the price of having been born of our generation. Some will find solace as + grandmothers—I hope I shall. But my elder son, who married a pretty + society girl, is childless, and my younger such a light-hearted young + rascal that I doubt if he marries for years to come.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was much interested in this problem, which seemed more salient here + than in her own class in England, in which social life was a vocation for + both sexes. + </p> + <p> + At Mrs. Elliot's house she met many of the neighborhood's more + conventional women, and began to have a great liking for these gently bred + but broad-minded and democratic Americans. She also met a mixed collection + of artists, actresses, writers, reformers and followers of various “isms”; + for as president of a suffrage club it was Mrs. Elliot's policy to make + her drawing rooms a center for the whole neighborhood. She was a charming + hostess, combining discrimination with breadth of view; her Fridays were + rallying days for the followers of many more cults than she would ever + embrace, but for none toward which she could not feel tolerance. + </p> + <p> + At first Stefan, who, man-like, professed contempt for social functions, + refused to accompany Mary to these at-homes. But after Mrs. Elliot's visit + to the studio he conceived a great liking for her, and to Mary's delight + volunteered to accompany her on the following Friday. Few misanthropes are + proof against an atmosphere of adulation, and in this Mrs. Elliot + enveloped Stefan from the moment of first seeing his Danaë. She introduced + him as a genius—America's coming great painter, and he frankly + enjoyed the novel sensation of being lionized by a group of clever and + attractive women. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Elliot affected house gowns of unusual texture and design, which + flowed in adroitly veiling lines about her too slim form. These + immediately attracted the attention of Stefan, who coveted something + equally original for Mary. He remarked on them to his hostess on his + second visit. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “I love them. I am eclipsed by fashionable clothing. + Felicity Berber designs all my things. She's ruinous,” with a sigh, “but I + have to have her. I am a fool at dressing myself, but I have intelligence + enough to know it,” she added, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Felicity Berber,” questioned Stefan. “Is that a creature with Mongolian + eyes and an O-shaped mouth?” + </p> + <p> + “What a good description! Yes—have you met her?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't, but you will arrange it, won't you?” he asked cajolingly. “I + saw a drawing of her—she's tremendously paintable. Do tell me about + her. Wait a minute. I'll get my wife!” + </p> + <p> + He jumped up, pounced on Mary, who was in a group by the tea-table, and + bore her off regardless of her interrupted conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” he explained, all excitement, “you remember that picture at the + magazine office? Yes, you do, a girl with slanting black eyes—Felicity + Berber. Well, she isn't an actress after all. Sit down here. Mrs. Elliot + is going to tell us about her.” Mary complied, sharing their hostess' + sofa, while Stefan wrapped himself round a stool. “Now begin at the + beginning,” he demanded, beaming; “I'm thrilled about her.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mrs. Elliot, dropping a string of jade beads through her + fingers, “so are most people. She's unique in her way. She came here from + the Pacific coast, I believe, quite unknown, and trailing an impossible + husband. That was five years ago—she couldn't have been more than + twenty-three. She danced in the Duncan manner, but was too lazy to keep it + up. Then she went into the movies, and her face became the rage; it was on + all the picture postcards. She got royalties on every photograph sold, and + made quite a lot of money, I believe. But she hates active work, and soon + gave the movies up. About that time the appalling husband disappeared. I + don't know if she divorced him or not, but he ceased to be, as it were. + His name was Noaks.” She paused, “Does this bore you?” she asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary,” smiled she, “it's most amusing—like the penny + novelettes they sell in England.” + </p> + <p> + “Olympian superiority!” teased Stefan. “Please go on, Mrs. Elliot. Did she + attach another husband?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she says she hates the bother of them,” laughed their hostess. “Men + are always falling in love with her, but-openly at least-she seems + uninterested in them.” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn't found the right one, I suppose,” Stefan interjected. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that's it. At any rate her young men are always confiding their + woes to me. My status as a potential grandmother makes me a suitable + repository for such secrets.” + </p> + <p> + “Ridiculous,” Stefan commented. + </p> + <p> + “But true, alas!” she laughed. “Well, Felicity had always designed the + gowns for her dancing and acting, and after the elimination of Mr. Noaks + she set up a dressmaking establishment for artistic and individual gowns. + She opened it with a thé dansant, at which she discoursed on the art of + dress. Her showroom is like a sublimated hotel lobby—tea is served + there for visitors every afternoon. Her prices are high, and she has made + a huge success. She's wonderfully clever, directs everything herself. + Felicity detests exertion, but she has the art of making others work for + her.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds as if she would get fat,” said Stefan, with a shudder. + </p> + <p> + “Doesn't it?” agreed Mrs. Elliot. “But she's as slim as a panther, and + intensely alive nervously, for all her physical laziness.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like her?” Mary asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I really do, though she's terribly rude, and I tell her I'm + convinced she's a dangerous person. She gives me a feeling that gunpowder + is secreted somewhere in the room with her. I will get her here to meet + you both—you would be interested. She's never free in the afternoon; + we'll make it an evening.” With a confirming nod, Mrs. Elliot rose to + greet some newcomers. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” Stefan whispered, “we'll go and order you a dress from this + person. Wouldn't that be fun?” + </p> + <p> + “How sweet of you, dearest, but we can't afford it,” replied Mary, + surreptitiously patting his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, of course we can. Aren't we going to be rich?” scoffed he. + </p> + <p> + “Look who's coming!” exclaimed Mary suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Farraday was shaking hands with their hostess, his tall frame looking more + than ever distinguished in its correct cutaway. Almost instantly he caught + sight of Mary and crossed the room to her with an expression of keen + pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “How delightful,” he greeted them both. “So you have found the presiding + genius of the district! Why did I not have the inspiration of introducing + you myself?” He turned to Mrs. Elliot, who had rejoined them. “Two more + lions for you, eh, Constance?” he said, with a twinkle which betokened old + friendship. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed,” she smiled, “they have no rivals for my Art and Beauty + cages.” + </p> + <p> + “And what about the literary circus? I suppose you have been making Mrs. + Byrd roar overtime?” + </p> + <p> + Their hostess looked puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell me that you are in ignorance of her status as the Household + Company's latest find?” he ejaculated in mock dismay. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Elliot turned reproachful eyes on Mary. “She never told me, the + unfriendly woman!” + </p> + <p> + “Just retribution, Constance, for poring over your propagandist sheets + instead of reading our wholesome literature,” Farraday retorted. “Had you + done your duty by the Household magazines you would have needed no + telling.” + </p> + <p> + “A hit, a palpable hit,” she answered, laughing. “Which reminds me that I + want another article from you, James, for our Woman Citizen.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Byrd,” said Farraday, “behold in me a driven slave. Won't you come + to my rescue and write something for this insatiable suffragist?” + </p> + <p> + Mary shook her head. “No, no, Mr. Farraday, I can't argue, either + personally or on paper. You should hear me trying to make a speech! + Pathetic.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan, who had ceased to follow the conversation, and was restlessly + examining prints on the wall, turned at this. “Don't do it, dearest. + Argument is so unbeautiful, and I couldn't stand your doing anything + badly.” He drifted away to a group of women who were discussing the + Italian Futurists. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about this lion, James,” said Constance, settling herself on the + sofa. “I believe she is too modest to tell me herself.” She looked at Mary + affectionately. + </p> + <p> + “She has written a second 'Child's Garden,' almost rivaling the first, and + we have a child's story of hers which will be as popular as some of + Frances Hodgson Burnett's,” summed up Farraday. + </p> + <p> + Mary blushed with pleasure at this praise, but was about to deprecate it + when Stefan signaled her away. “Mary,” he called, “I want you to hear this + I am saying about the Cubists!” She left them with a little smile of + excuse, and they watched her tall figure join her husband. + </p> + <p> + “James,” said Mrs. Elliot irrelevantly, “why in the world don't you + marry?” + </p> + <p> + “Because, Constance,” he smiled, “all the women I most admire in the world + are already married.” + </p> + <p> + “À propos, have you seen Mr. Byrd's work?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Only some drawings, from which I suspect him of genius. But she is as + gifted in her way as he, only it's a smaller way.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't place him till you've seen his big picture, painted from her. It's + tremendous. We've got to have it exhibited at Constantine's. I want you to + help me arrange it for them. She's inexperienced, and he's helplessly + unpractical. Oh!” she grasped his arm; “a splendid idea! Why shouldn't I + have a private exhibition here first, for the benefit of the Cause?” + </p> + <p> + Farraday threw up his hands. “You are indefatigable, Constance. We'd + better all leave it to you. The Byrds and Suffrage will benefit equally, I + am sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I will arrange it,” she nodded smiling, her eyes narrowing, her slim + hands dropping the jade beads from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + Farraday, knowing her for the moment lost to everything save her latest + piece of stage management, left her, and joined the Byrds. He engaged + himself to visit their studio the following week. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> + <p> + Miss Mason was folding her knitting, and Mary sat in the firelight sewing + diligently. Stefan was out in search of paints. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what 'tis, Mary Elliston Byrd,” said Miss Mason. “It's 'bout + time you saw a doctor. My mother was a physician-homeopath, one of the + first that ever graduated. Take my advice, and have a woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd much rather,” said Mary. + </p> + <p> + “I should say!” agreed the other. “I never was one to be against the men, + but oh, my—” she threw up her bony little hands—“if there's + one thing I never could abide it's a man doctor for woman's work. I s'pose + I got started that way by what my mother told me of the medical students + in her day. Anyway, it hardly seems Christian to me for a woman to go to a + man doctor.” + </p> + <p> + Mary laughed. “I wish my dear old Dad could have heard you. I remember he + once refused to meet a woman doctor in consultation. She had to leave + Lindum—no one would employ her. I was a child at the time, but even + then it seemed all wrong to me.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you thank the Lord you live under the Stars and Stripes,” + rejoined Miss Mason, who conceived of England as a place beyond the reach + of liberty for either women or men. + </p> + <p> + “I shall live under the Tricolor if Stefan has his way,” smiled Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Child,” said her visitor, putting on her hat, “don't say it. Your + husband's an elegant man—I admire him—but don't you ever let + me hear he doesn't love his country.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm certainly learning to love it myself,” Mary discreetly evaded. + </p> + <p> + “You're too fine a woman not to,” retorted the other. “Now I tell you. + I've been treated for my chest at the Women's and Children's Hospital. + There's one little doctor there's cute's she can be. I'm goin' to get you + her address. You've got to treat yourself right. Good-bye,” nodded the + little woman; and was gone in her usual brisk fashion. + </p> + <p> + It was the day of Mr. Farraday's expected call, and Miss Mason had hardly + departed when the bell rang. Mary hastily put away her sewing and pressed + the electric button which opened the downstairs door to visitors. She + wished Stefan were back again to help her entertain the editor, and + greeted him with apologies for her husband's absence. She was anxious that + this man, whom she instinctively liked and trusted, should see her husband + at his best. Seating Farraday in the Morris chair, she got him some tea, + while he looked about with interest. + </p> + <p> + The two big pictures, “Tempest,” and “Pursuit,” now hung stretched but + unframed, on either side of the room. Farraday's gaze kept returning to + them. + </p> + <p> + “Those are his Beaux Arts pictures; extraordinary, aren't they?” said + Mary, following his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “They certainly are. Remarkably powerful. I understand there is another, + though, that he has only just finished?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's on the easel, covered, you see,” she answered. “Stefan must + have the honor of showing you that himself.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would tell me, Mrs. Byrd,” said Farraday, changing the + subject, “how you happened to write those verses? Had you been brought up + with children, younger brothers and sisters, for instance?” + </p> + <p> + Mary shook her head. “No, I'm the younger of two. But I've always loved + children more than anything in the world.” She blushed, and Farraday, + watching her, realized for the first time what a certain heightened + radiance in her face betokened. He smiled very sweetly at her. She in her + turn saw that he knew, and was glad. His manner seemed to enfold her in a + mantle of comfort and understanding. + </p> + <p> + As they finished their tea, Stefan arrived. He entered gaily, greeted + Farraday, and fell upon the tea, consuming two cups and several slices of + bread and butter with the rapid concentration he gave to all his acts. + </p> + <p> + That finished, he leaped up and made for the easel. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Farraday,” he cried, “you are going to see one of the finest modern + paintings in the world. Why should I be modest about it? I'm not. It's a + masterpiece—Mary's and mine!” + </p> + <p> + Mary wished he had not included her. Though determined to overcome the + feeling, she still shrank from having the picture shown in her presence. + Farraday placed himself in position, and Stefan threw back the cloth, + watching the other's face with eagerness. The effect surpassed his + expectation. The editor flushed, then gradually became quite pale. After a + minute he turned rather abruptly from the canvas and faced Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “You are right, Mr. Byrd,” he said, in an obviously controlled voice, “it + <i>is</i> a masterpiece. It will make your name and probably your fortune. + It is one of the most magnificent modern paintings I have ever seen.” + </p> + <p> + Mary beamed. + </p> + <p> + “Your praise honors me,” said Stefan, genuinely delighted. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry I have to run away now,” Farraday continued almost hurriedly. + “You know what a busy man I am.” He shook hands with Stefan. “A thousand + congratulations,” he said. “Good-bye, Mrs. Byrd; I enjoyed my cup of tea + with you immensely.” The hand he offered her was cold; he hardly looked + up. “You will let me have some more stories, won't you? I shall count on + them. Good-bye again—my warmest congratulations to you both,” and he + took his departure with a suddenness only saved from precipitation by the + deliberate poise of his whole personality. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry he had to go so soon,” said Mary, a little blankly. + </p> + <p> + “What got into the man?” Stefan wondered, thrusting his hands into his + pockets. “He was leisurely enough till he had seen the picture. I tell you + what!” he exclaimed. “Did you notice his expression when he looked at it? + I believe the chap is in love with you!” He turned his most impish and + mischievous face to her. + </p> + <p> + Mary blushed with annoyance. “How perfectly ridiculous, Stefan! Please + don't say such things.” + </p> + <p> + “But he is!” He danced about the room, hugely entertained by his idea. + “Don't you see, that is why he is so eager about your verses, and why he + was so bouleversé by the Danaë! Poor chap, I feel quite sorry for him. You + must be nice to him.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was thoroughly annoyed. “Please don't talk like that,” she + reiterated. “You don't know how it hurts when you are so flippant. If you + suggest such a reason for his acceptance of my work, of course I can't + send in any more.” Tears of vexation were in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, don't be absurd,” he responded, teasingly. “Why shouldn't he be + in love with you? I expect everybody to be so. As for your verses, of + course he wouldn't take them if they weren't good; I didn't mean that.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you say it?” she asked, unplacated. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest!” and he kissed her. “Don't be dignified; be Aphrodite again, not + Pallas. I never mean anything I say, except when I say I love you!” + </p> + <p> + “Love isn't the only thing, Stefan,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it? What else is there? I don't know,” and he jumped on the table + and sat smiling there with his head on one side, like a naughty little boy + facing his schoolmaster. + </p> + <p> + She wanted to answer “comprehension,” but was silent, feeling the + uselessness of further words. How expect understanding of a common human + hurt from this being, who alternately appeared in the guise of a god and a + gamin? She remembered the old tale of the maiden wedded to the beautiful + and strange elf-king. Was the legend symbolic of that mysterious thread—call + it genius or what you will—that runs its erratic course through + humanity's woof, marring yet illuminating the staid design, never + straightened with its fellow-threads, never tied, and never to be followed + to its source? With the feeling of having for an instant held in her hand + the key to the riddle of his nature, Mary went to Stefan and ran her + fingers gently through his hair. + </p> + <p> + “Child,” she said, smiling at him rather sadly; and “Beautiful,” he + responded, with a prompt kiss. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> + <p> + The next morning brought Constance Elliot, primed with a complete scheme + for the future of the Danaë. She found Mary busy with her sewing and + Stefan rather restlessly cleaning his pallette and brushes. The great + picture was propped against the wall, a smaller empty canvas being screwed + on the easel. Stefan greeted her enthusiastically. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” he cried, forestalling Mary. “You find us betwixt and between. + She's finished,” indicating the Danaë, “and I'm thinking of doing an + interior, with Mary seated. I don't know,” he went on thoughtfully; “it's + quite out of my usual line, but we're too domestic here just now for + anything else.” His tone was slightly grumbling. From the rocking chair + Constance smiled importantly on them both. She had the happy faculty of + never appearing to hear what should not have been expressed. + </p> + <p> + “Children,” she said, “your immediate future is arranged. I have a plan + for the proper presentation of the masterpiece to a waiting world, and I + haven't been responsible for two suffrage matinees and a mile of the + Parade for nothing. I understand publicity. Now listen.” + </p> + <p> + She outlined her scheme to them. The reporters were to be sent for and + informed that the great new American painter, sensation of this year's + Salon, had kindly consented to a private exhibition of his masterpiece at + her house for the benefit of the Cause. Tickets, one dollar each, to be + limited to two hundred. + </p> + <p> + “Then a bit about your both being Suffragists, and about Mary's writing, + you know,” she threw in. “Note the value of the limited sale—at once + it becomes a privilege to be there.” Tickets, she went on to explain, + would be sent to the art critics of the newspapers, and Mr. Farraday would + arrange to get Constantine himself and one or two of the big private + connoisseurs. She personally knew the curator of the Metropolitan, and + would get him. The press notices would be followed by special letters and + articles by some of these men. Then Constantine would announce a two + weeks' exhibition at his gallery, the public would flock, and the picture + would be bought by one of the big millionaires, or a gallery. “I've + arranged it all,” she concluded triumphantly, looking from one to the + other with her dark alert glance. + </p> + <p> + Stefan was grinning delightedly, his attention for the moment completely + captured. Mary's sewing had dropped to her lap; she was round-eyed. + </p> + <p> + “But the sale itself, Mrs. Elliot, you can hardly have arranged that?” she + laughed. + </p> + <p> + Constance waved her hand. “That arranges itself. It is enough to set the + machinery in motion.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say,” went on Mary, half incredulous, “that you can simply + send for the reporters and get them to write what you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Within reason, certainly,” answered the other. “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “In England,” Mary laughed, “if a woman were to do that, unless she were a + duchess, a Pankhurst, or a great actress, they wouldn't even come.” + </p> + <p> + Constance dismissed this with a shrug. “Ah, well, my dear, luckly we're + not in England! I'm going to begin to-day. I only came over to get your + permission. Let me see—this is the sixteenth—too near + Christmas. I'll have the tickets printed and the press announcement + prepared, and we'll let them go in the dead week after Christmas, when the + papers are thankful for copy. We'll exhibit the first Saturday in the New + Year. For a week we'll have follow-up articles, and then Constantine will + take it. You blessed people,” and she rose to go, “don't have any anxiety. + Suffragists always put things through, and I shall concentrate on this for + the next three weeks. I consider the picture sold.” + </p> + <p> + Mary tried to express her gratitude, but the other waved it aside. “I just + love you both,” she cried in her impulsive way, “and want to see you where + you ought to be—at the top!” She shook hands with Stefan effusively. + “Mind you get on with your next picture!” she cried in parting; “every one + will be clamoring for your work!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan, isn't it awfully good of her?” exclaimed Mary, linking her + arm through his. He was staring at his empty canvas. “Yes, splendid,” he + responded carelessly, “but of course she'll have the kudos, and her + organization will benefit, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Stefan!” Mary dropped his arm, dumfounded. It was not possible he should + be so ungenerous. She would have remonstrated, but saw he was oblivious of + her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he went on absently, looking from the room to the canvas, “it's + fine for every one all round—just as it should be. Now, Mary, if you + will sit over there by the fire and take your sewing, I think I'll try and + block in that Dutch interior effect I noticed some time back. The light is + all wrong, but I can get the thing composed.” + </p> + <p> + He was lost in his new idea. Mary told herself she had in part misjudged + him. His comment on their friend's assistance was not dictated by lack of + appreciation so much as by indifference. No sooner was the picture's + future settled than he had ceased to be interested in it. The practical + results of its sale would have little real meaning for him, she knew. She + began to see that all he asked of humanity was that it should leave him + untrammeled to do his work, while yielding him full measure of the beauty + and acclamation that were his food. “Well,” she thought, “I'm the wife of + a genius. It's a great privilege, but it is strange, for I always supposed + if I married it would simply be some good, kind man. He would have been + very dull,” she smiled to herself, mentally contrasting the imagined with + the real. + </p> + <p> + A few days before Christmas Mary noticed that one of the six skyscraper + studies was gone from the studio. She spoke of it, fearing the possibility + of a theft, but Stefan murmured rather vaguely that it was all right—he + was having it framed. Also, on three consecutive mornings she awakened to + find him busily painting at a small easel close under the window, which he + would hastily cover on hearing her move. As he evidently did not wish her + to see it, she wisely restrained her curiosity. She was herself busy with + various little secrets—there was some knitting to be done whenever + his back was turned, and she had made several shopping expeditions. On + Christmas Eve Stefan was gone the whole afternoon, and returned radiant, + full of absurd jokes and quivers of suppressed glee. He was evidently + highly pleased with himself, but cherished with touching faith, she + thought, the illusion that his manner betrayed nothing. + </p> + <p> + That night, when she was supposed to be asleep, she felt him creep + carefully out of bed, heard him fumbling for his dressing gown, and saw a + shaft of light as the studio door was cautiously opened. A moment later a + rustling sounded through the transom, followed by the shrill whisper of + Madame Corriani. Listening, she fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + She was wakened by Stefan's arms round her. + </p> + <p> + “A happy Christmas, darling! So wonderful—the first Christmas I ever + remember celebrating.” + </p> + <p> + There was a ruddy glow of firelight in the room, but to her opening eyes + it seemed unusually dark, and in a moment she saw that the great piece of + Chinese silk they used for their couch cover was stretched across the room + on cords, shutting off the window end. She jumped up hastily. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan, how thrilling!” she exclaimed, girlishly excited. As for him, + he was standing before her dressed, and obviously tingling with + impatience. She slipped into a dressing gown of white silk, and caught her + hair loosely up. Simultaneously Stefan emerged from the kitchenette with + two steaming cups of coffee, which he placed on a table before the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Clever boy!” she exclaimed delighted, for he had never made the coffee + before. In a moment he produced rolls and butter. + </p> + <p> + “Déjeuner first,” he proclaimed gleefully, “and then the surprise!” They + ate their meal as excitedly as two children. In the midst of it Mary rose + and, fetching from the bureau two little ribbon-tied parcels, placed them + in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “For me? More excitements!” he warbled. “But I shan't open them till the + curtain comes down. There, we've finished.” He jumped up. “Beautiful, + allow me to present to you the Byrds' Christmas tree.” With a dramatic + gesture he unhooked a cord. The curtain fell. There in the full morning + light stood a tree, different from any Mary had ever seen. There were no + candles on it, but from top to bottom it was all one glittering white. + There were no garish tinsel ornaments, but from every branch hung a white + bird, wings outstretched, and under each bird lay, on the branch below, + something white. At the foot of the tree stood a little painting framed in + pale silver. It was of a nude baby boy, sitting wonderingly upon a hilltop + at early dawn. His eyes were lifted to the sky, his hands groped. Mary, + with an exclamation of delight, stepped nearer. Then she saw what the + white things were under the spreading wings of the birds. Each was the + appurtenance of a baby. One was a tiny cap, one a cloak, others were + dresses, little jackets, vests. There were some tiny white socks, and, at + the very top of the tree, a rattle of white coral and silver. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan, my dearest—'the little white bird'!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like it, darling?” he asked delightedly, his arms about her. “Mrs. + Elliot told me about Barrie's white bird—I hadn't known the story. + But I wanted to show you I was glad about ours,” he held her close, “and + directly she spoke of the bird, I thought of this. She went with me to get + those little things—” he waved at the tree—“some of them are + from her. But the picture was quite my own idea. It's right, isn't it? + What you would feel, I mean? I tried to get inside your heart.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, her eyes shining with tears. She could find no words to tell + him how deeply she was touched. Her half-formed doubts were swept away—he + was her own dear man, kind and comprehending. She took the little painting + and sat with it on her knee, poring over it, Stefan standing by delighted + at his success. Then he remembered his own parcels. The larger he opened + first, and instantly donned one of the two knitted ties it held, + proclaiming its golden brown vastly becoming. The smaller parcel contained + a tiny jeweler's box, and in it Stefan found an old and heavy seal ring of + pure design, set with a transparent greenish stone, which bore the + intaglio of a winged head. He was enchanted. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, you wonder,” he cried. “You must have created this—you + couldn't just have found it. It symbolizes what you have given me—sums + up all that you are!” and he kissed her rapturously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan,” she answered, “it is all perfect, for your gift symbolizes + what you have brought to me!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling, but not all I am to you, I hope,” he replied, rubbing his + cheek against hers. + </p> + <p> + “Foolish one,” she smiled back at him. + </p> + <p> + They spent a completely happy day, rejoicing in the successful attempt of + each to penetrate the other's mind. They had never, even on their + honeymoon, felt more at one. Later, Mary asked him about the missing + sketch. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I sold it for the bird's trappings,” he answered gleefully; “wasn't + it clever of me? But don't ask me for the horrid details, and don't tell + me a word about my wonderful ring. I prefer to consider that you fetched + it from Olympus.” + </p> + <p> + And Mary, whose practical conscience had given her sharp twinges over her + extravagance, was glad to let it rest at that. + </p> + <p> + During the morning a great sheaf of roses came for Mary with the card of + James Farraday, and on its heels a bush of white heather inscribed to them + both from McEwan. The postman contributed several cards, and a tiny string + of pink coral from Miss Mason. “How kind every one is!” Mary cried + happily. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon the Corrianis were summoned. Mary had small presents for + them and a glass of wine, which Stefan poured to the accompaniment of a + song in his best Italian. This melted the somewhat sulky Corriani to + smiles, and his wife to tears. The day closed with dinner at their beloved + French hotel, and a bottle of Burgundy shared with Stefan's favorite + waiters. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> + <p> + During Christmas week Stefan worked hard at his interior, but about the + fifth day began to show signs of restlessness. The following morning, + after only half an hour's painting, he threw down his brush. + </p> + <p> + “It's no use, Mary,” he announced, “I don't think I shall ever be able to + do this kind of work; it simply doesn't inspire me.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up from her sewing. “Why, I thought it promised charmingly.” + </p> + <p> + “That's just it.” He ruffled his hair irritably. “It does. Can you imagine + my doing anything 'charming'? No, the only hope for this interior is for + me to get depth into it, and depth won't come—it's facile.” And he + stared disgustedly at the canvas. + </p> + <p> + “I think I know what you mean,” Mary answered absently. She was thinking + that his work had power and height, but that depth she had never seen in + it. + </p> + <p> + Stefan shook himself. “Oh, come along, Mary, let's get out of this. We've + been mewed up in this domestic atmosphere for days. I shall explode soon. + Let's go somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she agreed, folding up her work. + </p> + <p> + “You feel all right, don't you?” he checked himself to ask. + </p> + <p> + “Rather, don't I look it?” + </p> + <p> + “You certainly do,” he replied, but without his usual praise of her. “I + have it, let's take a look at Miss Felicity Berber! I shall probably get + some new ideas from her. Happy thought! Come on, Mary, hat, coat, let's + hurry.” He was all impatience to be gone. + </p> + <p> + They started to walk up the Avenue, stopping at the hotel to find in the + telephone book the number of the Berber establishment. It was entered, + “Berber, Felicity, Creator of Raiment.” + </p> + <p> + “How affected!” laughed Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Stefan, “amusing people usually are.” + </p> + <p> + Though he appeared moody the crisp, sunny air of the Avenue gradually + brightened him, and Mary, who was beginning to feel her confined mornings, + breathed it in joyfully. + </p> + <p> + The house was in the thirties, a large building of white marble. A lift + carried them to the top floor, and left them facing a black door with + “Felicity Berber” painted on it in vermilion letters. Opening this, they + found themselves in a huge windowless room roofed with opaque glass. The + floor was inlaid in a mosaic of uneven tiles which appeared to be of + different shades of black. The walls, from roof to floor, were hung with + shimmering green silk of the shade of a parrot's wing. There were no + show-cases or other evidences of commercialism, but about the room were + set couches of black japanned wood, upon which rested flat mattresses + covered in the same green as the walls. On these silk cushions in black + and vermilion were piled. The only other furniture consisted of low tables + in black lacquer, one beside every couch. On each of these rested a + lacquered bowl of Chinese red, obviously for the receipt of cigarette + ashes. A similar but larger bowl on a table near the door was filled with + green orchids. One large green silk rug—innocent of pattern—invited + the entering visitor deeper into the room; otherwise the floor was bare. + There were no pictures, no decorations, merely this green and black + background, relieved by occasional splashes of vermilion, and leading up + to a great lacquered screen of the same hue which obscured a door at the + further end of the room. + </p> + <p> + From the corner nearest the entrance a young woman advanced to meet them. + She was clad in flowing lines of opalescent green, and her black hair was + banded low across the forehead with a narrow line of emerald. + </p> + <p> + “You wish to see raiment?” was her greeting. + </p> + <p> + Mary felt rather at a loss amidst these ultra-aestheticisms, but Stefan + promptly asked to see Miss Berber. + </p> + <p> + “Madame rarely sees new clients in the morning.” The green damsel was + pessimistic. Mary felt secretly amused at the ostentatious phraseology. + </p> + <p> + “Tell her we are friends of Mrs. Theodore Elliot's,” replied Stefan, with + his most brilliant and ingratiating smile. + </p> + <p> + The damsel brightened somewhat. “If I may have your name I will see what + can be done,” she offered, extending a small vermilion tray. Stefan + produced a card and the damsel floated with it toward the distant exit. + Her footsteps were silent on the dead tiling, and there was no sound from + the door beyond the screen. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't this a lark? Let's sit down,” Stefan exclaimed, leading the way to + a couch. + </p> + <p> + “It's rather absurd, don't you think?” smiled Mary. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt, but amusing enough for mere mortals,” he shrugged, a scarcely + perceptible snub in his tone. Mary was silent. They waited for several + minutes. At last instinct rather than hearing made them turn to see a + figure advancing down the room. + </p> + <p> + Both instantly recognized the celebrated Miss Berber. A small, slim woman, + obviously light-boned and supple, she seemed to move forward like a + ripple. Her naturally pale face, with its curved scarlet lips and slanting + eyes, was set on a long neck, and round her small head a heavy swathe of + black hair was held by huge scarlet pins. Her dress, cut in a narrow V at + the neck, was all of semi-transparent reds, the brilliant happy reds of + the Chinese. In fact, but for her head, she would have been only half + visible as she advanced against the background of the screen. Mary's + impression of her was blurred, but Stefan, whose artist's eye observed + everything, noticed that her narrow feet were encased in heelless satin + shoes which followed the natural shape of the feet like gloves. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. and Mrs. Byrd! How do you do?” she murmured, and her voice was + light-breathed, a mere memory of sound. It suggested that she customarily + mislaid it, and recaptured only an echo. + </p> + <p> + “Pull that other couch a little nearer, please,” she waved to Stefan, + appropriating the one from which they had just risen. Upon this she + stretched her full length, propping the cushions comfortably under her + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Do you smoke?” she breathed, and stretching an arm produced from a hidden + drawer in the table at her elbow cigarettes in a box of black lacquer, and + matches in one of red. Mary declined, but Stefan immediately lighted a + cigarette for himself and held a match for Miss Berber. Mary and he + settled themselves on the couch which he drew up, and which slipped + readily over the tiles. + </p> + <p> + “Now we can talk,” exhaled their hostess on a spiral of smoke. “I never + see strangers in the morning, not even friends of dear Connie's, but there + was something in the name—” She seemed to be fingering a small knob + protruding from the lacquer of her couch. It must have been a bell, for in + a moment the green maiden appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Chloris, has that picture come for the sylvan fitting room?” she + murmured. “Yes? Bring it, please.” Her gesture seemed to waft the damsel + over the floor. During this interlude the Byrds were silent, Stefan hugely + entertained, Mary beginning to feel a slight antagonism toward this + super-casual dressmaker. + </p> + <p> + A moment and the attendant nymph reappeared, bearing a large canvas framed + in glistening green wood. + </p> + <p> + “Against the table—toward Mr. Byrd.” Miss Berber supplemented the + murmur with an indicative gesture. “You know that?” dropped from her lips + as the nymph glided away. + </p> + <p> + It was Stefan's pastoral of the dancing faun. He nodded gaily, but Mary + felt herself blushing. Her husband's work destined for a fitting room! + </p> + <p> + “I thought so,” Miss Berber enunciated through a breath of smoke. “I + picked it up the other day. Quite lovely. My sylvan fitting room required + just that note. I use it for country raiment only. Atmosphere, Mr. Byrd. I + want my clients to feel young when they are preparing for the country. I + am glad to see you here.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan reciprocated. So far, Miss Berber had ignored Mary. + </p> + <p> + “I might consult you about my next color scheme—original artists are + so rare. I change this room every year.” Her eyelids drooped. + </p> + <p> + At this point Mary ventured to draw attention to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Why is it, Miss Berber,” she asked in her clear English voice, “that you + have only couches here?” + </p> + <p> + Felicity's lids trembled; she half looked up. “How seldom one hears a + beautiful voice,” she uttered. “Chairs, Mrs. Byrd, destroy women's beauty. + Why sit, when one can recline? My clients may not wear corsets; reclining + encourages them to feel at ease without.” + </p> + <p> + Mary found Miss Berber's affectations absurd, but this explanation + heightened her respect for her intelligence. “Method in her madness,” she + quoted to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Berber, I want you to create a gown for my wife. I am sure when you + look at her you will be interested in the idea.” Stefan expected every one + to pay tribute to Mary's beauty. + </p> + <p> + Again Miss Berber's fingers strayed. The nymph appeared. “How long have I, + Chloris? ... Half an hour? Then send me Daphne. You notice the silence, + Mr. Byrd? It rests my clients, brings health to their nerves. Without it, + I could not do my work.” + </p> + <p> + Mary smiled as she mentally contrasted these surroundings with Farraday's + office, where she had last heard that expression. Was quiet so rare a + privilege in America, she wondered? + </p> + <p> + A moment, and a second damsel emerged, brown-haired, clad in a paler + green, and carrying paper and pencil. Not until this ministrant had seated + herself at the foot of Miss Berber's couch did that lady refer to Stefan's + request. Then, propping herself on her elbow, she at last looked full at + Mary. What she saw evidently pleased her, for she allowed herself a slight + smile. “Ah,” she breathed, “an evening, or a house gown?” + </p> + <p> + “Evening,” interposed Stefan. Then to Mary, “You look your best + decolletée, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Englishwomen always do,” murmured Miss Berber. + </p> + <p> + “Will you kindly take off your hat and coat, and stand up, Mrs. Byrd?” + Mary complied, feeling uncomfortably like a cloak model. + </p> + <p> + “Classic, pure classic. How seldom one sees it!” Miss Berber's voice + became quite audible. “Gold, of course, classic lines, gold sandals. A + fillet, but no ornaments. You wish to wear this raiment during the ensuing + months, Mrs. Byrd?” Mary nodded. “Then write Demeter type,” the designer + interpolated to her satellite, who was taking notes. “Otherwise it would + of course be Artemis—or Aphrodite even?” turning for agreement to + Stefan. “Would you say Aphrodite?” + </p> + <p> + “I always do,” beamed he, delighted. + </p> + <p> + At this point the first nymph, Chloris, again appeared, and at a motion of + Miss Berber's hand rapidly and silently measured Mary, the paler hued + nymph assisting her as scribe. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Byrd,” pronounced the autocrat of the establishment, when at the + conclusion of these rites the attendants had faded from the room. “I never + design for less than two hundred dollars. Such a garment as I have in mind + for your wife, queenly and abundant—” her hands waved in + illustration—“would cost three hundred. But—” her look checked + Mary in an exclamation of refusal—“we belong to the same world, the + world of art, not of finance. Yes?” She smiled. “Your painting, Mr. Byrd, + is worth three times what I gave for it, and Mrs. Byrd will wear my + raiment as few clients can. It will give me pleasure”—her lids + drooped to illustrate finality—“to make this garment for the value + of the material, which will be—” her lips smiled amusement at the + bagatelle—“between seventy and eighty-five dollars—no more.” + She ceased. + </p> + <p> + Mary felt uncomfortable. Why should she accept such a favor at the hands + of this poseuse? Stefan, however, saved her the necessity of decision. He + leapt to his feet, all smiles. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Berber,” he cried, “you honor us, and Mary will glorify your design. + It is probable,” he beamed, “that we cannot afford a dress at all, but I + disregard that utterly.” He shrugged, and snapped a finger. “You have + given me an inspiration. As soon as the dress arrives, I shall paint Mary + as Demeter. Mille remerciements!” Bending, he kissed Miss Berber's hand in + the continental manner. Mary, watching, felt a tiny prick of jealousy. “He + never kissed my hand,” she thought, and instantly scorned herself for the + idea. + </p> + <p> + The designer smiled languidly up at Stefan. “I am happy,” she murmured. + “No fittings, Mrs. Byrd. We rarely fit, except the model gowns. You will + have the garment in a week. Au revoir.” Her eyes closed. They turned to + find a high-busted woman entering the room, accompanied by two young + girls. As they departed a breath-like echo floated after them, “Oh, + really, Mrs. Van Sittart—still those corsets? I can do nothing for + you, you know.” Tones of shrill excuse penetrated to the lift door. At the + curb below stood a dyspeptically stuffed limousine, guarded by two men in + puce liveries. + </p> + <p> + The Byrds swung southward in silence, but suddenly Stefan heaved a great + breath. “Nom d'un nom d'un nom d'un vieux bonhomme!” he exploded, voicing + in that cumulative expletive his extreme satisfaction with the morning. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> + <p> + Constance Elliot had not boasted her stage-management in vain. On the + first Saturday in January all proceeded according to schedule. The Danaë, + beautifully framed, stood at the farther end of Constance's double + drawing-room, from which all other mural impedimenta, together with most + of the furniture, had been removed. Expertly lighted, the picture glowed + in the otherwise obscure room like a thing of flame. + </p> + <p> + Two hundred ticket holders came, saw, and were conquered. Farraday, in his + most correct cutaway, personally conducted a tour of three eminent critics + to the Village. Sir Micah, the English curator of the Metropolitan, + reflectively tapping an eye-glass upon an uplifted finger tip, pronounced + the painting a turning-point in American art. Four reporters—whose + presence in his immediate vicinity Constance had insured—transferred + this utterance to their note books. Artists gazed, and well-dressed women + did not forbear to gush. Tea, punch, and yellow suffrage cakes were + consumed in the dining room. There was much noise and excessive heat. In + short, the occasion was a success. + </p> + <p> + Toward the end, when few people remained except the genial Sir Micah, whom + Constance was judiciously holding with tea, smiles, and a good cigar, the + all-important Constantine arrived. Prompted, Sir Micah was induced to + repeat his verdict. But the picture spoke for itself, and the famous + dealer was visibly impressed. Constance was able to eat her dinner at last + with a comfortable sense of accomplishment. She was only sorry that the + Byrds had not been there to appreciate her strategy. Stefan, indeed, did + appear for half an hour, but Mary's courage had failed her entirely. She + had succumbed to an attack of stage fright and shut herself up at home. + </p> + <p> + As for Stefan, he had developed one of his most contrary moods. Refusing + conventional attire, he clad himself in the baggy trousers and flowing tie + of his student days, under the illusion that he was thus defying the + prejudices of Philistia. He was unaware that the Philistines, as + represented by the gentlemen of the press, considered his costume + quintessentially correct for an artist just returned from Paris, and would + have been grieved had he appeared otherwise. Unconsciously playing to the + gallery, Stefan on arrival squared himself against a doorway and eyed the + crowds with a frown of disapprobation. He had not forgotten his early + snubs from the dealers, and saw in every innocent male visitor one of the + fraternity. + </p> + <p> + Constance, in her bid for publicity, had sold most of her tickets to the + socially prominent, so that Stefan was soon surrounded by voluble ladies + unduly furred, corseted, and jeweled. He found these unbeautiful, and his + misanthropy, which had been quiescent of late, rose rampant. + </p> + <p> + Presently he was introduced to a stout matron, whose costume centered in + an enormous costal cascade of gray pearls. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Byrd,” she gushed, “I dote on art. I've made a study of it, and I can + say that your picture is a triumph.” + </p> + <p> + “Madam,” he fairly scowled, “it is as easy for the rich to enter the + kingdom of Art as for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.” + Leaving her pink with offense, he turned his back and, shaking off other + would-be admirers, sought his hostess. + </p> + <p> + “My God, I can't stand any more of this—I'm off,” he confided to + her. Constance was beginning to know her man. She gave him a quick + scrutiny. “Yes, I think you'd better be,” she agreed, “before you spoil + any of my good work. An absent lion is better than a snarling one. Run + home to Mary.” She dismissed him laughingly, and Stefan catapulted himself + out of the house, thereby missing the attractive Miss Berber by a few + minutes. Dashing home across the Square, he flung himself on the divan + with every appearance of exhaustion. “Sing to me, Mary,” he implored. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Stefan,” she asked, startled, “wasn't it a success? What's the + matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Success!” he scoffed. “Oh, yes. They all gushed and gurgled and squeaked + and squalled. Horrible! Sing, dearest; I must hear something beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + Failing to extract more from him, she complied. + </p> + <p> + The next day brought a full account of his success from Constance, and + glowing tributes from the papers. The head-lines ranged from “Suffragettes + Unearth New Genius” to “Distinguished Exhibit at Home of Theodore M. + Elliot.” The verdict was unanimous. A new star had risen in the artistic + firmament. One look at the headings, and Stefan dropped the papers in + disgust, but Mary pored over them all, and found him quite willing to + listen while she read eulogistic extracts aloud. + </p> + <p> + Thus started, the fuse of publicity burnt brightly. Constance's carefully + planned follow-up articles appeared, and reporters besieged the Byrds' + studio. Unfortunately for Mary, these gentry soon discovered that she was + the Danaë's original, which fact created a mild succès de scandale. + Personal paragraphs appeared about her and her writing, and, greatly + embarrassed, she disconnected the door-bell for over a week. But the + picture was all the more talked about. In a week Constantine had it on + exhibition; in three, he had sold it for five thousand dollars to a + tobacco millionaire. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” groaned Stefan when he heard the news, “we have given in to + Mammon. We are capitalists.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, think of our beautiful picture going to some odious nouveau + riche!” Mary sighed. But she was immeasurably relieved that Stefan's name + was made, and that they were permanently lifted from the ranks of the + needy. + </p> + <p> + That very day, as if to illustrate their change of status, Mrs. Corriani + puffed up the stairs with the news that the flat immediately below them + had been abandoned over night. The tenants, a dark couple of questionable + habits and nationality, had omitted the formality of paying their rent—the + flat was on the market. The outcome was that Stefan and Mary, keeping + their studio as a workshop, overflowed into the flat beneath, and found + themselves in possession of a bed and bathroom, a kitchen and maid's room, + and a sitting room. These they determined to furnish gradually, and Mary + looked forward to blissful mornings at antique stores and auctions. She + had been brought up amidst the Chippendale, old oak, and brasses of a + cathedral close, and new furniture was anathema to her. A telephone and a + colored maid-servant were installed. Their picnicking days were over. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> + <p> + True to her word, Constance arranged a reception in the Byrds' honor, at + which they were to meet Felicity Berber. The promise of this encounter + reconciled Stefan to the affair, and he was moreover enthusiastically + looking forward to Mary's appearance in her new gown. This had arrived, + and lay swathed in tissue paper in its box. In view of their change of + fortune they had, in paying the account of seventy-five dollars, concocted + a little note to Miss Berber, hoping she would now reconsider her offer, + and render them a bill for her design. This note, written and signed by + Mary in her upright English hand, brought forth a characteristic reply. On + black paper and in vermilion ink arrived two lines of what Mary at first + took to be Egyptian hieroglyphics. Studied from different angles, these + yielded at last a single sentence: “A gift is a gift, and repays itself.” + This was followed by a signature traveling perpendicularly down the page + in Chinese fashion. It was outlined in an oblong of red ink, but was + itself written in green, the capitals being supplied with tap-roots + extending to the base of each name. Mary tossed the letter over to Stefan + with a smile. He looked at it judicially. + </p> + <p> + “There's draughtsmanship in that,” he said; “she might have made an + etcher. It's drawing, but it's certainly not handwriting.” + </p> + <p> + On the evening of the party Stefan insisted on helping Mary to dress. + Together they opened the great green box and spread its contents on the + bed. The Creator of Raiment had not done things by halves. In addition to + the gown, she had supplied a wreath of pale white and gold metals, + representing two ears of wheat arranged to meet in a point over the brow, + and a pair of gilded shoes made on the sandal plan, with silver-white + buckles. Pinned to the gown was a printed green slip, reading “No corsets, + petticoats or jewelry may be worn with this garb.” + </p> + <p> + The dress was of heavy gold tissue, magnificently draped in generous + classic folds. It left the arms bare, the drapery being fastened on either + shoulder with great brooches of white metal, reproduced, as Stefan at once + recognized, from Greek models. Along all the edges of the drapery ran a + border of ears of wheat, embroidered in deep gold and pale silver. Mary, + who had hitherto only peeped at the gown, felt quite excited when she saw + it flung across the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan, I do think it will be becoming,” she cried, her cheeks bright + pink. She had never dreamed of owning such a dress. + </p> + <p> + He was enchanted. “It's a work of art. Very few women could wear it, but + on you—! Well, it's worthy of you, Beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + During the dressing he made her quite nervous by his exact attention to + every detail. The arrangement of her hair and the precise position of the + wreath had to be tried and tried again, but the result justified him. + </p> + <p> + “Olympian Deity,” he cried, “I must kneel to you!” And so he did, gaily + adoring, with a kiss for the hem of her robe. They started in the highest + spirits, Stefan correct this time in an immaculate evening suit which Mary + had persuaded him to order. As they prepared to enter the drawing room he + whispered, “You'll be a sensation. I'm dying to see their faces.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't make me nervous,” she whispered back. + </p> + <p> + By nature entirely without self-consciousness, she had become very + sensitive since the Danaë publicity. But her nervousness only heightened + her color, and as with her beautiful walk she advanced into the room there + was an audible gasp from every side. Constance pounced upon her. + </p> + <p> + “You perfectly superb creature! You ought to have clouds rolling under + your feet. There, I can't express myself. Come and receive homage. Mr. + Byrd, you're the luckiest man on earth—I hope you deserve it all—but + then of course no man could. Mary, here are two friends of yours—Mr. + Byrd, come and be presented to Felicity.” + </p> + <p> + Farraday and McEwan had advanced toward them and immediately formed the + nucleus of a group which gathered about Mary. Stefan followed his hostess + across the room to a green sofa, on which, cigarette in hand, reclined + Miss Berber, surrounded by a knot of interested admirers. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Connie,” that lady murmured, with the ghost of a smile, “I've met + Mr. Byrd. He brought his wife to the Studio.” She extended a languid hand + to Stefan, who bowed over it. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I might have known you had a hand in that effect,” Constance + exclaimed, looking across the room toward Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you might,” the other sighed, following her friend's eyes. + “It's perfect, I think; don't you agree, Mr. Byrd?” and she actually rose + from the sofa to obtain a better view. + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely,” answered Stefan, riveted in his turn upon her. + </p> + <p> + Miss Berber was clad in black tulle, so transparent as barely to obscure + her form. Sleeves she had none. A trifle of gauze traveled over one + shoulder, leaving the other bare save for a supporting strap of tiny + scarlet beads. Her triple skirt was serrated like the petals of a black + carnation, and outlined with the same minute beads. Her bodice could + scarcely be said to exist, so deep was its V. From her ears long ornaments + of jet depended, and a comb in scarlet bead-work ran wholly across one + side of her head. A flower of the same hue and workmanship trembled from + the point of her corsage. She wore no rings, but her nails were reddened, + and her sleek black hair and scarlet lips completed the chromatic harmony. + The whole effect was seductive, but so crisp as to escape vulgarity. + </p> + <p> + “I must paint you, Miss Berber,” was Stefan's comment. + </p> + <p> + “All the artists say that.” She waved a faint expostulation. + </p> + <p> + Her hands, he thought, had the whiteness and consistency of a camelia. + </p> + <p> + “All the artists are not I, however,” he answered with a smiling shrug. + </p> + <p> + “Greek meets Greek,” thought Constance, amused, turning away to other + guests. + </p> + <p> + “I admit that.” Miss Berber lit another cigarette. “I have seen your + Danaë. The people who have painted me have been fools. Obvious—treating + me like an advertisement for cold cream.” + </p> + <p> + She breathed a sigh, and sank again to the sofa. Her lids drooped as if in + weariness of such banalities. Stefan sat beside her, the manner of both + eliminating the surrounding group. + </p> + <p> + “One must have subtlety, must one not?” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + How subtle she was, he thought; how mysterious, in spite of her obvious + posing! He could not even tell whether she was interested in him. + </p> + <p> + “I shall paint you, Miss Berber,” he said, watching her, “as a Nixie. + Water creatures, you know, without souls.” + </p> + <p> + “No soul?” she reflected, lingering on a puff of smoke. “How chic!” + </p> + <p> + Stefan was delighted. Hopefully, he broke into French. She replied with + fluent ease, but with a strange, though charming, accent. The exotic + French fitted her whole personality, he felt, as English could not do. He + was pricked by curiosity as to her origin, and did not hesitate to ask it, + but she gave her shadow of a smile, and waved her cigarette vaguely. + “Quién sabe?” she shrugged. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Spanish?” he asked in French, seeking a clue. + </p> + <p> + “Only what one picks up in California.” He was no nearer a solution. + </p> + <p> + “Were you out there long?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him vaguely. “I should like some coffee, please.” + </p> + <p> + Defeated, he was obliged to fetch a cup. When he returned, it was to find + her talking monosyllabic English to a group of men. + </p> + <p> + Farraday and McEwan had temporarily resigned Mary to a stream of + newcomers, and stood watching the scene from the inner drawing room. + </p> + <p> + “James,” said McEwan, “get on to the makeup of the crowd round our lady, + and compare it with the specimens rubbering the little Berber.” + </p> + <p> + Farraday smiled in his grave, slow way. + </p> + <p> + “You're right, Mac, the substance and the shadow.” + </p> + <p> + Many of the women seated about the room were covertly staring at Felicity, + but so far none had joined her group. This consisted, besides Stefan, of + two callow and obviously enthralled youths, a heavy semi-bald man with + paunched eyes and a gluttonous mouth, and a tall languid person wearing + tufts of hair on unexpected parts of his face, and showing the hands of a + musician. + </p> + <p> + Round Mary stood half a dozen women, their host, the kindly and practical + Mr. Elliot, a white-haired man of distinguished bearing, and a gigantic + young viking with tawny hair and beard and powerful hands. + </p> + <p> + “That's Gunther, an A1 sculptor,” said McEwan, indicating the viking, who + was looking at Mary as his ancestors might have looked at a vision of + Freia. + </p> + <p> + “They're well matched, eh, James?” + </p> + <p> + “As well as she could be,” the other answered gravely. McEwan looked at + his friend. “Mon,” he said, relapsing to his native speech, “come and hae + a drop o' the guid Scotch.” + </p> + <p> + Constance had determined that Felicity should dance, in spite of her + well-known laziness. At this point she crossed the room to attack her, + expecting a difficult task, but, to her surprise, Felicity hardly + demurred. After a moment of sphinx-like communing, she dropped her + cigarette and rose. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Byrd is going to paint me as something without a soul—I think I + will dance,” she cryptically vouchsafed. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I play?” offered Constance, delighted. + </p> + <p> + Miss Berber turned to the languid musician. + </p> + <p> + “Have you your ocarina, Marchmont?” she breathed. + </p> + <p> + “I always carry it, Felicity,” he replied, with a reproachful look, + drawing from his pocket what appeared to be a somewhat contorted + meerschaum pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Then no piano to-night, Connie. A little banal, the piano, perhaps.” Her + hands waved vaguely. + </p> + <p> + A space was cleared; chairs were arranged. + </p> + <p> + Miss Berber vanished behind a portiere. The languid Marchmont draped + himself in a corner, and put the fat little meerschaum to his lips. A + clear, jocund sound, a mere thread of music, as from the pipe of some + hidden faun, penetrated the room. The notes trembled, paused, and fell to + the minor. Felicity, feet bare, toes touched with scarlet, wafted into the + room. Her dancing was incredibly light; she looked like some exotic poppy + swaying to an imperceptible breeze. The dance was languorously sad, palely + gay, a thing half asleep, veiled. It seemed always about to break into + fierce life, yet did not. The scent of mandragora hung over it—it + was as if the dancer, drugged, were dreaming of the sunlight. + </p> + <p> + When, waving a negligent hand to the applause, Felicity passed Stefan at + the end of her dance, he caught a murmured phrase from her. + </p> + <p> + “Not soulless, perhaps, but sleeping.” Whether she meant this as an + explanation of her dance or of herself he was not sure. + </p> + <p> + Mary watched the dance with admiration, and wished to compare her + impressions of it with her husband's. She tried to catch his eye across + the room at the end, but he had drifted away toward the dining room. + Momentarily disappointed, she turned to find Farraday at her elbow, and + gladly let him lead her, also, in search of refreshments. There was a + general movement in that direction, and the drawing room was almost empty + as McEwan, purpose in his eye, strode across it to Constance. He spoke to + her in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + “Sing? Does she? I had no idea! She never tells one such things,” his + hostess replied. “Do you think she would? But she has no music. You could + play for her? How splendid, Mr. McEwan. How perfectly lovely of you. I'll + arrange it.” She hurried out, leaving McEwan smiling at nothing in visible + contentment. In a few minutes she returned with Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I will if you wish it,” the latter was saying, “but I've no + music, and only know foolish little ballads.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. McEwan says he can vamp them all, and it will be too delightful to + have something from each of my women stars,” Constance urged. “Now I'll + leave you two to arrange it, and in a few minutes I'll get every one back + from the dining room,” she nodded, slipping away again. + </p> + <p> + “Cruel man, you've given me away,” Mary smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I always brag about my friends,” grinned McEwan. They went over to the + piano. + </p> + <p> + “What price the Bard! Do you know this?” His fingers ran into the old air + for “Sigh No More, Ladies.” She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I like that.” + </p> + <p> + “And for a second,” he spun round on his stool, “what do you say to a + duet?” His candid blue eyes twinkled at her. + </p> + <p> + “A duet!” she exclaimed in genuine surprise. “Do you sing, Mr. McEwan?” + </p> + <p> + “Once in a while,” and, soft pedal down, he played a few bars of Marzials' + “My True Love Hath My Heart,” humming the words in an easy barytone. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Mary. “I love that.” They tried it over, below + their breaths. + </p> + <p> + The room was filling again. People began to settle down expectantly; + McEwan struck his opening chords. + </p> + <p> + Just as Mary's first note sounded, Stefan and Felicity entered the room. + He started in surprise; then Mary saw him smile delightedly, and they both + settled themselves well in front. + </p> + <p> + “'Men were deceivers ever,'” sang Mary, with simple ease, and “'Hey nonny, + nonny.'” The notes fell gaily; her lips and eyes smiled. + </p> + <p> + There was generous applause at the end of the little song. Then McEwan + struck the first chords of the duet. + </p> + <p> + “'My true love hath my heart,'” Mary sang clearly, head up, eyes shining. + “'My true love hath my heart,'” replied McEwan, in his cheery barytone. + </p> + <p> + “'—And I have his,'” Mary's bell tones announced. + </p> + <p> + “'—And I have his,'” trolled McEwan. + </p> + <p> + “'There never was a better bargain driven,'” the notes came, confident and + glad, from the golden figure with its clear-eyed, glowing face. They ended + in a burst of almost defiant optimism. + </p> + <p> + Applause was hearty and prolonged. McEwan slipped from his stool and + sought a cigarette in the adjoining room. There was a general + congratulatory movement toward Mary, in which both Stefan and Felicity + joined. Then people again began to break into groups. Felicity found her + sofa, Mary a chair. McEwan discovered Farraday under the arch between the + two drawing-rooms, and stood beside him to watch the crowd. Stefan had + moved with Felicity toward her sofa, and, as she disposed herself, she + seemed to be talking to him in French. McEwan and Farraday continued their + survey. Mary was surrounded by people, but her eyes strayed across the + room. Felicity appeared almost animated, but Stefan seemed inattentive; he + fidgeted, and looked vague. + </p> + <p> + A moment more, and quite abruptly he crossed the room, and planted himself + down beside Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” sighed McEwan, apparently à propos of nothing, and with a trace of + Scotch, “James, I'll now hae another whusky.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III + </h2> + <h3> + THE NESTLING + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Stefan's initial and astonishing success was not to be repeated that + winter. The great Constantine, anxious to benefit by the flood tide of his + client's popularity, had indeed called at the studio in search of more + material, but after a careful survey, had decided against exhibiting + “Tempest” and “Pursuit.” Before these pictures he had stood wrapped in + speculation for some time, pursing his lips and fingering the over-heavy + seals of his fob. Mary had watched him eagerly, deeply curious as to the + effect of the paintings. But Stefan had been careless to the point of + rudeness; he had long since lost interest in his old work. When at last + the swarthy little dealer, who was a Greek Jew, and had the keen, + perceptions of both races, had shaken his head, Mary was not surprised, + was indeed almost glad. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Byrd,” Constantine had pronounced, in his heavy, imperfect English, + “I think we would make a bad mistake to exhibit these paintings now. + Technically they are clever, oh, very clever indeed, but they would be + unpopular; and this once,” he smiled shrewdly, “the public would be right + about it. Your Danaë was a big conception as well as fine painting; it had + inspiration—feeling—” his thick but supple hands circled in + emphasis—“we don't want to go back simply to cleverness. When you + paint me something as big again as that one I exhibit it; otherwise,” with + a shrug, “I think we spoil our market.” + </p> + <p> + After this visit Stefan, quite unperturbed, had turned the two fantasies + to the wall. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say Constantine is right about them,” he said; “they are rather + crazy things, and anyhow, I'm sick of them.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was quite relieved to have them hidden. The merman in particular had + got upon her nerves of late. + </p> + <p> + As the winter advanced, the Byrds' circle of acquaintances grew, and many + visitors dropped into the studio for tea. These showed much interest in + Stefan's new picture, a large study of Mary in the guise of Demeter, for + which she was posing seated, robed in her Berber gown. Miss Mason in + particular was delighted with the painting, which she dubbed a “companion + piece” to the Danaë. The story of Constantine's decision against the two + salon canvases got about and, amusingly enough, heightened the Byrds' + popularity. The Anglo-Saxon public is both to take its art neat, + preferring it coated with a little sentiment. It now became accepted that + Stefan's genius was due to his wife, whose love had lighted the torch of + inspiration. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Mr. Byrd,” Miss Mason had summed up the popular view, in one of her + rare romantic moments, “the love of a good woman—!” Stefan had + looked completely vague at this remark, and Mary had burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Sparrow,” for so, to Miss Mason's delight, she had named her, “don't + be Tennysonian, as Stefan would say. It was Stefan's power to feel love, + and not mine to call it out, that painted the Danaë,” and she looked at + him with proud tenderness. + </p> + <p> + But the Sparrow was unconvinced. “You can't tell me. If 'twas all in him, + why didn't some other girl over in Paris call it out long ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Lots tried,” grinned Stefan, with his cheeky-boy expression. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't he terrible,” Miss Mason sighed, smiling. She adored Mary's + husband, but consistently disapproved of him. + </p> + <p> + Try as she would, Mary failed to shake her friends' estimate of her share + in the family success. It became the fashion to regard her as a muse, and + she, who had felt oppressed by Stefan's lover-like deification, now found + her friends, too, conspiring to place her on a pedestal. Essentially + simple and modest, she suffered real discomfort from the cult of adoration + that surrounded her. Coming from a British community which she felt had + underestimated her, she now found herself made too much of. A smaller + woman would have grown vain amid so much admiration; Mary only became + inwardly more humble, while outwardly carrying her honors with laughing + deprecation. + </p> + <p> + For some time after the night of Constance's reception, Stefan had shown + every evidence of contentment, but as the winter dragged into a cold and + slushy March he began to have recurrent moods of his restless + irritability. By this time Mary was moving heavily; she could no longer + keep brisk pace with him in his tramps up the Avenue, but walked more + slowly and for shorter distances. She no longer sprang swiftly from her + chair or ran to fetch him a needed tool; her every movement was matronly. + But she was so well, so entirely normal, as practically to be unconscious + of a change to which her husband was increasingly alive. + </p> + <p> + Another source of Stefan's dissatisfaction lay in the progress of his + Demeter. This picture showed the Goddess enthroned under the shade of a + tree, beyond which spread harvest fields in brilliant sunlight. At her + feet a naked boy, brown from the sun, played with a pile of red and golden + fruits. In the distance maids and youths were dancing. The Goddess sat + back drowsily, her eyelids drooping, her hands and arms relaxed over her + chair. She had called all this richness into being, and now in the heat of + the day she rested, brooding over the fecund earth. So far, the + composition was masterly, but the tones lacked the necessary depth; they + were vivid where they should have been warm, and he felt the deficiency + without yet having been able to remedy it. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, damn!” said Stefan one morning, throwing down his brush. “This + picture is architectural, absolutely. What possessed me to try such a + conception? I can only do movement. I can't be static. Earth! I don't + understand it—everything good I've done has been made of air and + fire, or water.” He turned an irritable face to Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you encourage me in this?” + </p> + <p> + She looked up in frank astonishment, about to reply, but he forestalled + her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I know I was pleased with the idea—it isn't your fault, of + course, and yet—Oh, what's the use!” He slapped down his pallette + and made for the door. “I'm off to get some air,” he called. + </p> + <p> + Mary felt hurt and uneasy. The nameless doubts of the autumn again + assailed her. What would be the end, she wondered, of her great adventure? + The distant prospect vaguely troubled her, but she turned easily from it + to the immediate future, which held a blaze of joy sufficient to + obliterate all else. + </p> + <p> + The thought of her baby was to Mary like the opening of the gates of + paradise to Christian the Pilgrim. Her heart shook with joy of it. She + passed through her days now only half conscious of the world about her. + She had, together with her joy, an extraordinary sense of physical + well-being, of the actual value of the body. For the first time she became + actively interested in her beauty. Even on her honeymoon she had never + dressed to please her husband with the care she now gave to the donning of + her loose pink and white negligées and the little boudoir caps she had + bought to wear with them. That Stefan paid her fewer compliments, that he + often failed to notice small additions to her wardrobe, affected her not + at all. “Afterwards he will be pleased; afterwards he will love me more + than ever,” she thought, but, even so, knew that it was not for him she + was now fair, but for that other. She did not love Stefan less, but her + love was to be made flesh, and it was that incarnation she now adored. If + she had been given to self-analysis she might have asked what it boded + that she had never—save for that one moment's adoration of his + genius the day he completed the Danaë—felt for Stefan the + abandonment of love she felt for his coming child. She might have + wondered, but she did not, for she felt too intensely in these days to + have much need of thought. She loved her husband—he was a great man—they + were to have a child. The sense of those three facts made up her cosmos. + </p> + <p> + Farraday had asked her in vain on more than one occasion for another + manuscript. The last time she shook her head, with one of her rare + attempts at explanation, made less rarely to him than to her other + friends. + </p> + <p> + “No, Mr. Farraday, I can't think about imaginary children just now. + There's a spell over me—all the world waits, and I'm holding my + breath. Do you see?” + </p> + <p> + He took her hand between both his. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear child, I do,” he answered, his mouth twisting into its sad + and gentle smile. He had come bringing a sheaf of spring flowers, + narcissus, and golden daffodils, which she was holding in her lap. He + thought as he said good-bye that she looked much more like Persephone than + the Demeter of Stefan's picture. + </p> + <p> + In spite of her deep-seated emotion, Mary was gay and practical enough in + these late winter days, with her small household tasks, her occasional + shopping, and her sewing. This last had begun vaguely to irritate Stefan, + so incessant was it. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, do put down that sewing,” he would exclaim; or “Don't sing the song + of the shirt any more to-day;” and she would laughingly fold her work, + only to take it up instinctively again a few minutes later. + </p> + <p> + One evening he came upon her bending over a table in their sitting room, + tracing a fine design on cambric with a pencil. Something in her pose and + figure opened a forgotten door of memory; he watched her puzzled for a + moment, then with a sudden exclamation ran upstairs, and returned with a + pad of paper and a box of water-color paints. He was visibly excited. + “Here, Mary,” he said, thrusting a brush into her hand and clearing a + place on the table. “Do something for me. Make a drawing on this pad, + anything you like, whatever first comes into your head.” His tone was + eagerly importunate. She looked up in surprise, “Why, you funny boy! What + shall I draw?” + </p> + <p> + “That's just it—I don't know. Please draw whatever you want to—it + doesn't matter how badly—just draw something.” + </p> + <p> + Mystified, but acquiescent, Mary considered for a moment, looking from + paper to brush, while Stefan watched eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Can't I use a pencil?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, a brush, please, I'll explain afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” She attacked the brown paint, then the red, then mixed some + green. In a few minutes the paper showed a wobbly little house with a red + roof and a smudged foreground of green grass with the suggestion of a + shade-giving tree. + </p> + <p> + “There,” she laughed, handing him the pad, “I'm afraid I shall never be an + artist,” and she looked up. + </p> + <p> + His face had dropped. He was staring at the drawing with an expression of + almost comic disappointment. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Stefan,” she laughed, rather uncomfortably, “you didn't think I + could draw, did you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, it isn't that, Mary. It's just—the house. I thought you + might—perhaps draw birds—or flowers.” + </p> + <p> + “Birds?—or flowers?” She was at a loss. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn't matter; just an idea.” + </p> + <p> + He crumpled up the little house, and closed the paintbox. “I'm going out + for awhile; good-bye, dearest”; and, with a kiss, he left the room. + </p> + <p> + Mary sat still, too surprised for remonstrance, and in a moment heard the + bang of the flat door. + </p> + <p> + “Birds, or flowers?” Suddenly she remembered something Stefan had told + her, on the night of their engagement, about his mother. So that was it. + Tears came to her eyes. Rather lonely, she went to bed. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Stefan, his head bare in the cold wind, was speeding up the + Avenue on the top of an omnibus. + </p> + <p> + “Houses are cages,” he said to himself. For some reason, he felt hideously + depressed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “I called on Miss Berber last evening,” Stefan announced casually at + breakfast the next morning. + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” replied Mary, surprised, putting down her cup. “Well, did you + have a nice time?” + </p> + <p> + “It was mildly amusing,” he said, opening the newspaper. The subject + dropped. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Mary, who had lived all her life in a small town within sight of the open + fields, was beginning to feel the confinement of city life. Even during + her year in London she had joined other girls in weekend bicycling + excursions out of town, or tubed to Golder's Green or Shepherd's Bush in + search of country walks. Now that the late snows of March had cleared + away, she began eagerly to watch for swelling buds in the Square, and was + dismayed when Stefan told her that the spring, in this part of America, + was barely perceptible before May. + </p> + <p> + “That's the first objection I've found to your country, Stefan,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He was scowling moodily out of the window. “The first? I see nothing but + objections.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come!” she smiled at him; “it hasn't been so bad, has it?” + </p> + <p> + “Better than I had expected,” he conceded. “But it will soon be April, and + I remember the leaves in the Luxembourg for so many Aprils back.” + </p> + <p> + She came and put her arm through his. “Do you want to go, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang it all, Mary, you don't suppose I want to leave you?” he + answered brusquely, releasing his arm. “I want my own place, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + She had, in her quieter way, become just as homesick for England, though + sharing none of his dislike of her adopted land. + </p> + <p> + “Well, shall we both go?” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + He laughed shortly. “Don't be absurd, dearest—what would your doctor + say to such a notion? No, we've got to stick it out,” and he ruffled his + hair impatiently. + </p> + <p> + With a suppressed sigh Mary changed the subject. “By the by, I want you to + meet Dr. Hillyard; I have asked her to tea this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you honestly mean it when you say she is not an elderly ironsides with + spectacles?” + </p> + <p> + “I honestly assure you she is young and pretty. Moreover, I forbid you to + talk like an anti-suffragist,” she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then, I will be at home,” with an answering grin. + </p> + <p> + And so he was, and on his best behavior, when the little doctor arrived an + hour later. She had been found by the omniscient Miss Mason, and after + several visits Mary had more than endorsed the Sparrow's enthusiastic + praise. + </p> + <p> + When the slight, well-tailored little figure entered the room Stefan found + it hard to believe that this fresh-faced girl was the physician, already a + specialist in her line, to whom Mary's fate had been entrusted. For the + first time he wondered if he should not have shared with Mary some + responsibility for her arrangements. But as, with an unwonted sense of + duty, he questioned the little doctor, his doubts vanished. Without a + trace of the much hated professional manner she gave him glimpses of wide + experience, and at one point mentioned an operation she had just performed—which + he knew by hearsay as one of grave difficulty—with the same + enthusiastic pleasure another young woman might have shown in the + description of a successful bargain-hunt. She was to Stefan a new type, + and he was delighted with her. Mary, watching him, thought with + affectionate irony that had the little surgeon been reported plain of face + he would have denied himself in advance both the duty and the pleasure of + meeting her. + </p> + <p> + Over their tea, Dr. Hillyard made a suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you planning to spend the summer?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Stefan looked surprised. “We thought we ought to be here, near you,” he + answered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” the doctor shook her head; “young couples are always martyrizing + themselves for these events. By May it will be warm, and Mrs. Byrd isn't + acclimatized to our American summers. Find a nice place not too far from + the city—say on Long Island—and I can run out whenever + necessary. You both like the country, I imagine?” + </p> + <p> + Stefan was overjoyed. He jumped up. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Hillyard, you've saved us. We thought we had to be prisoners, and + I've been eating my heart out for France. The country will be a + compromise.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the doctor, smiling a little, “Mrs. Byrd has been longing for + England for a month or more.” + </p> + <p> + “I never said so!” and “She never told me!” exclaimed Mary and Stefan + simultaneously. + </p> + <p> + “No, you didn't,” the little doctor nodded wisely at her patient, “but I + know.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan immediately began to plan an expedition in search of the ideal + spot, as unspoiled if possible as Shadeham, but much nearer town. All + through dinner he discussed it, his spirits hugely improved, and + immediately after rang up Constance Elliot for advice. + </p> + <p> + “Hold the line,” the lady's voice replied, “while I consult.” In a minute + or two she returned. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Farraday is dining with us, and I've asked him. He lives at Crab's + Bay, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't,” objected Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he does,” her voice laughed back. “He was born there. He says if + you like he will come over and talk to you about it, and I, like a + self-sacrificing hostess, am willing to let him.” + </p> + <p> + “Splendid idea,” said Stefan, “ask him to come right over. Mary,” he + called, hanging up the receiver, “Constance is sending Farraday across to + advise us.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear,” said she; “sometimes I feel almost overwhelmed by all the + favors we receive from our friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Fiddlesticks! They are paid by the pleasure of our society. You don't + seem to realize that we are unusually interesting and attractive people,” + laughed he with a flourish. + </p> + <p> + “Vain boy!” + </p> + <p> + “So I am, and vain of being vain. I believe in being as conceited as + possible, conceited enough to make one's conceit good.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled indulgently, knowing that, as he was talking nonsense, he felt + happy. + </p> + <p> + Farraday appeared in a few minutes, and they settled in a group round the + fire with coffee and cigarettes. Stefan offered Mary one. She shook her + head. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not smoking now, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Dr. Hillyard say so?” he asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + “No, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Then don't be poky, dearest.” He lit the cigarette and held it out to + her, but she waved it back. + </p> + <p> + “Don't tease, dear,” she murmured, noticing that Farraday was watching + them. Stefan with a shrug retained the cigarette in his left hand, and + smoked it ostentatiously for some minutes, alternately with his own. Mary, + hoping he was not going to be naughty, embarked on the Long Island topic. + </p> + <p> + “We want to be within an hour of the city,” she explained, “but in pretty + country. We want to keep house, but not to pay too much. We should like to + be near the sea. Does that sound wildly impossible?” + </p> + <p> + Farraday fingered his cigarette reflectively. + </p> + <p> + “I rather think,” he said at last, “that my neighborhood most nearly meets + the requirements. I have several hundred acres at Crab's Bay, which + belonged to my father, running from the shore halfway to the railroad + station. The village itself is growing suburban, but the properties beyond + mine are all large, and keep the country open. We are only an hour from + the city—hardly more, by automobile.” + </p> + <p> + “Are there many tin cans?” enquired Stefan, flippantly. “In Michigan I + remember them as the chief suburban decoration.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Farraday, in his invariably courteous tone, “I've never been + there. It is a long way from New York.” + </p> + <p> + “Touché,” cried Stefan, grinning. “But you would think pessimism justified + if you'd ever had my experience of rural life.” + </p> + <p> + “Was your father really American?” enquired his guest with apparent + irrelevance. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and a minister.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a minister. I see,” the other replied, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Explains it, does it?” beamed Stefan, who was nothing if not quick. They + all laughed, and the little duel was ended. Mary took up the broken + discussion. + </p> + <p> + “Is there the slightest chance of our finding anything reasonably cheap in + such a neighborhood?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I was just coming to that,” said Farraday. “You would not care to be in + the village, and any houses that might be for rent there would be + expensive, I'm afraid. But it so happens there is a cottage on the edge of + my property where my father's old farmer used to live. After his death I + put a little furniture in the place, and have occasionally used it. But it + is entirely unnecessary to me, and you are welcome to it for the summer if + it would suit you. The rent would be nominal. I don't regard it + commercially, it's too near my own place.” + </p> + <p> + Mary flushed. “It's most awfully good of you,” she said, “but I don't know + if we ought to accept. I'm afraid you may be making it convenient out of + kindness.” + </p> + <p> + “Mary, how British!” Stefan interrupted. He had taken lately so to + labeling her small conventionalities. “Why accuse Mr. Farraday of + altruistic insincerity? I think his description sounds delightful. Let's + go tomorrow and see the cottage.” + </p> + <p> + “If you will wait till Sunday,” Farraday smiled, “I shall be delighted to + drive you out. It might be easier for Mrs. Byrd.” + </p> + <p> + Mary again demurred on the score of giving unnecessary trouble, but Stefan + overrode her, and Farraday was obviously pleased with the plan. It was + arranged that he should call for them in his car the following Sunday, and + that they should lunch with him and his mother. When he had left Stefan + performed a little pas seul around the room. + </p> + <p> + “Tra-la-la!” he sang; “birds, Mary, trees, water. No more chimney pots, no + more walking up and down that tunnel of an avenue. See what it is to have + admiring friends.” + </p> + <p> + Mary flushed again. “Why will you spoil everything by putting it like + that?” + </p> + <p> + He stopped and patted her cheek teasingly. + </p> + <p> + “It's me they admire, Mary, the great artist, creator of the famous + Danaë,” and he skipped again, impishly. + </p> + <p> + Mary was obliged to laugh. “You exasperating creature!” she said, and went + to bed, while he ran up to the studio to pull out the folding easel and + sketching-box of his old Brittany days. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + When on the following Sunday morning Farraday drove up to the house, Mary + was delighted to find Constance Elliot in the tonneau. + </p> + <p> + “Theodore has begun golfing again, now that the snow has gone,” she + greeted her, “so that I am a grass widow on holidays as well as all the + week.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you learn to play, too?” Mary asked, as they settled + themselves, Stefan sitting in front with Farraday, who was driving. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, for your English feet, my dear!” sighed Constance. “They are bigger + than mine—I dare say so, as I wear fours—but you can walk on + them. I was brought up to be vain of my extremities, and have worn + two-inch heels too long to be good for more than a mile. The links would + kill me. Besides,” she sighed again prettily, “dear Theodore is so much + happier without me.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you, Constance!” objected Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear,” went on the other, her beautiful little hands, which she + seldom gloved, playing with the inevitable string of jade, “the result of + modern specialization. Theodore is a darling, and in theory a Suffragist, + but he has practised the matrimonial division of labor so long that he + does not know what to do with the woman out of the home.” + </p> + <p> + “This is Queensborough Bridge,” she pointed out in a few minutes, as they + sped up a huge iron-braced incline. “It looks like eight pepper-castors on + a grid, surmounted by bayonets, but it is very convenient.” + </p> + <p> + Mary laughed. Constance's flow of small talk always put her in good + spirits. She looked about her with interest as the car emerged from the + bridge into a strange waste land of automobile factories, new stone-faced + business buildings, and tumbledown wooden cottages. The houses, in their + disarray, lay as if cast like seeds from some titanic hand, to fall, + wither or sprout as they listed, regardless of plan. The bridge seemed to + divide a settled civilization from pioneer country, and as they left the + factories behind and emerged into fields dotted with advertisements and + wooden shacks Mary was reminded of stories she had read of the far West, + or of Australia. Stefan leant back from the front seat, and waved at the + view. + </p> + <p> + “Behold the tin can,” he cried, “emblem of American civilization!” She saw + that he was right; the fields on either side were dotted with tins, + bottles, and other husks of dinners past and gone. Gradually, however, + this stage was left behind: they began to pass through villages of + pleasant wooden houses painted white or cream, with green shutters, or + groups of red-tiled stucco dwellings surrounded by gardens in the English + manner. Soon these, too, were left, and real country appeared, prettily + wooded, in which low-roofed homesteads clung timidly to the roadside as if + in search of company. + </p> + <p> + “What dear little houses!” Mary exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Constance, “that is the Long Island farmhouse type, as good + architecturally as anything America has produced, but abandoned in favor + of Oriental bungalows, Italian palaces and French châteaux.” + </p> + <p> + “I should adore a little house like one of those.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait till you see Mr. Farraday's cottage; it's a lamb, and his home like + it, only bigger. What can one call an augmented lamb? I can only think of + sheep, which doesn't sound well.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid we should say it was 'twee' in England,” Mary smiled, “which + sounds worse.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'd rather my house were a sheep than a 'twee,' because I do at + least know that a sheep is useful, and I'm sure a 'twee' can't be.” + </p> + <p> + “It's not a noun, Constance, but an adjective, meaning sweet,” translated + Mary, laughing. She loved Constance's nonsense because it was never more + than that. Stefan's absurdities were always personal and, often, not + without a hidden sting. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Constance went on, “you must be particularly 'twee' then, to + James' mother, who is a Quaker from Philadelphia, and an American + gentlewoman of the old school. His father was a New Englander, and took + his pleasures sadly, as I tell James he does; but his mother is as warm as + a dear little toast, and as pleasant—well—as the dinner bell.” + </p> + <p> + “What culinary similes, Constance!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, from sheep to mutton is only a step, and I'm so hungry I can + think only in terms of a menu. And that,” she prattled on, “reminds me of + Mr. McEwan, whose face is the shape of a mutton chop. He is sure to be + there, for he spends half his time with James. Do you like him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do,” said Mary; “increasingly.” + </p> + <p> + “He's one of the best of souls. Have you heard his story?” + </p> + <p> + “No, has he one?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, yes,” replied Constance. “The poor creature, who, by the way, + adores you, is a victim of Quixotism. When he first came to New York he + married a young girl who lived in his boarding-house and was in trouble by + another man. Mac found her trying to commit suicide, and, as the other man + had disappeared, married her to keep her from it. She was pretty, I + believe, and I think he was fond of her because of her terrible + helplessness. The first baby died, luckily, but when his own was born a + year or two later the poor girl was desperately ill, and lost most of what + little mind she possessed. She developed two manias—the common + spendthrift one, and the conviction that he was trying to divorce her. + That was ten years ago. He has to keep her at sanitariums with a companion + to check her extravagance, and he pays her weekly visits to reassure her + as to the divorce. She costs him nearly all he makes, in doctors' bills + and so forth—he never spends a penny on himself, except for a cheap + trip to Scotland once a year. Yet, with it all, he is one of the most + cheerful souls alive.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow!” said Mary. “What about the child?” + </p> + <p> + “He's alive, but she takes very little notice of him. He spends most of + his time with Mrs. Farraday, who is a saint. James, poor man, adores + children, and is glad to have him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why hasn't Mr. Farraday married, I wonder?” Mary murmured under the + covering purr of the car. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a waste,” groaned Constance. “An ideal husband thrown away! + Nobody knows, my dear. I think he was hit very hard years ago, and never + got over it. He won't say, but I tell him if I weren't ten years older, + and Theodore in evidence, I should marry him myself out of hand.” + </p> + <p> + “I like him tremendously, but I don't think I should ever have felt + attracted in that way,” said Mary, who was much too natural a woman not to + be interested in matrimonial speculations. + </p> + <p> + “That's because you are two of a kind, simple and serious,” nodded + Constance. “I could have adored him.” + </p> + <p> + They had been speeding along a country lane between tall oaks, and, + breasting a hill, suddenly came upon the sea, half landlocked by curving + bays and little promontories. Beyond these, on the horizon, the coast of + Connecticut was softly visible. Mary breathed in great draughts of + salt-tanged air. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how good!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Here we are,” cried Constance, as the machine swung past white posts into + a wooded drive, which curved and curved again, losing and finding glimpses + of the sea. No buds were out, but each twig bulged with nobbins of new + life; and the ground, brown still, had the swept and garnished look which + the March winds leave behind for the tempting of Spring. Persephone had + not risen, but the earth listened for her step, and the air held the high + purified quality that presages her coming. + </p> + <p> + “Lovely, lovely,” breathed Mary, her eyes and cheeks glowing. + </p> + <p> + The car stopped under a porte cochère, before a long brown house of heavy + clapboards, with shingled roof and green blinds. Farraday jumped down and + helped Mary out, and the front door opened to reveal the shining grin of + McEwan, poised above the gray head of a little lady who advanced with + outstretched hand to greet them. + </p> + <p> + “My mother—Mrs. Byrd,” Farraday introduced. + </p> + <p> + “I am very pleased to meet thee. My son has told me so much about thee and + thy husband. Thee must make thyself at home here,” beamed the little lady, + with one of the most engaging smiles Mary had ever beheld. + </p> + <p> + Stefan was introduced in his turn, and made his best continental bow. He + liked old ladies, who almost invariably adored him. McEwan greeted him + with a “Hello,” and shook hands warmly with the two women. They all moved + into the hall, Mary under the wing of Mrs. Farraday, who presently took + her upstairs to a bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “Thee must rest here before dinner,” said she, smoothing with a tiny hand + the crocheted bedspread. “Ring this bell if there is anything thee wants. + Shall I send Mr. Byrd up to thee?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I'm not a bit tired,” said Mary, who had never felt better. + </p> + <p> + “All the same I would rest a little if I were thee,” Mrs. Farraday nodded + wisely. Mary was fascinated by her grammar, never having met a Quaker + before. The little lady, who barely reached her guest's shoulder, had such + an air of mingled sweetness and dignity as to make Mary feel she must + instinctively yield to her slightest wish. Obediently she lay down, and + Mrs. Farraday covered her feet. + </p> + <p> + Mary noticed her fine white skin, soft as a baby's, the thousand tiny + lines round her gentle eyes, her simple dress of brown silk with a cameo + at the neck, her little, blue-veined hands. No wonder the son of such a + woman impressed one with his extraordinary kindliness. + </p> + <p> + The little lady slipped away, and Mary, feeling unexpected pleasure in the + quiet room and the soft bed, closed her eyes gratefully. + </p> + <p> + At luncheon, or rather dinner, for it was obvious that Mrs. Farraday kept + to the old custom of Sunday meals, a silent, shock-headed boy of about ten + appeared, whom McEwan with touching pride introduced as his son. He was + dressed in a kilt and small deerskin sporran, with the regulation heavy + stockings, tweed jacket and Eton collar. + </p> + <p> + “For Sundays only—we have to be Yankees on school days, eh, Jamie?” + explained his father. The boy grinned in speechless assent, instantly + looking a duplicate of McEwan. + </p> + <p> + Mary's heart warmed to him at once, he was so shy and clumsy; but Stefan, + who detested the mere suspicion of loutishness, favored him with an + absent-minded stare. Mary, who sat on Farraday's right, had the boy next + her, with his father beyond, Stefan being between Mrs. Farraday and + Constance. The meal was served by a gray-haired negro, of manners so + perfect as to suggest the ideal southern servant, already familiar to Mary + in American fiction. As if in answer to a cue, Mrs. Farraday explained + across the table that Moses and his wife had come from Philadelphia with + her on her marriage, and had been born in the South before the war. Mary's + literary sense of fitness was completely satisfied by this remark, which + was received by Moses with a smile of gentle pride. + </p> + <p> + “James,” said Constance, “I never get tired of your mother's house; it is + so wonderful to have not one thing out of key.” + </p> + <p> + Farraday smiled. “Bless you, she wouldn't change a footstool. It is all + just as when she married, and much of it, at that, belonged to her + mother.” + </p> + <p> + This explained what, with Mary's keen eye for interiors, had puzzled her + when they first arrived. She had expected to see more of the perfect taste + and knowledge displayed in Farraday's office, instead of which the house, + though dignified and hospitable, lacked all traces of the connoisseur. She + noticed in particular the complete absence of any color sense. All the + woodwork was varnished brown, the hangings were of dull brown velvet or + dark tapestry, the carpets toneless. Her bedroom had been hung with white + dimity, edged with crochet-work, but the furniture was of somber cherry, + and the chintz of the couch-cover brown with yellow flowers. The library, + into which she looked from where she sat, was furnished with high + glass-doored bookcases, turned walnut tables, and stuffed chairs and + couches with carved walnut rims. Down each window the shade was lowered + half way, and the light was further obscured by lace curtains and heavy + draperies of plain velvet. The pictures were mostly family portraits, with + a few landscapes of doubtful merit. There were no flowers anywhere, except + one small vase of daffodils upon the dinner table. According to all modern + canons the house should have been hideous; but it was not. It held + garnered with loving faith the memories of another day, as a bowl of + potpourri still holds the sun of long dead summers. It fitted absolutely + the quiet kindliness, the faded face and soft brown dress of its mistress. + It was keyed to her, as Constance had understood, to the last detail. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Farraday, smiling down the table at his mother, “she could + hardly bring herself to let me build my picture gallery on the end of the + house—nothing but Christian charity enabled her to yield.” + </p> + <p> + The old lady smiled back at her tall son almost like a sweetheart. “He + humors me,” she said; “he knows I'm a foolish old woman who love, my nest + as it was first prepared for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can so well understand that,” said Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say, Mrs. Farraday,” interposed Stefan, “that you have + lived in this one house, without changing it, all your married life?” + </p> + <p> + She turned to him in simple surprise. “Why, of course; my husband chose it + for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Marvelous!” said Stefan, who felt that one week of those brown hangings + would drive him to suicide. + </p> + <p> + “Nix on the home-sweet-home business for yours, eh, Byrd?” threw in McEwan + with his glint of a twinkle. + </p> + <p> + “Boy,” interposed their little hostess, “why will thee always use such + shocking slang? How can I teach Jamie English with his father's example + before him?” She shook a tiny finger at the offender. + </p> + <p> + “Ma'am, if I didn't sling the lingo, begging your pardon, in my office, + they would think I was a highbrow, and then—good night Mac!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't believe him, Mother,” said Farraday. “It isn't policy, but + affection. He loves the magazine crowd, and likes to do as it does. + Besides,” he smiled, “he's a linguistic specialist.” + </p> + <p> + “You think slang is an indication of local patriotism?” asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Farraday. “If we love a place we adopt its customs.” + </p> + <p> + “That's quite true,” Stefan agreed. “In Paris I used the worst argot of + the quarter, but I've always spoken straightforward English because the + only slang I knew in my own tongue reminded me of a place I loathed.” + </p> + <p> + “Stefan used to be dreadfully unpatriotic, Mrs. Farraday,” explained Mary, + “but he is outgrowing it.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” Stefan asked rather pointedly. + </p> + <p> + “Art,” said McEwan grandly, “is international; Byrd belongs to the world.” + He raised his glass of lemonade, and ostentatiously drank Stefan's health. + The others laughed at him, and the conversation veered. Mary absorbed + herself in trying to draw out the bashful Jamie, and Stefan listened while + his hostess talked on her favorite theme, that of her son, James Farraday. + </p> + <p> + They had coffee in the picture gallery, a beautiful room which Farraday + had extended beyond the drawing-room, and furnished with perfect examples + of the best Colonial period. It was hung almost entirely with the work of + Americans, in particular landscapes by Inness, Homer Martin, and George + Munn, while over the fireplace was a fine mother and child by Mary + Cassatt. For the first time since their arrival Stefan showed real + interest, and leaving the others, wandered round the room critically + absorbing each painting. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Farraday,” he said at the end of his tour, “I must say you have the + best of judgment. I should have been mighty glad to paint one or two of + those myself.” His tone indicated that more could not be said. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Mary could hardly wait for the real object of their expedition, + the little house. When at last the car was announced, Mrs. Farraday's + bonnet and cloak brought by a maid, and everybody, Jamie included, fitted + into the machine, Mary felt her heart beating with excitement. Were they + going to have a real little house for their baby? Was it to be born out + here by the sea, instead of in the dusty, overcrowded city? She strained + her eyes down the road. “It's only half a mile,” called Farraday from the + wheel, “and a mile and a half from the station.” They swung down a hill, + up again, round a bend, and there was a grassy plateau overlooking the + water, backed by a tree-clad slope. Nestling under the trees, but facing + the bay, was just such a little house as Mary had admired along the road, + low and snug, shingled on walls and roof, painted white, with green + shutters and a little columned porch at the front door. A small barn stood + near; a little hedge divided house from lane; evidences of a flower garden + showed under the windows. “Oh, what a duck!” Mary exclaimed. “Oh, Stefan!” + She could almost have wept. + </p> + <p> + Farraday helped her down. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Byrd,” said he with his most kindly smile, “here is the key. Would + you like to unlock the door yourself?” + </p> + <p> + She blushed with pleasure. “Oh, yes!” she cried, and turned instinctively + to look for Stefan. He was standing at the plateau's edge, scrutinizing + the view. She called, but he did not hear. Then she took the key and, + hurrying up the little walk, entered the house alone. + </p> + <p> + A moment later Stefan, hailed stentoriously by McEwan, followed her. + </p> + <p> + She was standing in a long sitting-room, low-ceilinged and white-walled, + with window-seats, geraniums on the sills, brass andirons on the hearth, + an eight-day clock, a small old fashioned piano, an oak desk, a + chintz-covered grandmother's chair, a gate-legged table, and a braided rag + hearth-rug. Her hands were clasped, her eyes shining. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan!” she exclaimed as she heard his step. “Isn't it a darling? + Wouldn't it be simply ideal for us?” + </p> + <p> + “It seems just right, and the view is splendid. There's a good deal that's + paintable here.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there? I'm so glad. That makes it perfect. Look at the furniture, + Stefan, every bit right.” + </p> + <p> + “And the moldings,” he added. “All handcut, do you see? The whole place is + actually old. What a lark!” He appeared almost as pleased as she. + </p> + <p> + “Here come the others. Let's go upstairs, dearest,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + There were four bedrooms, and a bathroom. The main room had a four-post + bed, and opening out of it was a smaller room, almost empty. In this Mary + stood for some minutes, measuring with her eye the height of the window + from the floor, mentally placing certain small furnishings. “It would be + ideal, simply ideal,” she repeated to herself. Stefan was looking out of + the window, again absorbed in the view. She would have liked so well to + share with him her tenderness over the little room, but he was all + unmindful of its meaning to her, and, as always, his heedlessness made + expression hard for her. She was still communing with the future when he + turned from the window. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, Mary, let's go downstairs again.” + </p> + <p> + They found the others waiting in the sitting-room, and Farraday detached + Stefan to show him a couple of old prints, while Mrs. Farraday led + Constance and Mary to an exploration of the kitchen. Chancing to look back + from the hall, Mary saw that McEwan had seated himself in the + grandmother's chair, and was holding the heavy shy Jamie at his knee, one + arm thrown round him. The boy's eyes were fixed in dumb devotion on his + father's face. + </p> + <p> + “The two poor lonely things,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + The little kitchen was spotless, tiled shoulder-high, and painted blue + above. Against one wall a row of copper saucepans grinned their fat + content, echoed by the pale shine of an opposing row of aluminum. Snowy + larder shelves showed through one little door; through another, laundry + tubs were visible. There was a modern coal stove, with a boiler. The + quarters were small, but perfect to the last detail. Mrs. Farraday's + little face fairly beamed with pride as they looked about them. + </p> + <p> + “He did it all, bought every pot and pan, arranged each detail. There were + no modern conveniences until old Cotter died—<i>he</i> would not let + James put them in. My boy loves this cottage; he sometimes spends several + days here all alone, when he is very tired. He doesn't even like me to + send Moses down, but of course I won't hear of that.” She shook her head + with smiling finality. There were some things, her manner suggested, that + little boys could not be allowed. + </p> + <p> + “But, Mrs. Farraday,” Mary exclaimed, “how can we possibly take the house + from him if he uses it?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” the little lady's hand lighted on Mary's arm, “when thee knows + my James better, thee will know that his happiness lies in helping his + friends find theirs. He would be deeply disappointed if thee did not take + it,” and her hand squeezed Mary's reassuringly. + </p> + <p> + “We are too wonderfully lucky—I don't know how to express my + gratitude,” Mary answered. + </p> + <p> + “I think the good Lord sends us what we deserve, my dear, whether of good + or ill,” the little lady replied, smiling wisely. + </p> + <p> + Constance sighed contentedly. “Oh, Mrs. Farraday, you are so good for us + all. I'm a modern backslider, and hardly ever go to church, but you always + make me feel as if I had just been.” + </p> + <p> + “Backslider, Constance? 'Thy own works praise thee, and thy children rise + up and call thee blessed—thy husband also,'” quoted their hostess. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't know if my boys and Theodore call me blessed, but I hope + the Suffragists will one day. Goodness knows I work hard enough for them.” + </p> + <p> + “I've believed in suffrage all my life, like all Friends,” Mrs. Farraday + answered, “but where thee has worked I have only prayed for it.” + </p> + <p> + “If prayers are heard, I am sure yours should count more than my work, + dear lady,” said Constance, affectionately pressing the other's hand. + </p> + <p> + The little Quaker's eyes were bright as she looked at her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear, thee is too generous to an old woman.” + </p> + <p> + Mary loved this little dialogue, “What dears all my new friends are,” she + thought; “how truly good.” All the world seemed full of love to her in + these days; her heart blossomed out to these kind people; she folded them + in the arms of her spirit. All about, in nature and in human kind, she + felt the spring burgeoning, and within herself she felt it most of all. + But of this Mary could express nothing, save through her face—she + had never looked more beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Coming into the dining room she found Farraday watching her. He seemed + tired. She put out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “May we really have it? You are sure?” + </p> + <p> + “You like it?” he smiled, holding the hand. + </p> + <p> + She flushed with the effort to express herself. “I adore it. I can't thank + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Please don't,” he answered. “You don't know what pleasure this gives me. + Come as soon as you can; everything is ready for you.” + </p> + <p> + “And about the rent?” she asked, hating to speak of money, but knowing + Stefan would forget. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Mrs. Byrd, I had so much rather lend it, but I know you wouldn't + like that. Pay me what you paid for your first home in New York.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but that would be absurd,” she demurred. + </p> + <p> + “Make that concession to my pride in our friendship,” he smiled back. + </p> + <p> + She saw that she could not refuse without ungraciousness. Stefan had + disappeared, but now came quickly in from the kitchen door. + </p> + <p> + “Farraday,” he called, “I've been looking at the barn; you don't use it, I + see. If we come, should you mind my having a north light cut in it? With + that it would make an ideal workshop.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be delighted,” the other answered; “it's a good idea and will + make the place more valuable. I had the barn cleaned out thinking some one + might like it for a garage.” + </p> + <p> + “We shan't run to such an extravagance yet awhile,” laughed Mary. + </p> + <p> + “A bicycle for me and the station hack for Mary,” Stefan summed up. “I + suppose there is such a thing at Crab's Bay?” + </p> + <p> + “She won't have to walk,” Farraday answered. + </p> + <p> + Started on practical issues, Mary's mind had flown to the need of a + telephone to link them to her doctor. “May we install a 'phone?” she + asked. “I never lived with one till two months ago, but already it is a + confirmed vice with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Mayn't I have it put in for you—there should be one here,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, please!” + </p> + <p> + “At least let me arrange for it,” he urged. + </p> + <p> + “Now, son, thee must not keep Mrs. Byrd out too late. Get her home before + sundown,” Mrs. Farraday's voice admonished. Obediently, every one moved + toward the hall. At a word from McEwan, the mute Jamie ran to open the + tonneau door. Farraday stopped to lock the kitchen entrance and found + McEwan on the little porch as he emerged, while the others were busy + settling themselves in the car. As Farraday turned the heavy front door + lock, his friend's hand fell on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Ought ye to do it, James?” McEwan asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + Farraday raised his eyes, and looked steadily at the other, with his slow + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mac, it's a good thing to do. In any case, I shouldn't have been + likely to marry, you know.” The two friends took their places in the car. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + After much consideration from Mary, the Byrds decided to give up their + recently acquired flat, but to keep the old studio. She felt they should + not attempt to carry three rents through the summer, but, on the other + hand, Stefan was still working at his Demeter, using an Italian model for + the boy's figure, and could not finish it conveniently elsewhere. Then, + too, he expressed a wish for a pied-à-terre in the city, and as Mary had + very tender associations with the little studio she was glad to think of + keeping it. + </p> + <p> + Stefan was working fitfully at this time. He would have spurts of energy + followed by fits of depression and disgust with his work, during which he + would leave the house and take long rides uptown on the tops of omnibuses. + Mary could not see that these excursions in search of air calmed his + nervousness, and she concluded that the spring fever was in his blood and + that he needed a change of scene at least as much as she did. + </p> + <p> + About this time he sold his five remaining drawings of New York to the + Pan-American Magazine, a progressive monthly. They gained considerable + attention from the art world, and were seized upon by certain groups of + radicals as a sermon on the capitalistic system. On the strength of them, + Stefan was hailed as that rarest of all beings, a politically minded + artist, and became popular in quarters from which his intolerance had + hitherto barred him. + </p> + <p> + It entertained him hugely to be proclaimed as a champion of democracy, for + he had made the drawings in impish hatred not of a class but of American + civilization as a whole. + </p> + <p> + Their bank account, in spite of much heightened living expenses, remained + substantial by reason of this new sale, but Stefan was as indifferent as + ever to its control, and Mary's sense of caution was little diminished. + Her growing comprehension of him warned her that their position was still + insecure; he remained, for all his success, an unknown quantity as a + producer. She wanted him to assume some interest in their affairs, and + suggested separate bank accounts, but he begged off. + </p> + <p> + “Let me have a signature at the bank, so that I can cash checks for + personal expenses, but don't ask me to keep accounts, or know how much we + have,” he said. “If you find I am spending too much at any time, just tell + me, and I will stop.” + </p> + <p> + Further than this she could not get him to discuss the matter, and saw + that she must think out alone some method of bookkeeping which would be + fair to them both, and would establish a record for future use. Ultimately + she transferred her own money, less her private expenditures during the + winter, to a separate account, to be used for all her personal expenses. + The old account she put in both their names, and made out a monthly + schedule for the household, beyond which she determined never to draw. + Anything she could save from this amount she destined for a savings bank, + but over and above it she felt that her husband's earnings were his, and + that she could not in honor interfere with them. Mary was almost painfully + conscientious, and this plan cost her many heart-searchings before it was + complete. + </p> + <p> + After her baby was born she intended to continue her writing; she did not + wish ever to draw on Stefan for her private purse. So far at least, she + would live up to feminist principles. + </p> + <p> + There was much to be done before they could leave the city, and Mary had + practically no assistance from Stefan in her arrangements. She would ask + his advice about the packing or disposal of a piece of furniture, and he + would make some suggestion, often impracticable; but on any further + questioning he would run his hands through his hair, or thrust them into + his pockets, looking either vague or nervous. “Why fuss about such things, + dear?” or “Do just as you like,” or “I'm sure I haven't a notion,” were + his most frequent answers. He developed a habit of leaving his work and + following Mary restlessly from room to room as she packed or sorted, which + she found rather wearing. + </p> + <p> + On one such occasion—it was the day before they were to leave—she + was carrying a large pile of baby's clothes from her bedroom to a trunk in + the sitting-room, while Stefan stood humped before the fireplace, smoking. + As she passed him he frowned nervously. + </p> + <p> + “How heavily you tread, Mary,” he jerked out. She stood stock-still and + flushed painfully. + </p> + <p> + “I think, Stefan,” she said, with the tears of feeling which came + over-readily in these days welling to her eyes, “instead of saying that + you might come and help me to carry these things.” + </p> + <p> + He looked completely contrite. “I'm sorry, dearest, it was a silly thing + to say. Forgive me,” and he kissed her apologetically, taking the bundle + from her. He offered to help several times that afternoon, but as he never + knew where anything was to go, and fidgeted from foot to foot while he + hung about her, she was obliged at last to plead release from his efforts. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan dear,” she said, giving him rather a harassed smile, “you + evidently find this kind of thing a bore. Why don't you run out and leave + me to get on quietly with it?” + </p> + <p> + “I know I've been rotten to you, and I thought you wanted me to help,” he + explained, in a self-exculpatory tone. + </p> + <p> + She stroked his cheek maternally. “Run along, dearest. I can get on + perfectly well alone.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a brick, Mary. I think I'll go. This kind of thing—” he + flung his arm toward the disordered room—“is too utterly + unharmonious.” And kissing her mechanically he hastened out. + </p> + <p> + That night for the first time in their marriage he did not return for + dinner, but telephoned that he was spending the evening with friends. + Mary, tired out with her packing, ate her meal alone and went to bed + immediately afterwards. His absence produced in her a dull heartache, but + she was too weary to ponder over his whereabouts. + </p> + <p> + Early next morning Mary telephoned Miss Mason. Stefan, who had come home + late, was still asleep when the Sparrow arrived, and by the time he had + had his breakfast the whole flat was in its final stage of disruption. A + few pieces of furniture were to be sent to the cottage, a few more stored, + and the studio was to be returned to its original omnibus status. Mrs. + Corriani, priestess of family emergencies, had been summoned from the + depths; the Sparrow had donned an apron, Mary a smock; Lily, the colored + maid, was packing china into a barrel, surrounded by writhing seas of + excelsior. For Stefan, the flat might as well have been given over to the + Furies. He fetched his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” he said, “I'm not painting again until we have moved. Djinns, + Afrits and Goddesses should be allowed to perform their spiritings unseen + of mortals. I shall go and sit in the Metropolitan and contemplate Rodin's + Penseur—he is so spacious.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, dearest,” said Mary brightly. She had slept away her low + spirits. “Don't forget Mr. Farraday is sending his car in for us at three + o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + He looked nonplused. “You don't mean to say we are moving to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you goose,” she laughed, “don't you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm frightfully sorry, Mary, but I made an engagement for this evening, + to go to the theatre. I knew you would not want to come,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Mary looked blank. “But, Stefan,” she exclaimed, “everything is arranged! + We are dining with the Farradays. I told you several times we were moving + on the fourth. You make it so difficult, dear, by not taking any + interest.” Her voice trembled. She had worked and planned for their + flitting for a week past, was all eagerness to be gone, and now he, who + had been equally keen, seemed utterly indifferent. + </p> + <p> + He fidgeted uncomfortably, looking contrite yet rebellious. Mary was at a + loss. The Sparrow, however, promptly raised her crest and exhibited a + claw. + </p> + <p> + “Land sakes, Mr. Byrd,” she piped, “you are a mighty fine artist, but that + don't prevent your being a husband first these days! Men are all alike—” + she turned to Mary—“always ready to skedaddle off when there's work + to be done. Now, young man—” she pointed a mandatory finger—“you + run and telephone your friends to call the party off.” Her voice shrilled, + her beady eyes snapped; she looked exactly like one of her namesakes, + ruffled and quarreling at the edge of its nest. + </p> + <p> + Stefan burst out laughing. “All right, Miss Sparrow, smooth your feathers. + Mary, I'm a mud-headed idiot—I forgot the whole thing. Pay no + attention to my vagaries, dearest, I'll be at the door at three.” He + kissed her warmly, and went out humming, banging the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + “My father was the same, and my brothers,” the Sparrow philosophized. + “Spring-cleaning and moving took every ounce of sense out of them.” Mary + sighed. Her zest for the preparations had departed. + </p> + <p> + Presently, seeing her languor, Miss Mason insisted Mary should lie down + and leave the remaining work to her. The only resting place left was the + old studio, where their divan had been replaced. Thither Mary mounted, and + lying amidst its dusty disarray, traced in memory the months she had spent + there. It had been their first home. Here they had had their first quarrel + and their first success, and here had come to her her annunciation. Though + they were keeping the room, it would never hold the same meaning for her + again, and though she already loved their new home, it hurt her at the + last to bid their first good-bye. Perhaps it was a trick of fatigue, but + as she lay there the conviction came to her that with to-day's change some + part of the early glamour of marriage was to go, that not even the coming + of her child could bring to life the memories this room contained. She + longed for her husband, for his voice calling her the old, dear, foolish + names. She felt alone, and fearful of the future. + </p> + <p> + “My grief,” exclaimed Miss Mason from the door an hour later. “I told you + to go to sleep 'n here you are wide awake and crying!” + </p> + <p> + Mary smiled shamefacedly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm just tired, Sparrow, that's all, and have been indulging in the + 'vapors.'” She squeezed her friend's hand. “Let's have some lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all ready, and Lily with her hat 'n coat on. Come right downstairs—it's + most two o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + Mary jumped up, amazed at the time she had wasted. Her spell of depression + was over, and she was her usual cheerful self when, at three o'clock, she + heard Stefan's feet bounding up the stairs for the last time. + </p> + <p> + “Tra-la, Mary, the car is here!” he called. “Thank God we are getting out + of this city! Good-by, Miss Sparrow, don't peck me, and come and see us at + Crab's Bay. March, Lily. A riverderci, Signora Corriani. Come, dearest.” + He bustled them all out, seized two suitcases in one hand and Mary's elbow + in the other, chattered his few words of Italian to the janitress, chaffed + Miss Mason, and had them all laughing by the time they reached the street. + He seemed in the highest spirits, his moods of the last weeks forgotten. + </p> + <p> + As the car started he kissed his fingers repeatedly to Miss Mason and + waved his hat to the inevitable assemblage of small boys. + </p> + <p> + “The country, darling!” he cried, pressing Mary's hand under the rug. + “Farewell to ugliness and squalor! How happy we are going to be!” + </p> + <p> + Mary's hand pressed his in reply. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + It was late April. The wooded slopes behind “The Byrdsnest,” as Mary had + christened the cottage, were peppered with a pale film of green. The lawn + before the house shone with new grass. Upon it, in the early morning, Mary + watched beautiful birds of types unknown to her, searching for nest-making + material. She admired the large, handsome robins, so serious and stately + after the merry pertness of the English sort, but her favorites were the + bluebirds, and another kind that looked like greenish canaries, of which + she did not know the name. None of them, she thought, had such melodious + song as at home in England, but their brilliant plumage was a constant + delight to her. + </p> + <p> + Daffodils were springing up in the garden, crocuses were out, and the blue + scylla. On the downward slope toward the bay the brown furry heads of + ferns had begun to push stoutly from the earth. The spring was awake. + </p> + <p> + Stefan seemed thoroughly contented again. He had his north light in the + barn, but seldom worked there, being absorbed in outdoor sketching. He was + making many small studies of the trees still bare against the gleam of + water, with a dust of green upon them. He could get a number of valuable + notes here, he told Mary. + </p> + <p> + During their first two weeks in the country his restlessness had often + recurred. He had gone back and forth to the city for work on his Demeter, + and had even slept there on several occasions. But one morning he wakened + Mary by coming in from an early ramble full of joy in the spring, and + announcing that the big picture was now as good as he could make it, and + that he was done with the town. He threw back the blinds and called to her + to look at the day. + </p> + <p> + “It's vibrant, Mary; life is waking all about us.” He turned to the bed. + </p> + <p> + “You look like a beautiful white rose, cool with the dew.” + </p> + <p> + She blushed—he had forgotten lately his old habit of pretty + speech-making. He came and sat on the bed's edge, holding her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I've had my restless devil with me of late, sweetheart,” he said. “But + now I feel renewed, and happy. I shan't want to leave you any more.” He + kissed her with a gravity at which she might have wondered had she been + more thoroughly awake. His tone was that of a man who makes a promise to + himself. + </p> + <p> + Since that morning he had been consistently cheerful and carefree, more + attentive to Mary than for some time past, and pleased with all his + surroundings. She was overjoyed at the change, and for her own part never + tired of working in the house and garden, striving to make more perfect + the atmosphere of simple homeliness which Farraday had first imparted to + them. Lily was fascinated by her kitchen and little white bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “This surely is a cute little house, yes, <i>ma'am</i>,” she would exclaim + emphatically, with a grin. + </p> + <p> + Lily was a small, chocolate-colored negress, with a neat figure, and the + ever ready smile which is God's own gift to the race. Mary, who hardly + remembered having seen a negro till she came to America, had none of the + color-prejudice which grows up in biracial communities. She found Lily + civil, cheerful, and intelligent, and felt a sincere liking for her which + the other reciprocated with a growing devotion. + </p> + <p> + Often in these days a passerby—had there been any—could have + heard a threefold chorus rising about the cottage, a spring-song as + unconscious as the birds'. From the kitchen Lily's voice rose in the + endless refrain of a hymn; Mary's clear tones traveled down from the + little room beside her own, where she was preparing a place for the + expected one; and Stefan's whistle, or his snatches of French song, + resounded from woods or barn. Youth and hope were in the house, youth was + in the air and earth. + </p> + <p> + Farraday's gardens were the pride of the neighborhood, these and the + library expressing him as the house did his mother. Several times he sent + down an armful of flowers to the Byrdsnest, and, one Sunday morning, Mary + had just finished arranging such a bunch in her vases when she heard the + chug of an automobile in the lane. She looked out to see Constance, a + veiled figure beside her, stopping a runabout at the gate. Delighted, she + hastened to the door. Constance hailed her. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, behold the charioteer! Theodore has given me this machine for + suffrage propaganda during the summer, and I achieved my driver's license + yesterday. I'm so vain I'm going to make Felicity design me a gown with a + peacock's tail that I can spread. I've brought her with me to show off + too, and because she needed air. How are you, bless you? May we come in?” + </p> + <p> + Not waiting for an answer, she jumped down and hugged Mary, Miss Berber + following in more leisurely fashion. Mary could not help wishing Constance + had come alone, as she now felt a little self-conscious before strangers. + However, she shook hands with Miss Berber, and led them both into the + sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + “Simply delicious!” exclaimed Constance, glancing eagerly about her, “and + how divinely healthy you look—like a transcendental dairy-maid! This + place was made for you, and how you've improved it. Look, Felicity, at her + chintz, and her flowers, and her <i>cunning</i> pair of china + shepherdesses!” She ran from one thing to another, ecstatically + appreciative. + </p> + <p> + Mary had had no chance to speak yet, and, as Felicity was absorbed in the + languid removal of a satin coat and incredible yards of apple green + veiling, Constance held the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Look at her pair of love-birds sidling along the curtain pole, as tame as + humans! Where did you find that wooden cage? And that white cotton dress? + You smell of lavender and an ironing-board! Oh, dear,” she began again, + “driving is very wearing, and I should like a cocktail, but I must have + milk. Milk, my dear Mary, is the only conceivable beverage in this house. + Have you a cow? You ought to have a cow—a brindled cow—also a + lamb; 'Mary had,' et cetera. My dear, stop me. Enthusiasm converts me into + an 'agreeable rattle,' as they used to call our great-grandmothers.” + </p> + <p> + “Subdue yourself with this,” laughed Mary, holding out the desired glass + of milk. “Miss Berber, can I get anything for you?” + </p> + <p> + Felicity by this time was unwrapped, and had disposed herself upon a + window-seat, her back to the light. + </p> + <p> + “Wine or water, Mrs. Byrd; I do not drink milk,” she breathed, lighting a + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “We have some Chianti; nothing else, I'm afraid,” said Mary, and a glass + of this the designer deigned to accept, together with a little yellow cake + set with currants, and served upon a pewter plate. + </p> + <p> + “I see, Mrs. Byrd,” Felicity murmured, as Constance in momentary silence + sipped her milk, “that you comprehend the first law of decoration for + woman—that her accessories must be a frame for her type. I—how + should I appear in a room like this?” She gave a faint shrug. “At best, a + false tone in a chromatic harmony. You are entirely in key.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyelids drooped; she exhaled a long breath of smoke. “Very well + thought out—unusually clever—for a layman,” she uttered, and + was still, with the suggestion of a sibyl whose oracle has ceased to + speak. + </p> + <p> + Mary tried not to find her manner irritating, but could not wholly dispel + the impression that Miss Berber habitually patronized her. + </p> + <p> + She laughed pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I can't claim to have been guided by any subtle theories—I + have merely collected together the kind of things I am fond of.” + </p> + <p> + “Mary decorates with her heart, Felicity, you with your head,” said + Constance, setting down her empty tumbler. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I should find the heart too erratic a guide to art. Knowledge, + Mrs. Byrd, knowledge must supplement feeling,” said Felicity, with a + gesture of finality. + </p> + <p> + “Really!” answered Mary, falling back upon her most correct English + manner. There was nothing else to say. “She is either cheeky, or a + bromide,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + “Felicity,” exclaimed Constance, “don't adopt your professional manner; + you can't take us in. You know you are an outrageous humbug.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Connie,” replied the other with the ghost of a smile, “you are + always so amusing, and so much more wide awake in the morning than I am.” + </p> + <p> + Conversation languished for a minute, Constance having embarked on a cake. + For some reason which she could not analyze, Mary felt in no great hurry + to call Stefan from the barn, should he be there. + </p> + <p> + Felicity rose. “May we not see your garden, Mrs. Byrd?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Mary, and led the way to the door. Felicity slipped out + first, and wandered with her delicate step a little down the path. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it darling!” exclaimed Constance from the porch, surveying the + flower-strewn grass, the feathery trees, and the pale gleam of the water. + Mary began to show her some recent plantings, in particular a rose-bed + which was her last addition to the garden. + </p> + <p> + “I see you have a barn,” said Felicity, flitting back to them with a hint + of animation. “Is it picturesque inside? Would it lend itself to + treatment?” She wandered toward it, and there was nothing for the others + to do but follow. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” explained Mary, “my husband has converted it into a studio. He + may be working there now—I had been meaning to call him.” + </p> + <p> + She felt a trifle uncomfortable, almost as if she had put herself in the + wrong. + </p> + <p> + “Coo-oo, Stefan,” she called as they neared the barn, Felicity still + flitting ahead. The door swung open, and there stood Stefan, pallette in + hand, screwing up his eyes in the sun. + </p> + <p> + As they lit on his approaching visitor an expression first of + astonishment, and then of something very like displeasure, crossed his + face. At sight of it, Mary's spirits subconsciously responded by a + distinct upward lift. Stefan waved his brush without shaking hands, and + then, seeing Constance, broke into a smile. + </p> + <p> + “How delightful, Mrs. Elliot! How did you come? By auto? And you drove + Miss Berber? We are honored. You are our first visitors except the + Farradays. Come and see my studio.” + </p> + <p> + They trooped into the quaint little barn, which appeared to wear its big + north light rather primly, as a girl her first low-necked gown. It was + unfurnished, save for a table and easel, several canvases, and an old + arm-chair. Felicity glanced at the sketches. + </p> + <p> + “In pastoral mood again,” she commented, with what might have been the + faintest note of sarcasm. Stefan's eyebrows twitched nervously. + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing to see in here-these are the merest sketches,” he said + abruptly. “Come along, Mrs. Elliot, I've been working since before + breakfast; let's say good-morning to the flowers.” And with his arm linked + through hers he piloted Constance back toward the lawn. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Byrd ought never to wear tweed, do you think? It makes him look + heavy,” remarked Felicity. + </p> + <p> + Again Mary had to suppress a feeling of irritation. “I rather like it,” + she said. “It's so comfy and English.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” breathed Felicity vaguely, walking on. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she appeared to have a return of animation. + </p> + <p> + She floated forward quickly for a few steps, turned with a swaying + movement, and waited for Mary with hands and feet poised. + </p> + <p> + “The grass under one's feet, Mrs. Byrd, it makes them glad. One could + almost dance!” + </p> + <p> + Again she fluttered ahead, this time overtaking Constance and Stefan, who + had halted in the middle of the lawn. She swayed before them on tiptoe. + </p> + <p> + “Connie,” she was saying as Mary came up, “why does one not more often + dance in the open?” + </p> + <p> + Though her lids still drooped she was half smiling as she swayed. + </p> + <p> + “It may be the spring; or perhaps I have caught the pastoral mood of Mr. + Byrd's work; but I should like to dance a little. Music,” her palms were + lifted in repudiation, “is unnecessary. One has the birds.” + </p> + <p> + “Good for you, Felicity! That <i>will</i> be fun,” Constance exclaimed + delightedly. “You don't dance half often enough, bad girl. Come along, + people, let's sit on the porch steps.” + </p> + <p> + They arranged themselves to watch, Constance and Mary on the upper step, + Stefan on the lower, his shoulders against his wife's knees, while + Felicity dexterously slipped off her sandals and stockings. + </p> + <p> + Her dress, modeled probably on that of the central figure in Botticelli's + Spring, was of white chiffon, embroidered with occasional formal sprigs of + green leaves and hyacinth-blue flowers, and kilted up at bust and thigh. + Her loosely draped sleeves hung barely to the elbow. A line of green + crossed from the shoulders under each breast, and her hair, tightly bound, + was decorated with another narrow band of green. She looked younger than + in the city—almost virginal. Stooping low, she gathered a handful of + blue scylla from the grass, Mary barely checking an exclamation at this + ravishing of her beloved bulbs. Then Felicity lay down upon the grass; her + eyes closed; she seemed asleep. They waited silently for some minutes. + Stefan began to fidget. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a robin called. Felicity's eyes opened. They looked calm and + dewy, like a child's. She raised her head—the robin called again. + Felicity looked about her, at the flowers in her hand, the trees, the sky. + Her face broke into smiles, she rose tall, taller, feet on tiptoe, hands + reaching skyward. It was the waking of spring. Then she began to dance. + </p> + <p> + Gone was the old languor, the dreamy, hushed steps of her former method. + Now she appeared to dart about the lawn like a swallow, following the + calls of the birds. She would stand poised to listen, her ear would catch + a twitter, and she was gone; flitting, skimming, seeming not to touch the + earth. She danced to the flowers in her hand, to the trees, the sky, her + face aglint with changing smiles, her skirts rippling like water. + </p> + <p> + At last the blue flowers seemed to claim her solely. She held them + sunward, held them close, always swaying to the silent melody of the + spring. She kissed them, pressed them to her heart; she sank downward, + like a bird with folding wings, above a clump of scylla; her arms + encircled them, her head bent to her knees—she was still. + </p> + <p> + Constance broke the spell with prolonged applause; Mary was breathless + with admiration; Stefan rose, and after prowling restlessly for a moment, + hurried to the dancer and stooped to lift her. + </p> + <p> + As if only then conscious of her audience, Felicity looked up, and both + the other women noticed the expression that flashed across her face before + she took the proffered hand. It seemed compounded of triumph, challenge, + and something else. Mary again felt uncomfortable, and Constance's quick + brain signaled a warning. + </p> + <p> + “Surely not getting into mischief, are you, Felicity?” she mentally + questioned, and instantly began to east about for two and two to put + together. + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful!” Stefan was saying. “You surely must have wings—great, + butterfly ones—only we are too dull to see them. You were exactly + like one of my pictures come to life.” He was visibly excited. + </p> + <p> + “Husband disposed of, available lovers unattractive, asks me to drive her + out here; that's one half,” Constance's mind raced. “Wife on the shelf, + variable temperament, studio in town; and that's the other. I've found two + and two; I hope to goodness they won't make four,” she sighed to herself + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + Mary meanwhile was thanking Miss Berber. She noticed that the dancer was + perfectly cool—not a hair ruffled by her efforts. She looked as + smooth as a bird that draws in its feathers after flight. Stefan was + probably observing this, too, she thought; at any rate he was hovering + about, staring at Felicity, and running his hands through his hair. Mary + could not be sure of his expression; he seemed uneasy, as if discomfort + mingled with his pleasure. + </p> + <p> + They had had a rare and lovely entertainment, and yet no one appeared + wholly pleased except the dancer herself. It was very odd. + </p> + <p> + Constance looked at her watch. “Now, Felicity, this has all been ideal, + but we must be getting on. I 'phoned James, you know, and we are lunching + there. I was sure Mrs. Byrd wouldn't want to be bothered with us.” + </p> + <p> + Mary demurred, with a word as to Lily's capacities, but Constance was + firm. + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear, it's all arranged. Besides, you need peace and quiet. + Felicity, where are your things? Thank you, Mr. Byrd, in the sitting-room. + Mary, you dear, I adore you and your house—I shall come again soon. + Where are my gloves?” She was all energy, helping Felicity with her veil, + settling her own hat, kissing Mary, and cranking the runabout—an + operation she would not allow Stefan to attempt for her—with her + usual effervescent efficiency. “I'd no idea it was so late!” she + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + As Felicity was handed by Stefan into the car, she murmured something in + French, Constance noticed, to which he shook his head with a nervous + frown. As the machine started, he was left staring moodily after it down + the lane. + </p> + <p> + “Thee is earlier than I expected,” little Mrs. Farraday said to Constance, + when they arrived at the house. “I am afraid we shall have to keep thee + waiting for thy lunch for half an hour or more.” + </p> + <p> + “How glad I shall be—” Stefan turned to Mary, half irritably—“when + this baby is born, and you can be active again.” + </p> + <p> + He ate his lunch in silence, and left the table abruptly at the end. Nor + did she see him again until dinner time, when he came in tired out, his + boots whitened with road dust. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you been, dearest?” she asked. “I've been quite anxious about + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Just walking,” he answered shortly, and went up to his room. The tears + came to her eyes, but she blinked them away resolutely. She must not mind, + must not show him that she even dreamed of any connection between his + moodiness and the events of the morning. + </p> + <p> + “My love must be stronger than that, now of all times,” thought Mary. + “Afterwards—afterwards it will be all right.” She smiled confidently + to herself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + It was the end of June. Mary's rosebushes were in full bloom and the + little garden was languid with the scent of them. The nesting birds had + all hatched their broods—every morning now Mary watched from her + bedroom window the careful parents carrying worms and insects into the + trees. She always looked for them the moment she got up. She would have + loved to hang far out of the window as she used to do in her old home in + England, and call good-morning to her little friends—but she was + hemmed in by the bronze wire of the windowscreens. These affected her + almost like prison bars; but Long Island's summer scourge had come, and + after a few experiences of nights sung sleepless by the persistent horn of + the enemy and made agonizing by his sting, she welcomed the screens as + deliverers. The mosquitoes apart, Mary had adored the long, warm days—not + too hot as yet on the Byrdsnest's shady eminence—and the perpetually + smiling skies, so different from the sulky heavens of England. But she + began to feel very heavy, and found it increasingly difficult to keep + cool, so that she counted the days till her deliverance. She felt no fear + of what was coming. Dr. Hillyard had assured her that she was normal in + every respect—“as completely normal a woman as I have ever seen,” + she put it—and should have no complications. Moreover, Mary had + obtained from her doctor a detailed description of what lay before her, + and had read one or two hand-books on the subject, so that she was spared + the fearful imaginings and reliance on old wives' tales which are the + results of the ancient policy of surrounding normal functions with + mystery. + </p> + <p> + Now the nurse was here, a tall, grave-eyed Canadian girl, quiet of speech, + silent in every movement. Mary had wondered if she ought to go into Dr. + Hillyard's hospital, and was infinitely relieved to have her assurance + that it was unnecessary. She wanted her baby to be born here in the + country, in the sweet place she had prepared for it, surrounded by those + she loved. Everything here was perfect for the advent—she could ask + for nothing more. True, she was seeking comparatively little of Stefan, + but she knew he was busily painting, and he was uniformly kind and + affectionate when they were together. He had not been to town for over two + months. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Farraday was a frequent caller, and Mary had grown sincerely to love + the sweet-faced old lady, who would drive up in a low pony chaise, + bringing offerings of fruit and vegetables, or quaint preserves from + recipes unknown to Mary, which had been put up under her own direction. + </p> + <p> + Then, too, McEwan would appear at week-ends or in the evening, tramping + down the lane to hail the house in absurd varieties of the latest New York + slang, which, never failed to amuse Mary. The shy Jamie was often with + her; they were now the most intimate of friends. He would show her + primitive tools and mechanical contrivances of his own making, and she + would tell him stories of Scotland, of Prince Charlie and Flora, of Bruce + and Wallace, of Bannockburn, or of James, the poet king. Of these she had + a store, having been brought up, as many English girls happily are, on the + history and legends of the island, rather than on less robust feminine + fare. + </p> + <p> + Farraday, too, sometimes dropped in in the evening, to sit on the porch + with Stefan and Mary and talk quietly of books and the like. Occasionally + he came with McEwan or Jamie; he never came alone—though this she + had not noticed—at hours when Stefan was unlikely to be with her. + </p> + <p> + At the suggestion of Mrs. Farraday, whose word was the social law of the + district, the most charming women in the neighborhood had called on Mary, + so that her circle of acquaintances was now quite wide. She had had in + addition several visits from Constance, and the Sparrow had spent a + week-end with them, chirping admiration of the place and encomiums of her + friend's housekeeping. But Mary liked best to be with Stefan, or to dream + alone through the hushed, sunlit hours amid her small tasks of house and + garden. Now that the nurse was here, occupying the little bedroom opening + from Mary's room, the final preparations had been made; there was nothing + left to do but wait. + </p> + <p> + Miss McCullock had been with them three days, and Stefan had become used + to her quiet presence, when late one evening certain small symptoms told + her that Mary's time had come. Stefan, entering the hall, found her at the + telephone. “Dr. Hillyard will be here in about an hour and a quarter,” she + said quietly, hanging up the receiver. “Do you know if she has driven out + before? If not, it might be well for you, Mr. Byrd, to walk to the foot of + the lane soon, and be ready to signal the turning to her.” Miss McCullock + always distrusted the nerves of husbands on these occasions, and planned + adroitly to get them out of the way. + </p> + <p> + Stefan stared at her as flabbergasted as if this emergency had not been + hourly expected. “Do you mean,” he gasped, “that Mary is ill?” + </p> + <p> + “She is not ill, Mr. Byrd, but the baby will probably be born before + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” said Stefan, suddenly blanching. He had not faced this moment, + had not thought about it, had indeed hardly thought about Mary's + motherhood at all except to deplore its toll upon her bodily beauty. He + had tried for her sake, harder than she knew, to appear sympathetic, but + in his heart the whole thing presented itself as nature's grotesque price + for the early rapture of their love. That the price might be tragic as + well as grotesque had only now come home to him. He dropped on a chair, + his memory flying back to the one other such event in which he had had + part. He saw himself thrust from his mother's door—he heard her + shrieks—felt himself fly again into the rain. His forehead was wet; + cold tingles ran to his fingertips. + </p> + <p> + The nurse's voice sounded, calm and pleasant, above him. A whiff of brandy + met his nostrils. “You'd better drink this, Mr. Byrd, and then in a minute + you might go and see Mrs. Byrd. You will feel better after that, I think.” + </p> + <p> + He drank, then looked up, haggard. + </p> + <p> + “They'll give her plenty of chloroform, won't they?” he whispered, + catching the nurse's hand. She smiled reassuringly. “Don't worry, Mr. + Byrd, your wife is in splendid condition, and ether will certainly be + given when it becomes advisable.” + </p> + <p> + The brandy was working now and his nerves had steadied, but he found the + nurse's manner maddeningly calm. “I'll go to Mary,” he muttered, and, + brushing past her, sprang up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + What he expected to see he did not know, but his heart pounded as he + opened the bedroom door. The room was bright with lamplight, and in + spotless order. At her small writing-table sat Mary, in a loose white + dressing gown, her hair in smooth braids around her head, writing. What + was she doing? Was she leaving some last message for him, in case—? + He felt himself grow cold again. “Mary!” he exclaimed hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + She looked round, and called joyfully to him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, there you are. I'm getting everything ready. It's coming, + Stefan dearest. I'm so happy!” Her face was excited, radiant. + </p> + <p> + He ran to her with a groan of relief, and, kneeling, caught her face to + his. “Oh, Beautiful, you're all right then? She told me—I was afraid—” + he stumbled, inarticulate. + </p> + <p> + She stroked his cheek comfortingly. “Dearest, isn't it wonderful—just + think—by to-morrow our baby will be here.” She kissed him, between + happy tears and laughter. + </p> + <p> + “You are not in pain, darling? You're all right? What were you writing + when I came in?” he stammered, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I'm putting all the accounts straight, and paying all the bills to date, + so that Lily won't have any trouble while I'm laid up,” she beamed. + </p> + <p> + Stefan stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, then burst into + half-hysterical laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you marvel,” he gasped, “goddess of efficiency, unshakable Olympian! + Bills! And I thought you were writing me a farewell message.” + </p> + <p> + “Silly boy,” she replied. “The bills have got to be paid; a nice muddle + you would be in if you had them to do yourself. But, dearest—” her + face grew suddenly grave and she took his hand—“listen. I <i>have</i> + written you something—it's there—” her fingers touched an + elastic bound pile of papers. “I'm perfectly well, but if anything <i>should</i> + happen, I want my sister to have the baby. Because I think, dear—” + she stroked his hand with a look of compassionate understanding—“that + without me you would not want it very much. Miss Mason would take it to + England for you, and you could make my sister an allowance. I've left you + her address, and all that I can think of to suggest.” + </p> + <p> + He gazed at her dumbly. Her face glowed with life and beauty, her voice + was sweet and steady. There she sat, utterly mistress of herself, in the + shadow of life and death. Was it that her imagination was transcendent, or + that she had none? He did not know, he did not understand her, but in that + moment he could have said his prayers at her feet. + </p> + <p> + The nurse entered. “Now, Mr. Byrd, I think if you could go to the end of + the lane and be looking out for the doctor? Mrs. Byrd ought to have her + bath.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan departed. In a dream he walked to the lane's end and waited there. + He was thinking of Mary, perhaps for the first time, not as a beautiful + object of love and inspiration, nor as his companion, but as a woman. What + was this calm strength, this certitude of hers? Why did her every word and + act seem to move straight forward, while his wheeled and circled? What was + it that Mary had that he had not? Of what was her inmost fiber made? It + came to him that for all their loving passages his wife was a stranger to + him, and a stranger whom he had never sought to know. He felt ashamed. + </p> + <p> + It was about eleven o'clock when the distance was pricked by two points of + light, which, gradually expanding, proved to be the head-lamps of the + doctor's car. She stopped at his hail and he climbed beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad you came, though I think I know the turning,” said Dr. Hillyard + cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “How long will it be, doctor?” he asked nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Feeling jumpy?” she replied. “Better let me give you a bromide, and try + for a little sleep. Don't you worry—unless we have complications it + will be over before morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Before <i>morning</i>!” he groaned. “Doctor, you won't let her suffer—you + will give her something?” + </p> + <p> + He was again reassured. “Certainly. But she has a magnificent physique, + with muscles which have never been allowed to soften through tight + clothing or lack of exercise. I expect an easy case. Here we are, I + think.” The swift little car stopped accurately at the gate, and the + doctor, shutting off her power, was out in a moment, bag in hand. The + nurse met them in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Getting on nicely—an easy first stage,” she reported. The two women + disappeared upstairs, and Stefan was left alone to live through as best he + could the most difficult hours that fall to the lot of civilized man. + Presently Miss McCullock came down to him with a powder, and advice from + the doctor anent bed, but he would take neither the one nor the other. + “What a sot I should be,” he thought, picturing himself lying drugged to + slumber while Mary suffered. + </p> + <p> + By and by he ventured upstairs. Clouds of steam rose from the bathroom, + brilliant light was everywhere, two white-swathed figures, scarcely + recognizable, seemed to move with incredible speed amid a perfectly + ordered chaos. All Mary's pretty paraphernalia were gone; white oil cloth + covered every table, and was in its turn covered by innumerable objects + sealed in stiff paper. Amid these alien surroundings Mary sat in her + nightgown on the edge of the bed, her knees drawn up. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, dearest,” she called rather excitedly, “we're getting awfully + busy.” Then her face contracted. “Here comes another,” she said cheerily, + and gasped a little. On that Stefan fled, with a muttered “Call me if she + wants me,” to the nurse. + </p> + <p> + He wandered to the kitchen. There was a roaring fire, but the room was + empty—even Lily had found work upstairs. For an hour more Stefan + prowled—then he rang up the Farraday's house. After an interval + James' voice answered him. + </p> + <p> + “It's Byrd, Farraday,” said Stefan. “No—” quickly—“everything's + perfectly all right, perfectly, but it's going on. Could you come over?” + </p> + <p> + In fifteen minutes Farraday had dressed and was at the door, his great car + gliding up silently beside the doctor's. As he walked in Stefan saw that + his face was quite white. + </p> + <p> + “It was awfully good of you to come,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so glad you asked me. My car is a sixty horsepower, if anything were + needed.” Farraday sat down, and lighted a pipe. Stefan delivered knowledge + of the waiting machine upstairs, and then recommenced his prowl. Back and + forth through the two living rooms he walked, lighting, smoking, or + throwing away endless cigarettes. Farraday sat drawing at his pipe. + Neither spoke. One o'clock struck, and two. + </p> + <p> + Presently they heard a loud growling sound, quite un-human, but with no + quality of agony. It was merely as if some animal were making a supreme + physical effort. In about two minutes this was repeated. Farraday's pipe + dropped on the hearth, Stefan tore upstairs. “What is it?” he asked at the + open door. Something large and white moved powerfully on the bed. At the + foot bent the little doctor, her hands hidden, and at the head stood the + nurse holding a small can. A heavy, sweet odor filled the room. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right,” the doctor said rapidly. “Expulsive stage. She isn't + suffering.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Stefan dear,” said a small, rather high voice, which made him jump + violently. Then he saw a face on the pillow, its eyes closed, and its nose + and mouth covered with a wire cone. In a moment there came a gasp, the + sheathed form drew tense, the nurse spilled a few drops from her can upon + the cone, the growling recommenced and heightened to a crescendo. Stefan + had an impression of tremendous physical life, but the human tone of the + “Hello, Stefan,” was quite gone again. + </p> + <p> + He was backing shakily out when the doctor called to him. + </p> + <p> + “It will be born quite soon, now, Mr. Byrd,” her cheery voice promised. + </p> + <p> + Trembling with relief, he stumbled downstairs. Farraday was standing rigid + before the fireplace, his face quite expressionless. + </p> + <p> + “She's having ether—I don't think she's suffering. The doctor says + quite soon, now,” Stefan jerked out. + </p> + <p> + “I'm thankful,” said Farraday, quietly. + </p> + <p> + He stooped and picked up his fallen pipe, but it took him a long time to + refill it—particles of tobacco kept showering to the rug from his + fingers. Stefan, with a new cigarette, resumed his prowl. + </p> + <p> + Midsummer dawn was breaking. The lamplight began to pale before the + glimmer of the windows. A sleepy bird chirped, the room became mysterious. + </p> + <p> + There had been rapid steps overhead for some moments, and now the two men + became aware that the tiger-like sounds had quite ceased. The steps + overhead quieted. Farraday put out the lamp, and the blue light flooded + the room. + </p> + <p> + A bird called loudly, and another answered it, high, repeatedly. The notes + were right over their heads; they rose higher, insistent. They were not + the notes of a bird. The nurse appeared at the door and looked at Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “Your son is born,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Instantly to both men it was as if eerie bonds, drawn over-taut, had + snapped, releasing them again to the physical world about them. The high + mystery was over; life was human and kindly once again. Farraday dropped + into his chair and held a hand across his eyes. Stefan threw both arms + round Miss McCullock's shoulders and hugged her like a child. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hurrah!” he cried, almost sobbing with relief. “Bless you, nurse. Is + she all right?” + </p> + <p> + “She's perfect—I've never seen finer condition. You can come up in a + few minutes, the doctor says, and see her before she goes to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing needed, nurse?” asked Farraday, rising. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll be getting home, Byrd,” he said, offering his hand to Stefan. + “My warmest congratulations. Let me know if there's anything I can do.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan shook the proffered hand with a deeper liking than he had yet felt + for this silent man. + </p> + <p> + “I'm everlastingly grateful to you, Farraday, for helping me out, and Mary + will be, too. I don't know how I could have stood it alone.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan mounted the stairs tremblingly, to pause in amazement at the door + of Mary's room. A second transformation had, as if by magic, taken place. + The lights were out. The dawn smiled at the windows, through which a + gentle breeze ruffled the curtains. Gone were all evidences of the night's + tense drama; tables and chairs were empty; the room looked calm and + spacious. + </p> + <p> + On the bed Mary lay quiet, her form hardly outlined under the smooth + coverlet. Half fearfully he let his eyes travel to the pillow, dreading he + knew not what change. Instantly, relief overwhelmed him. Her face was + radiant, her cheeks pink—she seemed to glow with a sublimated + happiness. Only in her eyes lay any traces of the night—they were + still heavy from the anaesthetic, but they shone lovingly on him, as + though deep lights were behind them. + </p> + <p> + “Darling,” she whispered, “we've got a little boy. Did you worry? It + wasn't anything—only the most thrilling adventure that's ever + happened to me.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her almost with awe—then, stooping, pressed his face to + the pillow beside hers. + </p> + <p> + “Were they merciful to you, Beautiful?” he whispered back. Weakly, her + hand found his head. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling, they were wonderful. I was never quite unconscious, yet it + wasn't a bit bad—only as if I were in the hands of some prodigious + force. They showed me the baby, too—just for a minute. I want to see + him again now—with you.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan looked up. Dr. Hillyard was in the doorway of the little room. She + nodded, and in a moment reappeared, carrying a small white bundle. + </p> + <p> + “Here he is,” she said; “he weighs eight and a half pounds. You can both + look at him for a moment, and then Mrs. Byrd must go to sleep.” She put + the bundle gently down beside Mary, whose head turned toward it. + </p> + <p> + Almost hidden in folds of flannel Stefan saw a tiny red face, its eyes + closed, two microscopic fists doubled under its chin. It conveyed nothing + to him except a sense of amazement. + </p> + <p> + “He's asleep,” whispered Mary, “but I saw his eyes—they are blue. + Isn't he pretty?” Her own eyes, soft with adoration, turned from her son + to Stefan. Then they drooped, drowsily. + </p> + <p> + “She's falling off,” said the doctor under her breath, recovering the + baby. “They'll both sleep for several hours now. Lily is getting us some + breakfast—wouldn't you like some, too, Mr. Byrd?” + </p> + <p> + Stefan felt grateful for her normal, cheery manner, and for Mary's sudden + drowsiness; they seemed to cover what he felt to be a failure in himself. + He had been unable to find one word to say about the baby. + </p> + <p> + At breakfast, served by the sleepy but beaming Lily, Stefan was dazed by + the bearing of doctor and nurse. These two women, after a night spent in + work of an intensity and scope beyond his powers to gage, appeared as + fresh and normal as if they had just risen from sleep, while he, unshaved + and rumpled, could barely control his racked nerves and heavy head, across + which doctor and nurse discussed their case with animation. + </p> + <p> + “We are all going to bed, Mr. Byrd,” said the doctor at last, noting his + exhausted aspect. “I shall get two or, three hours' nap on the sofa before + going back to town, and I hope you will take a thorough rest.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan rose rather dizzily from his unfinished meal. + </p> + <p> + “Please take my room,” he said, “I couldn't stay in the house—I'm + going out.” He found the atmosphere of alert efficiency created by these + women utterly insupportable. The house stifled him with its teeming + feminine life. In it he felt superfluous, futile. Hurrying out, he + stumbled down the slope and, stripping, dived into the water. Its cold + touch robbed him of thought; he became at once merely one of Nature's + straying children returned again to her arms. + </p> + <p> + Swimming back, he drew on his clothes, and mounting to the garden, threw + himself face down upon the grass, and fell asleep under the morning sun. + </p> + <p> + He dreamed that a drum was calling him. Its beat, muffled and irregular, + yet urged him forward. A flag waved dazzlingly before his eyes; its folds + stifled him. He tried to move, yet could not—the drum called ever + more urgently. He started awake, to find himself on his back, the sun + beating into his face, and the doctor's machine chugging down the lane. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + The little June baby at the Byrdsnest was very popular with the + neighborhood. During the summer it seemed to Stefan that the house was + never free of visitors who came to admire the child, guess his weight, and + exclaim at his mother's health. + </p> + <p> + As a convalescent, Mary was, according to Constance Elliot, a complete + fraud. Except for her hair, which had temporarily lost some of its + elasticity, she had never looked so radiant. She was out of bed on the + ninth day, and walking in the garden on the twelfth. The behavior of the + baby—who was a stranger to artificial food—was exemplary; he + never fretted, and cried only when he was hungry. But as his appetite + troubled him every three hours during the day, and every four at night, he + appeared to Stefan to cry incessantly, and his strenuous wail would drive + his father from house to barn, and from barn to woods. Lured from one of + these retreats by an interval of silence, Stefan was as likely as not to + find an auto at the gate and hear exclamatory voices proceeding from the + nursery, when he would fade into the woods again like a wild thing fearful + of the trap. + </p> + <p> + His old dislike of his kind reasserted itself. It is one thing to be + surrounded by pretty women proclaiming you the greatest artist of your + day, and quite another to listen while they exclaim on the perfections of + your offspring and the health of your wife. For the first type of + conversation Stefan had still an appetite; with the second he was quickly + surfeited. + </p> + <p> + Nor were women his only tormentors. The baby spent much of its time in the + garden, and every Sunday Stefan would find McEwan planted on the lawn, + prodding the infant with a huge forefinger, and exploding into fatuous + mirth whenever he deluded himself into believing he had made it smile. Of + late Stefan had begun to tolerate this man, but after three such + exhibitions decided to blacklist him permanently as an insufferable idiot. + Even Farraday lost ground in his esteem, for, though guilty of no + banalities, he had a way of silently hovering over the baby-carriage which + Stefan found mysteriously irritating. Jamie alone of their masculine + friends seemed to adopt a comprehensible attitude, for he backed away in + hasty alarm whenever the infant, in arms or carriage, bore down upon him. + On several occasions when the Farraday household invaded the Byrdsnest + Stefan and Jamie together sneaked away in search of an environment more + seemly for their sex. + </p> + <p> + “You are the only creature I know just now, Jamie,” Stefan said, “with any + sense of proportion;” and these two outcasts from notice would tramp + moodily through the woods, the boy faithfully imitating Stefan's slouch + and his despondent way of carrying his hands thrust in his pockets. + </p> + <p> + There were no more tales of Scotland for Jamie in these days, and as for + Stefan he hardly saw his wife. True, she always brightened when he came in + and mutely evinced her desire that he should remain, but she was never + his. While he talked her eye would wander to the cradle, or if they were + in another room her ear would be constantly strained to catch a cry. In + the midst of a pleasant interlude she would jump to her feet with a + murmured “Dinner time,” or “He must have some water now,” and be gone. + </p> + <p> + Stefan did not sleep with her—as he could not endure being disturbed + at night—and she took a long nap every afternoon, so that at best + the hours available for him were few. Any visitor, he thought morosely, + won more attention from her than he did, and this was in a sense true, for + the visitors openly admired the baby—the heart of Mary's life—and + he did not. + </p> + <p> + He did not know how intensely she longed for this, how she ached to see + Stefan jab his finger at the baby as McEwan did, or watch it with the + tender smile of Farraday. She tried a thousand simple wiles to bring to + life the father in him. About to nurse the baby, she would call Stefan to + see his eager search for the comfort of her breast, looking up in proud + joy as the tiny mouth was satisfied. + </p> + <p> + At the very first, when the baby was newborn, Stefan had watched this rite + with some interest, but now he only fidgeted, exclaiming, “You are looking + wonderfully fit, Mary,” or “Greedy little beggar, isn't he?” He never + spoke of his old idea of painting her as a Madonna. If she drew his + attention to the baby's tiny hands or feet, he would glance carelessly at + them, with a “They're all right,” or “I'll like them better when they're + bigger.” + </p> + <p> + Once, as they were going to bed, she showed Stefan the baby lying on his + chest, one fist balled on either side of the pillow, the downy back of his + head shining in the candle-light. She stooped and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “His head is too deliciously soft and warm, Stefan; do kiss it + good-night.” + </p> + <p> + His face contracted into an expression of distaste. “No,” he said, “I + can't kiss babies,” and left the room. + </p> + <p> + She felt terribly, unnecessarily hurt. It was so difficult for her to make + advances, so fatally easy for him to rebuff them. + </p> + <p> + After that, she did not draw the baby to his attention again. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, had the child been a girl, Stefan would have felt more sentiment + about it. A girl baby, lying like a pink bud among the roses of the + garden, might have appealed to that elfin imagination which largely took + the place in him of romance—but a boy! A boy was merely in his eyes + another male, and Stefan considered the world far too full of men already. + </p> + <p> + He sealed his attitude when the question of the child's name came up. Mary + had fallen into a habit of calling it “Little Stefan,” or “Steve” for + short, and one morning, as the older Stefan crossed the lawn to his studio + her voice floated down from the nursery in an improvised song to her + “Stefan Baby.” He bounded upstairs to her. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” he called, “you are surely not going to call that infant by my + name?” + </p> + <p> + Mary, her lap enveloped in aprons and towels, looked up from the bath in + which her son was practising tentative kicks. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, dear, I thought we'd christen him after you, as he's the + eldest. Don't you think that would be nice?” She looked puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “No, I do not!” Stefan snorted emphatically. “For heaven's sake give the + child a name of his own, and let me keep mine. My God, one Stefan Byrd is + enough in the world, I should think!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, what shall we call him, then?” she asked, lowering her head + over the baby to hide her hurt. + </p> + <p> + “Give him your own name if you want to. After all, he's your child. + Elliston Byrd wouldn't sound at all bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Mary slowly. “I think the Dad would have been pleased by + that.” In spite of herself, her voice trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, Mary, I haven't hurt you, have I?” He looked exasperated. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, still bending over the baby. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, dear,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “You're so soft nowadays, one hardly dare speak,” he muttered. “Sorry, + dear,” and with a penitent kiss for the back of her neck he hastened + downstairs again. + </p> + <p> + The christening was held two weeks later, in the small Episcopalian church + of Crab's Bay. Stefan could see no reason for it, as neither he nor Mary + was orthodox, but when he suggested omitting the ceremony she looked at + him wide-eyed. + </p> + <p> + “Not christen him, Stefan? Oh, I don't think that would be fair,” she + said. Her manner was simple, but there was finality in her tone—it + made him feel that wherever her child was concerned she would be adamant. + </p> + <p> + The baby's godmother was, of course, Constance, and his godfathers, + equally obviously, Farraday and McEwan. Mary made the ceremony the + occasion of a small at-home, inviting the numerous friends from whom she + had received congratulations or gifts for the baby. + </p> + <p> + Miss Mason had insisted on herself baking the christening cake; Farraday + as usual supplied a sheaf of flowers. In the drawing room the little + Elliston's presents were displayed, a beautiful old cup from Farraday, a + christening robe, and a spoon, “pusher,” and fork from Constance, a silver + bowl “For Elliston's porridge from his friend Wallace McEwan,” and a Bible + in stout leather binding from Mrs. Farraday, inscribed in her delicate, + slanting hand. There was even a napkin ring from the baby's aunt in + England, who was much relieved that her too-independent sister had married + a successful artist and done her duty by the family so promptly. + </p> + <p> + Mary was naively delighted with these offerings. + </p> + <p> + “He has got everything I should have liked him to have!” she exclaimed as + she arranged them. + </p> + <p> + Stefan, led to the font, showed all the nervousness he had omitted at the + altar, but looked very handsome in a suit of linen crash, while Mary, in + white muslin, was at her glowing best. + </p> + <p> + Constance was inevitably late, for, like most American women, she did not + carry her undeniable efficiency to the point of punctuality. At the last + moment, however, she dashed up to the church with the élan of a triumphant + general, bearing her husband captive in the tonneau, and no less a person + than Gunther, the distinguished sculptor, on the seat beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I know you did not ask him, but he's so handsome I thought he ought to be + here,” she whispered inconsequentially to Mary after the ceremony. + </p> + <p> + Of their many acquaintances few were unrepresented except Miss Berber, to + whom Mary had felt disinclined to send an invitation. She had sounded + Stefan on the subject, but had been answered by a “Certainly not!” so + emphatic as to surprise her. + </p> + <p> + At the house Gunther, with his great height and magnificent viking head, + was unquestionably the hit of the afternoon. Holding the baby, which lay + confidently in his powerful hands, he examined its head, arms and legs + with professional interest, while every woman in the room watched him + admiringly. + </p> + <p> + “This baby, Mrs. Byrd, is the finest for his age I have ever seen, and I + have modeled many of them,” he pronounced, handing it back to Mary, who + blushed to her forehead with pleasure. “Not that I am surprised,” he went + on, staring frankly at her, “when I look at his mother. I am doing some + groups for the Pan-American exhibition next year in San Francisco. If you + could give me any time, I should very much like to use your head and the + baby's. I shall try and arrange it with you,” and he nodded as if that + settled the matter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” gasped Constance, “you have all the luck. Mary! Mr. Gunther has + known me for years, but have <i>I</i> had a chance to sit for him? I feel + myself turning green, and as my gown is yellow it will be most + unbecoming!” And seizing Farraday as if for consolation, she bore him to + the dining room to find a drink. + </p> + <p> + Stefan, who was interested in Gunther, tried to get him to the barn to see + his pictures; but the sculptor would not move his eyes from Mary, and + Stefan, considerably bored, was obliged to content himself with showing + the studio to some of his prettiest neighbors. + </p> + <p> + Nor did his spirits improve when the party came to an end. + </p> + <p> + “Bon Dieu!” he cried, flinging himself fretfully into a chair. “Is our + house never to be free of chattering women? The only person here to-day + who speaks my language was Gunther, and you never gave me a chance at + him.” + </p> + <p> + Mary gasped, too astonished at this accusation to refute it. + </p> + <p> + “Ever since we came down here,” he went on irritably, “the place has + seethed with people, and overflowed with domesticity. I never hear one + word spoken except on the subject of furniture, gardening and babies! I + can't work in such an environment; it stifles all imagination. As for you, + Mary—” + </p> + <p> + He looked up at her. She was standing, stricken motionless, in the center + of the room. Her hair, straighter than of old, seemed to droop over her + ears; her form under its loose muslin dress showed soft and blurred, its + clean-cut lines gone, while her face, almost as white as the gown, was + woe-begone, the eyes dark with tears. She stood there like a hurt child, + all her courageous gallantry eclipsed by this unkind ending to her happy + day. Stefan rose to his feet and faced her, searching for some phrase that + could express his sense of deprivation. He had the instinct to stab her + into a full realization of what she was losing in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” he cried almost wildly, “your wings are gone!” and rushed out of + the room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART IV + </h2> + <h3> + WINGS + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + One evening early in October Mary telephoned Farraday to ask if she could + consult him with reference to the Byrdsnest. He walked over after dinner, + to find her alone in the sitting room, companioned by a wood fire and the + two sleeping lovebirds. + </p> + <p> + James had been very busy at the office for some time, and it was two or + three weeks since he had seen Mary. Now, as he sat opposite her, it seemed + to him that the leaping firelight showed unaccustomed shadows in her + cheeks and under her eyes, and that her color was less bright than + formerly. Was it merely the result of her care of her baby, he wondered, + or was there something more? + </p> + <p> + “I fear we've already outstayed our time here, Mr. Farraday,” Mary was + saying, “and yet I am going to ask you for an extension.” + </p> + <p> + Farraday lit a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mrs. Byrd, stay as long as you like.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don't know the measure of my demands,” she went on, with a + hesitating smile. “They are so extensive that I'm ashamed. I love this + little place, Mr. Farraday; it's the first real home I've ever had of my + own. And Baby does so splendidly here—I can't bear the thought of + taking him to the city. How long might I really hope to stay without + inconveniencing you? I mean, of course, at a proper rent.” + </p> + <p> + “As far as I am concerned,” he smiled back at her, “I shall be overjoyed + to have you stay as long as the place attracts you. If you like, I will + give you a lease—a year, two, or three, as you will, so that you + could feel settled, or an option to renew after the first year.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mr. Farraday, your mother told me that you used to use the place, + and in the face of that I don't know how I have the selfishness to ask you + for any time at all, to say nothing of a lease!” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Byrd.” Farraday threw his cigarette into the fire, and, leaning + forward, stared at the flames, his hands clasped between his knees. “Let + me tell you a sentimental little story, which no one else knows except our + friend Mac.” He smiled whimsically. + </p> + <p> + “When I was a young man I was very much in love, and looked forward to + having a home of my own, and children. But I was unfortunate—I did + not succeed in winning the woman I loved, and as I am slow to change, I + made up my mind that my dream home would never come true. But I was very + fond of my 'cottage in the air,' and some years later, when this little + house became empty, I arranged it to look as nearly as I could as that + other might have done. I used to sit here sometimes and pretend that my + shadows were real. You will laugh at me, but I even have in my desk plans + for an addition, an ell, containing a play room and nurseries.” + </p> + <p> + Mary gave a little pitiful exclamation, and touched his clasped hands. + Meeting her eyes, he saw them dewy with sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “You are very gracious to a sentimental old bachelor,” he said, with his + winning smile. “But these ghosts were bad for me. I was in danger of + becoming absurdly self-centered, almost morbidly introspective. Mac, whose + heart is the biggest I know, and who laughs away more troubles than I ever + dreamed of, rallied me about it, and showed me that I ought to turn my + disappointment to some use. This was about ten years ago, when his own + life fell to pieces. I had been associated with magazines for some time, + and knew how little that was really good found its way into the plainer + people's homes. At Mac's suggestion I bought an insolvent monthly, and + began to remodel it. 'You've got the home-and-children bug; well, do + something for other people's'—was the way Mac put it to me. Later we + started the two other magazines, always keeping before us our aim of + giving the average home the best there is. To-day, though I have no + children of my own, I like to think I'm a sort of uncle to thousands.” + </p> + <p> + He leant back, still staring into the fire. There was silence for a + minute; a log fell with a crash and a flight of sparks—Farraday + replaced it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mrs. Byrd,” he went on, “all this time the little ghost-house stood + empty. No one used it but myself. It was made for a woman and for + children, yet in my selfishness I locked its door against those who should + rightfully have enjoyed it. Mac urged me to use it as a holiday house for + poor mothers from the city, but, somehow, I could not bring myself to + evict its dream-mistress.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I feel more than ever a trespasser!” exclaimed Mary. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “No, you have redeemed the place from futility—you + are its justification.” He paused again, and continued in a lower tone, + “Mrs. Byrd, you won't mind my saying this—you are so like that lady + of long ago that the house seems yours by natural right. I think I was + only waiting for someone who would love and understand it—some + golden-haired young mother, like yourself, to give the key to. I can't + tell you how happy it makes me that the little house should at last fulfil + itself. Please keep it for as long as you need it—it will always + need you.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was much moved: “I can't thank you, Mr. Farraday, but I feel deeply + honored. Perhaps my best thanks lie just in loving the house, and I do + that, with all my heart. You don't mind my foolish little name for it?” + </p> + <p> + “The Byrdsnest? I think it perfect.” + </p> + <p> + “And you don't mind either the alterations I have made?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend, while you keep this house I want it to be yours. Should + you wish to take a long lease, and enlarge it, I shall be happy. In fact, + I will sell it to you, if in the future you would care to buy. My only + stipulation would be an option to repurchase should you decide to give it + up.” He took her hand. “The Byrdsnest belongs to Elliston's mother; let us + both understand that.” + </p> + <p> + Her lips trembled. “You are good to me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it is you who are good to the dreams of a sentimentalist. And now—” + he sat back smilingly—“that is settled. Tell me the news. How is my + godson, how is Mr. Byrd, how fares the sable Lily?” + </p> + <p> + “Baby weighs fourteen and a half pounds,” she said proudly; “he is simply + perfect. Lily is an angel.” She paused, and seemed to continue almost with + an effort. “Stefan is very busy. He does not care to paint autumn + landscapes, so he has begun work again in the city. He's doing a fantastic + study of Miss Berber, and is very much pleased with it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's good,” said Farraday, evenly. + </p> + <p> + “But I've got more news for you,” she went on, brightening. “I've had a + good deal more time lately, Stefan being so much in town, and Baby's + habits so regular. Here's the result.” + </p> + <p> + She fetched from the desk a pile of manuscript, neatly penned, and laid it + on her guest's knee. + </p> + <p> + “This is the second thing I wanted to consult you about. It's a + book-length story for children, called 'The House in the Wood.' I've + written the first third, and outlined the rest. Here's the list of + chapters. It is supposed to be for children between eight and fourteen, + and was first suggested to me by this house. There is a family of four + children, and a regulation father and mother, nurse, governess, and + grandmother. They live in the country, and the children find a little + deserted cottage which they adopt to play in. The book is full of their + adventures in it. My idea is—” she sat beside him, her eyes + brightening with interest—“to suggest all kinds of games to the + children who read the story, which seem thrilling, but are really + educational. It's quite a moral little book, I'm afraid,” she laughed, + “but I think story books should describe adventures which may be within + the scope of the ordinary child's life, don't you? I'm afraid it isn't a + work of art, but I hope—if I can work out the scheme—it may + give some practical ideas to mothers who don't know how to amuse their + children.... There, Mr. Editor, what is your verdict?” + </p> + <p> + Farraday was turning the pages in his rapid, absorbed way. He nodded and + smiled as he looked. + </p> + <p> + “I think it's a good idea, Mrs. Byrd; just the sort of thing we are always + on the lookout for. The subject might be trite enough, but I suspect you + of having lent it charm and freshness. Of course the family is English, + which is a disadvantage, but I see you've mixed in a small American + visitor, and that he's beginning to teach the others a thing or two! Where + did you learn such serpent wisdom, young lady?” + </p> + <p> + She laughed, amazed as she had been a year ago at his lightning-like + apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't humbug. I do think an American child could teach ours at home a + lot about inventiveness, independence, and democracy—just as I think + ours might teach him something about manners,” she added, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Admitted,” said he, laying down the manuscript, “and thank you for + letting me see this. I claim the first refusal. Finish it, have it typed, + and send it in, and if I can run it as a serial in The Child at Home, I + shall be tremendously pleased to do so. If it goes, it ought to come out + in book form, illustrated.” + </p> + <p> + “You really think the idea has something in it?” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly do, and you know how much I believe in your work.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm <i>so</i> glad,” she exclaimed, looking far more cheerful than he + had seen her that evening. + </p> + <p> + He rose to go, and held her hand a moment in his friendly grasp. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, dear Mrs. Byrd; give my love to Elliston, and remember that + in him and your work you have two priceless treasures which, even alone, + will give you happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know,” she said, her eyes shining; “good night, and thank you for + the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, and in the house's name, thank you,” he answered from the + door. + </p> + <p> + As she closed it, the brightness slowly faded from Mary's face. She looked + at the clock—it was past ten. + </p> + <p> + “Not to-night, either,” she said to herself. Her hand wandered to the + telephone in the hall, but she drew it back. “No, better not,” she + thought, and, putting out the lights, walked resolutely upstairs. As, + candle in hand, she passed the door of Stefan's room, she looked in. His + bed was smooth; a few trifles lay in orderly array upon his dressing + table; boots, from which the country dust had been wiped days ago, stood + with toes turned meekly to the wall. They looked lonely, she thought. + </p> + <p> + With a sigh, she entered her own room, and passed through it to the + nursery. There lay her baby, soundly sleeping, his cheek on the pillow, + his little fists folded under his chin. How beautiful he looked, she + thought; how sweet his little room, how fresh and peaceful all the house! + It was the home of love—love lay all about her, in the kind + protection of the trees, in the nests of the squirrels, in the voices and + faces of her friends, and in her heart. Love was all about her, and the + sweetness of young life—and she was utterly lonely. One short year + ago she thought she would never know loneliness again—only a year + ago. + </p> + <p> + The candle wavered in her hand; a drop of wax fell on the baby's spotless + coverlet. Stooping, she blew upon it till it was cold, and carefully broke + it off. She sat down in a low rocking chair, and lifting the baby, gave + him his good-night nursing. He barely opened his sleep-laden eyes. She + kissed him, made him tidy for the night, and laid him down, waiting while + he cuddled luxuriously back to sleep. + </p> + <p> + “Little Stefan, little Stefan,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Then, leaving the nursery door ajar, she undressed noiselessly, and lay + down on the cool, empty bed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + The following afternoon about teatime Stefan bicycled up from the station. + Mary, who was in the sitting room, heard him calling from the gate, but + did not go to meet him. He hurried into the room and kissed her + half-turned cheek effusively. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, aren't you glad to see me?” he asked rather nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that you've been away six days, Stefan, and have only + troubled to telephone me twice?” she answered, in a voice carefully + controlled. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean it!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so long.” + </p> + <p> + “Hadn't you?” + </p> + <p> + He fidgeted. “Well, dear, you know I'm frightfully keen on this new + picture, and the journeys back and forth waste so much time. But as for + the telephoning, I'm awfully sorry. I've been so absorbed I simply didn't + remember. Why didn't you ring me up?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't wish to interrupt a sitting. I rang twice in the evenings, but + you were out.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I've been trying to amuse myself a little.” He was rocking from one + foot to the other like a detected schoolboy. + </p> + <p> + “Hang it all, Mary,” he burst out, “don't be so judicial. One must have + some pleasure—I can't sit about this cottage all the time.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think I've asked you to do that.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven't, but you seem to be implying the request now.” + </p> + <p> + She was chilled to silence, having no heart to reason him out of so + unreasonable a defense. + </p> + <p> + “Well, anyway,” he said, flinging himself on the sofa, “here I am, so + let's make the best of it. Tea ready?” + </p> + <p> + “It's just coming.” + </p> + <p> + “That's good. When are you coming up to see the picture? It's going to be + the best I've done. I shall get Constantine to exhibit it and that stick + of a Demeter together, and then the real people and the fools will both + have something to admire.” + </p> + <p> + “You say this will be your best?” asked Mary, whom the phrase had stabbed. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said reflectively, lighting a cigarette, “perhaps not better + than the Danaë in one sense—it hasn't as much feeling, but has more + originality. Miss Berber is such an unusual type—she's quite an + inspiration.” + </p> + <p> + “And I'm not, any more,” Mary could not help adding in a muffled voice. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be so literal, my dear; of course you are, but not for this sort of + picture.” The assurance sounded perfunctory. + </p> + <p> + “Thank goodness, here comes the tea,” he exclaimed as Lily entered with + the tray. “Hullo, Lily; how goes it?” + </p> + <p> + “Fine, Mr. Byrd, but we've shorely missed you,” she answered, with + something less than her usual wholehearted smile. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you must rejoice, now that the prodigal has returned,” he grinned. + “Mary, you haven't answered my question yet—when are you coming in + to see the picture? Why not to-morrow? I'm dying to show it to you.” + </p> + <p> + She flushed. “I can't come, Stefan; it's impossible to leave Baby so + long.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, bring him with you.” + </p> + <p> + “That wouldn't be possible, either; it would disturb his sleep, and upset + him.” + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” he exclaimed, ruffling his hair. “I can't work down here, + and you can't come to town—how can I help seeming to neglect you? + Look here”—he had drunk his tea at a gulp, and now held out his cup + for more—“if you're lonely, why not move back to the city—then + you could keep your eye on me!” and he grinned again. + </p> + <p> + For some time Mary had feared this suggestion—she had not yet + discussed with Stefan her desire to stay in the country. She pressed her + hands together nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan, do you really want me to move back?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to do whatever will make you happier,” he temporized. + </p> + <p> + “If you really needed me there I would come. But you are always so + absorbed when you're working, and I am so busy with Baby, that I don't + believe we should have much more time together than now.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither do I,” he agreed, in a tone suspiciously like relief, which she + was quick to catch. + </p> + <p> + “On the other hand,” she went on, “this place is far better for Baby, and + I am devoted to it. We couldn't afford anything half as comfortable in the + city, and you like it, too, in the summer.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do,” he answered cheerfully. “I should hate to give it up, + and I'm sure it's much more economical, and all that. Still, if you stay + here through the winter you mustn't be angry if I am in town part of the + time—my work has got to come first, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course, dear,” said Mary, wistfully, “and I think it would be a + mistake for me to come unless you really wanted me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I want you, Beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke easily, but she was not deceived. She knew he was glad of the + arrangement, not for her sake, but for his own. She had watched him + fretting for weeks past, like a caged bird, and she had the wisdom to see + that her only hope of making him desire the nest again lay in giving him + freedom from it. Her pride fortified this perception. As she had said long + ago, Mary was no bargainer. + </p> + <p> + In spite of her comprehension, however, she warmed toward him. It was so + good to see him lounging on the sofa again, his green-gold eyes bright, + his brown face with its elfish smile radiant now that his point was won. + She knew he had been unkind to her both in word and act, but it was + impossible not to forgive him, now that she enjoyed again the comfort of + his presence. + </p> + <p> + Smiling, she poured out his third cup of tea, and was just passing it when + there was a knock, and McEwan entered the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Byrd,” he called, his broad shoulders blocking the sitting room + door as he came in; “down among the Rubes again? Madam Mary, I accept in + advance your offer of tea. Well, how goes the counterfeit presentment of + our friend Twinkle-Toes?” + </p> + <p> + Stefan's eyebrows went up. “Do you mean Miss Berber?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said McEwan, with an aggravating smile, as he devoured a slice of + cake. “We're all expecting another ten-strike. Are you depicting her as a + toe-shaker or a sartorial artist?” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Wallace,” protested Mary, who had grown quite intimate with + McEwan, “you are utterly incorrigible in your Yankee vein—you + respect no one.” + </p> + <p> + “I respect the President of these United States,” said he solemnly, + raising an imaginary hat. + </p> + <p> + “That's more than I do,” snorted Stefan; “a pompous Puritan!” + </p> + <p> + “For goodness' sake, don't start him on politics, Wallace,” said Mary; “he + has a contempt for every public man in America except Roosevelt and Bill + Heywood.” + </p> + <p> + “So I have,” replied Stefan; “they are the only two with a spark of the + picturesque, or one iota of originality.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to paint their pictures arm in arm, with Taft floating on a + cloud crowning them with a sombrero and a sandbag, Bryan pouring + grape-juice libations, and Wilson watchfully waiting in the background. + Label it 'Morituri salutamus'—I bet it would sell,” said McEwan + hopefully. + </p> + <p> + Mary laughed heartily, but Stefan did not conceal his boredom. “Why don't + you go into vaudeville, McEwan?” he frowned. + </p> + <p> + “Solely out of consideration for the existing stars,” McEwan sighed, + putting down his cup and rising. “Well, chin music hath charms, but I must + toddle to the house, or I shall get in bad with Jamie. My love to + Elliston, Mary. Byrd, I warn you that my well-known critical faculty needs + stimulation; I mean to drop in at the studio ere long to slam the latest + masterpiece. So long,” and he grinned himself out before Stefan's rising + irritation had a chance to explode. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you let that great tomfool call you by your first name, Mary?” he + demanded, almost before the front door was shut. + </p> + <p> + “Wallace is one of the kindest men alive, and I'm quite devoted to him. I + admit, though, that he seems to enjoy teasing you.” + </p> + <p> + “Teasing me!” Stefan scoffed; “it's like an elephant teasing a fly. He + obliterates me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't be an old crosspatch,” she smiled, determined now they were + alone again to make the most of him. + </p> + <p> + “You are a good sort, Mary,” he said, smiling in reply; “it's restful to + be with you. Sing to me, won't you?” He stretched luxuriously on the sofa. + </p> + <p> + She obeyed, glad enough of the now rare opportunity of pleasing him. + Farraday had brought her some Norse ballads not long before; their sad + elfin cadences had charmed her. She sang these now, touching the piano + lightly for fear of waking the sleeping baby overhead. Turning to Stefan + at the end, she found him sound asleep, one arm drooping over the sofa, + the nervous lines of his face smoothed like a tired child's. For some + reason she felt strangely pitiful toward him. “He must be very tired, poor + boy,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + Crossing to the kitchen, she warned Lily not to enter the sitting room, + and herself slipped upstairs to the baby. Stefan slept till dinner time, + and for the rest of the evening was unusually kind and quiet. + </p> + <p> + As they went up to bed Mary turned wistfully to him. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't you like to look at Elliston? You haven't seen him for a long + time.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless me, I suppose I haven't—let's take a peep at him.” + </p> + <p> + Together they bent over the cradle. “Why, he's looking quite human. I + think he must have grown!” his father whispered, apparently surprised. + “Does he make much noise at night nowadays, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + “No, hardly any. He just whimpers at about two o'clock, and I get up and + nurse him. Then he sleeps till after six.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don't mind, then,” said Stefan, “I think I will sleep with you + to-night. I feel as if it would rest me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, dearest.” She felt herself blushing. Was she really going to + be loved again? She smiled happily at him. + </p> + <p> + When they were in bed Stefan curled up childishly, and putting one arm + about her, fell asleep almost instantly, his head upon her shoulder. Mary + lay, too happy for sleep, listening to his quiet breathing, until her + shoulder ached and throbbed under his head. She would not move for fear of + waking him, and remained wide-eyed and motionless until her baby's voice + called to her. + </p> + <p> + Then, with infinite care, she slipped away, her arm and shoulder numb, but + her heart lighter than it had been for many weeks. + </p> + <p> + She had forgotten to put out her dressing gown, and would not open the + closet door, because it creaked. Little Elliston was leisurely over his + repast, and she was stiff with cold when at last she stole back into bed. + Stefan lay upon his side. She crept close, and in her turn put an arm + about him. He was here again, her man, and her child was close at hand, + warm and comforted from her breast. Love was all about her, and to-night + she was not mocked. Warm again from his touch, she, too, fell at last, + with all the dreaming house, asleep. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + Stefan stayed at home for several days, sleeping long hours, and seemingly + unusually subdued. He would lie reading on the sofa while Mary wrote, and + often she turned from her manuscript to find him dozing. They took a few + walks together, during which he rarely spoke, but seemed glad of her + silent company. Once he called with her on Mrs. Farraday, and actually + held an enormous skein of wool for the old lady while she, busily winding, + told them anecdotes of her son James, and of her long dead husband. He + made no effort to talk, seeming content to sit receptive under the + soothing flow of her reminiscences. + </p> + <p> + “Thee is a good boy,” said the little lady, patting his hand kindly as the + last shred of wool was wound. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid not, ma'am,” said he, dropping quaintly into the address of + his childhood. “I'm just a rudderless boat staggering under topheavy + sails.” + </p> + <p> + “Thee has a sure harbor, son,” she answered, turning her gentle eyes on + Mary. + </p> + <p> + He seemed about to say more, but checked himself. Instead he rose and + kissed the little lady's hand. + </p> + <p> + “You are one of those who never lose their harbor, Mrs. Farraday. We're + all glad to lower sail in yours.” + </p> + <p> + On the way home Mary linked her arm in his. + </p> + <p> + “You were so sweet to her, dear,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You're wondering why I can't always be like that, eh, Mary!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed and nodded, pressing his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can't, worse luck,” he answered, frowning. + </p> + <p> + That evening, while they sat in the dining room over their dessert, the + telephone bell rang. Stefan jumped hastily to answer it, as if he felt + sure it was for him, and he proved right. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, this is I,” he replied, after his first “hello,” in what seemed to + Mary an artificial voice. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause; then she heard him say, “You can?” delightedly, + followed by “To-morrow morning at ten? Hurrah! No more wasted time; we + shall really get on now.” Another pause, then, “Oh, what does it matter + about the store?” impatiently—and at last “Well, to-morrow, anyway. + Yes. Good-bye.” The receiver clicked into place, and Stefan came skipping + back into the room radiant, his languor of the last few days completely + gone. + </p> + <p> + Mary's heart sank like a stone. It was too obvious that he had stayed at + home, not to be with her, but merely because his sitter was unobtainable. + </p> + <p> + “Cheers, Mary; back to work to-morrow,” he exclaimed, attacking his + dessert with vigor. “I've been slacking shamefully, but Felicity is so + wrapped up in that store of hers I can't get her half the time. Now she's + contrite, and is going to sit to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Mary, remembering his remark about McEwan, longed to say, “Why do you call + that little vulgarian by her first name?” but retaliatory methods were + impossible to her. She contented herself with asking if he would be home + the next evening. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, I expect so,” he answered, looking vague, “but don't absolutely + count on me, Mary. I've been very good this week.” + </p> + <p> + She saw that he was gone again. His return had been more in the body than + the spirit, after all. If that had been wooed a little back to her it had + winged away again at the first sound of the telephone. She told herself + that it was only his work calling him, that he would have been equally + eager over any other sitter. But she was not sure. + </p> + <p> + “Brace up, Mary,” he called across at her, “you're not being deserted. + Good heavens, I must work!” His impatient frown was gathering. She + collected herself, smiled cheerfully, and rose, telling Lily they would + have coffee in the sitting room. + </p> + <p> + He spent the evening before the fire, smoking, and making thumbnail + sketches on a piece of notepaper. She sang for some time, but without + eliciting any comment from him. When they went up to bed he stopped at his + own door. + </p> + <p> + “I think I'll sleep alone to-night, dear. I want to be fresh to-morrow. + Good night,” and he kissed her cheek. + </p> + <p> + When she came down in the morning he had already gone. Lying on the + sitting room table, where it had been placed by the careful Lily, lay the + scrap of notepaper he had been scribbling on the night before. It was + covered with tiny heads, and figures of mermaids, dancing nymphs, and + dryads. All in face or figure suggested Felicity Berber. + </p> + <p> + She laid it back on the table, dropping a heavy book over it. A little + later, while she was giving Elliston his bath, it suddenly occurred to + Mary that her husband had never once during his stay alluded to her + manuscript, and never looked at the baby except when she had asked him to. + She excused him to herself with the plea of his temperament, and his + absorption in his art, but nevertheless her heart was sore. + </p> + <p> + For the next few weeks Stefan came and went fitfully, announcing at one + point that Miss Berber had ceased to pose for his fantastic study of her, + called “The Nixie,” but had consented to sit for a portrait. + </p> + <p> + “She's slippery—comes and goes, keeps me waiting interminably,” he + complained. “I can never be sure of her, but she's a wonderful model.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you do while you're waiting for her?” asked Mary, who could not + imagine Stefan enduring with equanimity such a tax upon his patience. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there's tremendous work to be done on the Nixie still,” he answered. + “It's only her part in it that is finished.” + </p> + <p> + One evening he came home with a grievance. + </p> + <p> + “That fool McEwan came to the studio to-day,” he complained. “It was all I + could do not to shut the door in his face. Of all the chuckleheads! What + do you think he called the Nixie? 'A tricky piece of work!' Tricky!” + Stefan kicked the fire disgustedly. “And it's the best thing I've done!” + </p> + <p> + “As for the portrait, he said it was 'fine and dandy,' the idiot. And the + maddening thing was,” he went on, turning to Mary, and uncovering the real + source of his offense, “that Felicity positively encouraged him! Why, the + man must have sat there talking with her for an hour. I could not paint a + stroke, and he didn't go till I had said so three times!” completed + Stefan, looking positively ferocious. “What in the fiend's name, Mary, did + she do it for?” He collapsed on the sofa beside her, like a child bereft + of a toy. Mary could not help laughing at his tragic air. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose she did it to annoy, because she knew it teased,” she + suggested. + </p> + <p> + “How I loathe fooling and play-acting!” he exclaimed disgustedly. “Thank + God, Mary, you are sincere. One knows where one is with you!” + </p> + <p> + He seemed thoroughly upset. Miss Berber's pin-prick must have been severe, + Mary thought, if it resulted in a compliment for her. + </p> + <p> + The next evening, Mary being alone, Wallace dropped in. For some time they + talked of Jamie and Elliston, and of Mary's book. + </p> + <p> + He was Scotch to-night, as he usually was now when they were alone + together. Cheerful as ever, his cheer was yet slow and solid—the + comedian was not in evidence. + </p> + <p> + “Hae ye been up yet to see the new pictures?” he asked presently. She + shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Ye should go, bairn, they're a fine key. Clever as the devil, but + naething true about them. After the Danaë-piff!” and he snapped his + fingers. “Ye hae no call to worry, you're the hub, Mary—let the + wheel spin a wee while!” + </p> + <p> + She blushed. “Wallace, I believe you're a wizard—or a detective.” + </p> + <p> + “The Scottish Sherlock, eh?” he grinned. “Weel, it's as I tell ye—tak + my word for't. Hae ye seen Mrs. Elliot lately?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Constance went up to their place in Vermont in June, you know. She + came down purposely for Elliston's christening, the dear. She writes me + she'll be back in a few days now, but says she's sick of New York, and + would stay where she is if it weren't for suffrage.” + </p> + <p> + “But she would na',” said McEwan emphatically. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't think so, either. But she sees more of Theodore while she + stays away, because he feels it his duty to run up every few days and + protect her against savage New England, whereas when she's in town she + could drive her car into the subway excavations and he'd never know it. + I'm quoting verbatim,” Mary laughed. + </p> + <p> + McEwan nodded appreciatively. “She's a grand card.” + </p> + <p> + “She pretends to be flippant about husbands,” Mary went on, “but as a + matter of fact she cares much more for hers than for her sons, or anything + in the world, except perhaps the Cause.” + </p> + <p> + “That's as it should be,” the other nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” There was a puzzled note in Mary's voice. “I can't + understand the son's taking such a distinctly second place.” + </p> + <p> + McEwan's face expanded into one of his huge smiles. “It's true, ye could + not. That's the way God made ye, and I'll tell ye about that, too, some + day,” he said, rising to go. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Mr. Holmes,” she smiled, as she saw him out. + </p> + <p> + Before going to bed that night Mary examined her conscience. Why had she + not been to town to see Stefan's work? She knew that the baby—whose + feeding times now came less frequently—was no longer an adequate + excuse. She had blamed Stefan in her heart for his indifference to her + work—was she not becoming guilty of the same neglect? Was she not in + danger of a worse fault, the mean and vulgar fault of jealousy? She felt + herself flushing at the thought. + </p> + <p> + Two days later Mary put on her last year's suit, now a little shabby, + kissed the baby, importuned the beaming Lily to be careful of him, and + drove to the train in one of the village livery stable's inconceivably + decrepit coupes. + </p> + <p> + It was about twelve o 'clock when she arrived at the studio, and, ringing + the bell, mounted the well-known stairs with a heart which, in spite of + herself, beat anxiously. Stefan opened the door irritably, but his frown + changed to a look of astonishment, followed by an exuberant smile, as he + saw who it was. + </p> + <p> + “Here comes Demeter,” he cried, calling into the room behind him. “Why, + Mary, I'm honored. Has Elliston actually released his prisoner at last?” + He drew her into the studio, and kissed her almost with ostentation. + </p> + <p> + “Let's suspend the sitting, Felicity,” he cried, “and show our work.” + </p> + <p> + Mary looked about her. Her old home was almost unchanged. There was the + painted bureau, the divan, the big easel, the model throne where she had + posed as Danaë. It was unchanged, yet how different. From the throne + stepped down a small svelt figure-it rippled toward her, its gown + shimmering like a fire seen through water. It was Felicity, and her dress + was made from the great piece of oriental silk Stefan had bought when they + were first married, and which they had used as a cover for their couch. + </p> + <p> + Mary recognized it instantly—there could be no mistake. She stared + stupidly, unable to find speech, while Miss Berber's tones were wafted to + her like an echo from cooing doves. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Mrs. Byrd,” she was saying, “how lovely you look as a matron. We are + having a short sitting in my luncheon hour. This studio calms me after the + banal cackling of my clients. I almost think of ceasing to create raiment, + I weary so of the stupidities of New York's four hundred. Corsets, heels”—her + hands fluttered in repudiation. She sank full length upon the divan, + lighting a cigarette from a case of mother-of-pearl. “Your husband is the + only artist, Mrs. Byrd, who has succeeded in painting me as an individual + instead of a beauty. It's relieving”—her voice fainted—“very”—it + failed—her lids drooped, she was still. + </p> + <p> + Stefan looked bored. “Why, Felicity, what's the matter? I haven't seen you + so completely lethargic for a long time. I thought you kept that manner + for the store.” + </p> + <p> + Mary could not help feeling pleased by this remark, which drew no response + from Felicity save a shadowy but somewhat forced smile. + </p> + <p> + “Turn round, Mary,” went on Stefan; “the Nixie is behind you.” + </p> + <p> + Mary faced the canvas, another of his favorite underwater pictures. The + Nixie sat on a rock, in the green light of a river-bed. Green river-weed + swayed and clung about her, and her hair, green too, streamed out to + mingle with it. In the ooze at her feet lay a drowned girl, holding a tiny + baby to her breast. This part of the picture was unfinished, but the Nixie + stood out clearly, looking down at the dead woman with an expression + compounded of wonder and sly scorn. “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” + she might have been saying. + </p> + <p> + The face was not a portrait—it was Felicity only in its + potentialities, but it was she, unmistakably. The picture was brilliant, + fantastic, and unpleasant. Mary said so. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is unpleasant,” he answered, “and so is life. Isn't it + unpleasant that girls should kill themselves because of some fool man? And + wouldn't sub-humans have a right to ribald laughter at a system which + fosters such things!” + </p> + <p> + “He has painted me as a sub-human, Mrs. Byrd,” drawled Felicity through + her smoke, “but when I hear his opinion of humans I feel complimented.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me,” said Mary, “that she's not laughing at humans in + general, but at this particular girl, for having cared. That's what makes + it unpleasant to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say she is,” said Stefan carelessly. “In any case, I'm glad you + find it unpleasant—in popular criticism the word is only a synonym + for true.” + </p> + <p> + To Mary the picture was theatrical rather than true, but she did not care + to argue the point. She turned to the portrait, a clever study in lights + keyed to the opalescent tones of the silk dress, and showing Felicity + poised for the first step of a dance. The face was still in charcoal—Stefan + always blocked in his whole color scheme before beginning a head—but + even so, it was alluring. + </p> + <p> + Mary said with truth that it would be a fine portrait. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I like it. Full of movement. Nothing architectural about that,” he + said, glancing by way of contrast at the great Demeter drowsing from the + furthest wall. “The silk is interesting, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Mary's throat ached painfully. He was utterly unconscious of any hurt to + her in the transfer of this first extravagance of theirs. If he had done + it consciously, with intent to wound, she thought it might have hurt her + less. + </p> + <p> + “It's very pretty,” she said conventionally. + </p> + <p> + “Bare, perhaps, rather than pretty,” murmured Miss Berber behind her veil + of smoke. + </p> + <p> + Mary flushed. This woman had a trick of always making her appear gauche. + She looked at her watch, not sorry to see that it was already time to + leave. + </p> + <p> + “I must go, Stefan, I have to catch the one o'clock,” she said, holding + out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “What a shame. Can't you even stay to lunch?” he asked dutifully. She + shook her head, the ache in her throat making speech difficult. She seemed + very stiff and matter-of-fact, he thought, and her clothes were + uninteresting. He kissed her, however, and held the door while she shook + hands with Felicity, who half rose. The transom was open, and through it + Mary, who had paused on the landing to button her glove, overheard Miss + Berber's valedictory pronouncement. + </p> + <p> + “The English are a remarkable race—remarkable. Character in them is + fixed—in us, fluid.” + </p> + <p> + Mary sped down the first flight, in terror of hearing Stefan's reply. + </p> + <p> + All that evening she held the baby in her arms—she could hardly + bring herself to put him down when it was time to go to bed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + On November the 1st Mary received their joint bank book. The figures + appalled her. She had drawn nothing except for the household bills, but + Stefan had apparently been drawing cash, in sums of fifty or twenty-five + dollars, every few days for weeks past. Save for his meals and a little + new clothing she did not know on what he could have spent it; but as they + had made nothing since the sale of his drawings in the spring, their once + stout balance had dwindled alarmingly. One check, even while she felt its + extravagance, touched her to sympathy. It was drawn to Henrik Jensen for + two hundred dollars. Stefan must have been helping Adolph's brother to his + feet again; perhaps that was where more of the money had gone. + </p> + <p> + Stefan came home that afternoon, and Mary very unwillingly tackled the + subject. He looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “I'd no idea I'd been drawing so much! Why didn't you tell me sooner?” he + exclaimed. “Yes, I've given poor old Henrik a bit from time to time; I + thought I'd mentioned it to you.” + </p> + <p> + “You did in the summer, now I come to think of it, but I thought you meant + a few dollars, ten or twenty.” + </p> + <p> + “Much good that would have done him. The poor old chap was stranded. He's + all right now, has a new business. I've been meaning to tell you about it. + He supplies furniture on order to go with Felicity's gowns—backgrounds + for personalities, and all that stuff. I put it up to her to help find him + a job, and she thought of this right off.” He grinned appreciatively. + “Smart, eh? We both gave him a hand to start it.” + </p> + <p> + “You might have told me, I should have been so interested,” said Mary, + trying not to sound hurt. + </p> + <p> + “I meant to, but it's only just been arranged, and I've had no chance to + talk to you for ages.” + </p> + <p> + “Not my doing, Stefan,” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, the baby and all that.” He waved his arm vaguely, and began to + fidget. She steered away from the rocks. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, I'm glad you've helped him,” she said sincerely. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you would be. Look here, Mary, can we go on at the present rate—barring + Jensen—till I finish the Nixie? I don't want Constantine to have the + Demeter alone, it isn't good enough.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is as good as the Nixie,” she said, on a sudden impulse. He + swung round, staring at her almost insolently. + </p> + <p> + “My dear girl, what do you know about it?” His voice was cold. + </p> + <p> + The blood rushed to her heart. He had never spoken to her in that tone + before. As always, her hurt silenced her. + </p> + <p> + He prowled for a minute, then repeated his question about their expenses. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to have to think in cents again unless I must,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Mary considered, remembering the now almost finished manuscript in her + desk. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think we can manage, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a blessing; then we won't talk about it any more,” he exclaimed, + pinching her ear in token of satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + The next day Mary sent her manuscript to be typed. In a week it had gone + to Farraday at his office, complete all but three chapters, of which she + enclosed an outline. With it she sent a purely formal note, asking, in the + event of the book being accepted, what terms the Company could offer her, + and whether she could be paid partly in advance. She put the request + tentatively, knowing nothing of the method of paying for serials. In + another week she had a typewritten reply from Farraday, saying that the + serial had been most favorably reported, that the Company would buy it for + fifteen hundred dollars, with a guarantee to begin serialization within + the year, on receipt of the final chapters, that they enclosed a contract, + and were hers faithfully, etc. With this was a personal note from her + friend, congratulating her, and explaining that his estimate of her book + had been more than borne out by his readers. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want you to think others less appreciative than I,” was his + tactful way of intimating that her work had been accepted on its merits + alone. + </p> + <p> + The letters took Mary's breath away. She had no idea that her work could + fetch such a price. This stroke of fortune completely lifted her financial + anxieties, but her spirits did not rise correspondingly. Six months ago + she would have been girlishly triumphant at such a success, but now she + felt at most a dull satisfaction. She hastened, however, to write the + final chapters, and deposited the check when it came in her own bank, + drawing the next month's housekeeping money half from that and half from + Stefan's rapidly dwindling account. That she was able to do this gave her + a feeling of relief, no more. + </p> + <p> + Mary had now nursed her baby for over four months, and began to feel a + nervous lassitude which she attributed—quite wrongly—to this + fact. As Elliston still gained weight steadily, however, she gave her own + condition no thought. But the last leaves had fallen from the trees, sea + and woods looked friendless, and the evenings were long and lonely. The + neighbors had nearly all gone back to the city. Farraday only came down at + week-ends, Jamie was busy with his lessons, and Constance still lingered + in Vermont. As for Stefan, he came home late and left early; often he did + not come at all. She began to question seriously if she had been right to + remain in the cottage. Her heart told her no, but her pride said yes, and + her pride was strong; also, it was backed by reason. Her steady brain, + which was capable of quite impersonal thinking, told her that Stefan would + be actively discontented just now in company with his family, and that + this discontent would eat into his remaining love for her. + </p> + <p> + But her heart repudiated this mental cautioning, crying out to her to go + to him, to pour out her love and need, to capture him safely in her arms. + More than once she nerved herself for such an effort, only to become + incapable of the least expression at his approach. Emotionally + inarticulate even in happiness, Mary was quite dumb in grief. Her + conversation became trite, her sore heart drew a mantle of the commonplace + over its wound; Stefan found her more than ever “English.” + </p> + <p> + So lonely was she at this time that she would have asked little Miss Mason + to stay with her, but for the lack of a spare bedroom. Of all her friends, + only Mrs. Farraday remained at hand. Mary spent many hours at the old + lady's house, and rejoiced each time the pony chaise brought her to the + Byrdsnest. Mrs. Farraday loved to drive up in the morning and watch the + small Elliston in his bath, comparing his feats with her memories of her + own baby. She liked, too, to call at the cottage for mother and child, and + take them for long rambling drives behind her ruminant pony. + </p> + <p> + But the little Quakeress usually had her house full of guests—quaint, + elderly folk from Delaware or from the Quaker regions of Pennsylvania—and + could not give more than occasional time to these excursions. She had + become devoted to Mary, whom she secretly regarded as her ideal of the + woman her James should marry. That her son had not yet met such a woman + was, after the loss of her husband, the little lady's greatest grief. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of this dead period of graying days, Constance Elliot burst + one morning—a God from the Machine—tearing down the lane in + her diminutive car with the great figure of Gunther, like some Norse + divinity, beside her. She fell out of her auto, and into an explanation, + in one breath, embracing Mary warmly between sentences. + </p> + <p> + “You lovely creature, here I am at last! Theodore hadn't been up for a + week, so I came down, to find Mr. Gunther thundering like Odin because I + had promised to help him arrange sittings with you, and had forgotten it. + I had to bring him at once. He says his group is all done but the two + heads, and he must have yours and the baby's. But he'll tell you all about + it. Where is he? Elliston, I mean. I've brought him some short frocks. + Where are they, Mr. Gunther? If he's put them in his pockets, he'll never + find them—they are feet long—the pockets, I mean. Bless you, + Mary Byrd, how good it is to see you! Come into the house, every one, and + let me rest.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was bubbling with laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Constance, you human dynamo, we'll go in by all means, and hold our + breaths listening to your 'resting'!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't sass your elders, naughty girl. Oh, my heavens, I've been five + months in New England, and have behaved like a perfect gentlewoman all the + time! Now I'm due for an attack of New Yorkitis!” Constance rushed into + the sitting room, pulled off her hat and patted her hair into shape, ran + to the kitchen door to say hello to Lily, and was back in her chair by the + time the others had found theirs. Her quick glance traveled from one to + the other. + </p> + <p> + “Now I shall listen,” she said. “Mary, tell your news. Mr. Gunther, + explain your ideas.” + </p> + <p> + Mary laughed again. “Visitors first,” she nodded to the Norwegian who, as + always, was staring at her with a perfectly civil fixity. + </p> + <p> + He placed a great hand on either knee and prepared to state his case. With + his red-gold beard and piercing eyes, he was, Mary thought, quite the + handsomest, and, after Stefan, the most attractive man she had ever seen. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Byrd,” he began, “I am doing, among other things, a large group + called 'Pioneers' for the Frisco exhibition. It is finished in the clay—as + Mrs. Elliot said—all but two heads, and is already roughly blocked + in marble. I want your head, with your son's—I must have them. Six + sittings will be enough. If you cannot, as I imagine, come to the city, I + will bring my clay here, and we will work in your husband's studio. These + figures, of whom the man is modeled from myself, do not represent pioneers + in the ordinary sense. They embody my idea of those who will lead the race + to future greatness. That is why I feel it essential to have you as a + model.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke quite simply, without a trace of flattery, as if he were merely + putting into words a self-evident truth. A compliment of such staggering + dimensions, however, left Mary abashed. + </p> + <p> + “You may wonder,” he went on, seeing her silent, “why I so regard you. It + is not merely your beauty, Mrs. Byrd, of which as an artist I can speak + without offense, it is because to my mind you combine strong mentality and + morale with simplicity of temperament. You are an Apollonian, rather than + a Dionysian. Of such, in my judgment, will the super-race be made.” + Gunther folded his arms and leaned back. + </p> + <p> + He was sufficiently distinguished to be able to carry off a pronouncement + which in a lesser man would have been an impertinence, and he knew it. + </p> + <p> + Constance threw up her hands. “There, Mary, your niche is carved. I don't + quite know what Mr. Gunther means, but he sounds right.” + </p> + <p> + Mary found her voice. “Mr. Gunther honors me very much, and, although of + course I do not deserve his praise, I shall certainly not refuse his + request.” + </p> + <p> + Gunther bowed gravely from the hips in the Continental manner, without + rising. + </p> + <p> + “When may I come,” he asked; “to-morrow? Good! I will bring the clay out + by auto.” + </p> + <p> + “You lucky woman,” exclaimed Constance. “To think of being immortalized by + two great artists in one year!” + </p> + <p> + “Her type is very rare,” said Gunther in explanation. “When does one see + the classic face with expression added? Almost always, it is dull.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Mary, produce the infant!” Constance did not intend the whole + morning to be devoted to the Olympian discourse of the sculptor. + </p> + <p> + The baby was brought down, and the rest of the visit pivoted about him. + Mary glowed at the praises he received; she looked immeasurably brighter, + Constance thought, than when they arrived. + </p> + <p> + On the way home Gunther unbosomed himself of a final pronouncement. “She + does not look too happy, but her beauty is richer and its meaning deeper + than before. She is what the mothers of men should be. I am sorry,” he + concluded simply, “that I did not meet her more than a year ago.” + </p> + <p> + Constance almost gasped. What an advantage, she thought, great physical + gifts bring. Even without this man's distinction in his art, it was + obvious that he had some right to assume his ability to mate with whomever + he might choose. + </p> + <p> + Early the next morning the sculptor drove up to the barn, his tonneau + loaded with impedimenta. Mary was ready for him, and watched with interest + while he lifted out first a great wooden box of clay, then a small model + throne, then two turntables, and finally, two tin buckets. These baffled + her, till, having installed the clay-box, which she doubted if an ordinary + man could lift, he made for the garden pump and watered his clay with the + contents of the buckets. + </p> + <p> + He set up his three-legged turntables, each of which bore an angle-iron + supporting a twisted length of lead pipe, stood a bucket of water beneath + one, and explained that in a few minutes he would be ready to begin. + Donning a linen blouse, he attacked the mass of damp clay powerfully, + throwing great pieces onto the skeleton lead-pipe, which he explained had + been bent to the exact angle of the head in his group. + </p> + <p> + “The woman's figure I modeled from ideal proportions, Mrs. Byrd, and this + head will be set upon its shoulders. My statue will then be a living thing + instead of a mere symbol.” + </p> + <p> + When Mary was posed she became absorbed in watching Gunther's work grow. + He modeled with extraordinary speed, yet his movements had none of the + lightning swoops and darts of Stefan's method. Each motion of his powerful + hands might have been preordained; they seemed to move with a deliberate + and effortless precision, so that she would hardly have realized their + speed had the head and face not leaped under them into being. He was a + silent worker, yet she felt companioned; the man's presence seemed to fill + the little building. + </p> + <p> + “After to-day I shall ask you to hold the child, for as long as it will + not disturb him. I shall then have the expression on your face which I + desire, and I will work at a study of the boy's head at those moments when + he is awake.” + </p> + <p> + Mary sincerely enjoyed her sittings, which came as a welcome change in her + even days. Gunther usually stayed to lunch, Constance joining them on one + occasion, and Mrs. Farraday on another. Both these came to watch the work, + Gunther, unlike Stefan, being oblivious of an audience; and once McEwan + came, his sturdy form appearing insignificant beside the giant Norseman. + Wallace hung about smoking a pipe for half an hour or more. He was at his + most Scotch, appeared well pleased, and ejaculated “Aye, aye,” several + times, nodding a ponderous head. + </p> + <p> + “Wallace, what are you so solemnly aye-ayeing about? Why so mysterious?” + enquired Mary. + </p> + <p> + “I'm haeing a few thochts,” responded the Scot, his expression divided + between an irritating smile and a kindly twinkle. + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't be annoying, and stay to lunch,” said Mary, dispensing even + justice to both expressions. + </p> + <p> + Stefan, returning home one afternoon half way through the sittings, + expressed a mild interest in the news of them, and, going out to the barn, + unwrapped the wet cloths from the head. + </p> + <p> + “He's an artist,” said he; “this has power and beauty. Never sit to a + second-rater, Mary, you've had the best now.” And he covered the head + again with a craftsman's thoroughness. + </p> + <p> + Mary was sorry when the sittings came to an end. On the last day the + sculptor brought two men with him, who made the return journey in the + tonneau, each guarding a carefully swathed bust against the inequalities + of the road. Gunther bowed low over her hand with a word of thanks at + parting, and she watched his car out of sight regretfully. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + The week's interlude over, Mary's days reverted to their monotonous tenor. + As November drew to a close, she began to think of Christmas, remembering + how happy her last had been, and wondering if she could summon enough + courage for an attempt to engage Stefan's interest in some kind of + celebration. She now admitted to herself that she was actively worried + about her relations with him. He was quite agreeable to her when in the + house, but she felt this was only because she made no demands on him. Let + her reach out ever so little for his love, and he instantly became vague + or restless. Their intercourse was friendly, but he appeared absolutely + indifferent to her as a woman; she might have been a well-liked sister. + Under the grueling strain of self-repression Mary was growing nervous, and + the baby began to feel the effects. His weekly gains were smaller, and he + had his first symptoms of indigestion. + </p> + <p> + She redoubled the care of her diet, and lengthened her daily walks, but he + became fretful, and at last, early in December, she found on weighing him + that he had made no gain for a week. Terrified, she telephoned for Dr. + Hillyard, and received her at the door with a white face. It was a Sunday + morning, and McEwan had just dropped in with some chrysanthemums from the + Farradays' greenhouse. Finding Mary disturbed he had not remained, and was + leaving the house as the doctor drove up. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Hillyard's first words were reassuring. There was absolutely nothing + to fear in a week's failure to gain, she explained. “It always happens at + some stage or other, and many babies don't gain for weeks.” + </p> + <p> + Still, the outcome of her visit was that Mary, with an aching heart, added + a daily bottle to Elliston's régime. In a week the doctor came again, gave + Mary a food tonic, and advised the introduction of a second bottle. + Elliston immediately responded, palpably preferring his bottle feedings to + the others. His fretfulness after these continued, he turned with + increased eagerness to his bottle, and with tears of disappointment Mary + yielded to his loudly voiced demands. By Christmas time he was weaned. His + mother felt she could never forgive herself for failing him so soon, and a + tinge of real resentment colored for the first time her attitude toward + Stefan, whom she knew to be the indirect cause of her failure. + </p> + <p> + The somewhat abrupt deterioration of Mary's magnificent nervous system + would have been unaccountable to Dr. Hillyard had it not been for a chance + encounter with McEwan after her first visit. The Scotchman had hailed her + in the lane, asking for a lift to a house beyond the village, where he had + some small errand. During a flow of discursive remarks he elicited from + the doctor, without her knowledge, her opinion that Mary was nervously run + down, after which he rambled at some length about the value of art, + allowing the doctor to pass his destination by a mile or more. + </p> + <p> + With profuse thanks for her kindness in turning back, he continued his + ramblings, and she gathered the impression that he was a dull, + inconsequential talker, that he considered young couples “kittle cattle,” + that artists were always absorbed in their work, that females had a habit + of needless worrying, and that commuting in winter was distracting to a + man's labors. She only half listened to him, and dropped him with relief, + wondering if he was an anti-suffragist. Some memory of his remarks must, + however, have remained with her, for after her next visit to Mary she + found herself thinking that Mr. McEwan was probably neither an + anti-suffragist, nor dull. + </p> + <p> + A little before Christmas McEwan called on Constance, and found her + immersed in preparations for a Suffrage bazaar and fête. + </p> + <p> + “I can't talk to any one,” she announced, receiving him in a chaos of + boxes, banners, paper flowers, and stenographers, in the midst of which + she appeared to be working with two voices and six hands. “Didn't the maid + warn you off the premises?” + </p> + <p> + “She did, but I sang 'Take back the lime that thou gavest' in such honey + tones that she complied,” said Mac. + </p> + <p> + “Just for that, you can give the fête a two-inch free ad in The Household + Magazine,” Constance implacably replied. + </p> + <p> + He grinned. “I raise the ante. Three inches, at the risk of losing my job, + for five minutes alone with you.” + </p> + <p> + “You lose your job!” scoffed Constance, leading the way into an empty + room, and seating herself at attention, one eye on her watch. “Proceed—I + am yours.” + </p> + <p> + Mac sat opposite her, and shot out an emphatic forefinger. + </p> + <p> + “The Berber girl's middle name is Mischief,” he began, plunging in medias + res; “Byrd's is Variability; for the last five months the Mary lady's has + been Mother. Am I right?” + </p> + <p> + Constance's bright eyes looked squarely at him. + </p> + <p> + “Wallace McEwan, you are,” she said. + </p> + <p> + His finger continued poised. “Very well, we are 'on,' and <i>our</i> + middle name is Efficiency, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Constance nodded doubtfully, “but—” + </p> + <p> + McEwan's hand slapped his knee. “Here's the scheme,” he went on rapidly. + “Variable folk must have variety, either in place or people. If we don't + want it to be people, we make it place, see? Is your country house closed + yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I fancied I might go there to relax for a week after the fête.” + </p> + <p> + “A1 luck. You won't relax, you'll have a week's house-party, sleighing, + skating, coasting, all that truck. The Byrds, Farraday (I'll persuade him + he can leave the office), a couple of pretty skirts with no brains—me + if you like. Get me?” + </p> + <p> + Constance gasped, her mind racing. “But Mary's baby?” she exclaimed, + clutching at the central difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “You're the goods,” replied McEwan admiringly. “She couldn't shine as + Queen of the Slide if she was tied to the offspring—granted. Now + then.” He leant forward. “She's had to wean him—you didn't know + that. Your dope is to talk up the house-party, tell her she owes it to + herself to get a change, and make her leave the boy with a trained nurse. + The Mary lady's no fool, she'll be on.” + </p> + <p> + Constance's eyes narrowed to slits, she fingered her beads, and nodded + once, twice. + </p> + <p> + “More trouble,” she said, “but it's a go. Second week in January.” + </p> + <p> + He grasped her hand. “Votes for Women,” he beamed. + </p> + <p> + She looked at her watch. “Five minutes exactly. Three inches, Mr. McEwan!” + </p> + <p> + “Three inches!” he called from the door. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + Christmas was a blank period for Mary that year. Stefan came home on + Christmas eve in a mood of somewhat forced conviviality, but Mary had had + no heart for festive preparations. Stefan had failed her and she had + failed her baby—these two ever present facts shadowed her world. She + had bought presents for Lily and the baby, a pair of links for Stefan, + books for Mrs. Farraday and Jamie, and trifles for Constance and Miss + Mason, but the holly and mistletoe, the tree, the new frock and the + Christmas fare which normally she would have planned with so much joy, + were missing. Stefan's gift to her—a fur-lined coat—was so + extravagant that she could derive no pleasure from it, and she had the + impression that he had chosen it hurriedly, without much thought of what + would best please her. From Constance she received a white sweater of very + beautiful heavy silk, with a cap and scarf to match, but she thought + bitterly that pretty things to wear were of little use to her now. + </p> + <p> + It was obvious that Stefan's conscience pricked him. He spent the morning + hanging about her, and even played a little with his son, who now sat up, + bounced, crowed with laughter, clutched every article within reach, and + had two teeth. Mary's heart reached out achingly to Stefan, but he seemed + to her a strange man. The contrast between this and their last Christmas + smote her intolerably. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon they walked over to the Farradays', where there was a + tree for Jamie and a few friends, including the chauffeur's and gardener's + children. Here Stefan prowled into the picture gallery, while Mary, + surrounded by children, was in her element. Returning to the drawing room, + Stefan watched her playing with them as he had watched her on the + Lusitania fifteen months before. She was less radiant now, and her figure + was fuller, but as she smiled and laughed with the children, her cheeks + pink and her hair all a-glitter under the lights, she looked very lovely, + he thought. Why did the sight of her no longer thrill him? Why did he + enjoy more the society of Felicity Berber, whom he knew to be affected and + egotistic, and suspected of being insincere, than that of this beautiful, + golden woman of whose truth he could never conceive a doubt? + </p> + <p> + A feeling of deep sadness, of unutterable regret, swept through him. + Better never to have married than to have outlived so soon the magic of + romance. Which of them had lost the key? When Mary had furled her wings to + brood over her nest he had thought it was she; now he was not so sure. + </p> + <p> + Walking home through the dark woods he stopped suddenly, and drew her to + him. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, my Beautiful, I'm drifting, hold me close,” he whispered. Her + breath caught, she clung to him, he felt her face wet with tears. No more + words were spoken, but they walked on comforted, groping their way under + the damp fingers of the trees. Stefan felt no passion, but his tenderness + for his wife had reawakened. For her part, tears had thawed her + bitterness, without washing it away. + </p> + <p> + The next morning Constance drove over. + </p> + <p> + “Children,” she said, hurrying in from the cold air, “what a delicious + scene! I invite myself to lunch.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was playing with Elliston on a blanket by the fire, Stefan sketching + them, the room full of sun and firelight. The two greeted her delightedly. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” she said, settling herself on the couch, “let me tell you why I + came,” and she proceeded to unfold her plans for a house-party at + Burlington. “You've never seen our winter sports, Mary, they're glorious, + and you need a change from so much domesticity. As for you, Mr. Byrd, it + will give you a chance to learn that America can be attractive even + outside New York.” + </p> + <p> + Both the Byrds were looking interested, Stefan unreservedly, Mary with a + pucker of doubt. + </p> + <p> + “Now, don't begin about Elliston,” exclaimed Constance, forestalling + objections. “We've heaps of room, but it would spoil your fun to bring + him. I want you to get a trained nurse for the week—finest thing in + the world to take a holiday from maternity once in a while.” She turned to + Stefan as a sure ally. “Don't you agree, Mr. Byrd?” + </p> + <p> + “Emphatically,” beamed he, seizing her hand and kissing it. “A glorious + idea! Away with domesticity! A real breath of freedom, eh, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + Constance again forestalled difficulties. + </p> + <p> + “We are all going to travel up by night, ten of us, and Theodore is + engaging a compartment car with rooms for every one, so there won't be any + expense about that part of it, Mary, my dear. Does it seem too extravagant + to ask you to get a trained nurse? I've set my heart on having you free to + be the life of the party. All your admirers are coming, that gorgeous + Gunther, my beloved James, and Wallace McEwan. I baited my hooks with you, + so you simply <i>can't</i> disappoint me!” she concluded triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + Stefan pricked up his ears. Here was Mary in a new guise; he had not + thought of her for some time as having “admirers.” Yet he had always known + Farraday for one; and certainly Gunther, who modeled her, and McEwan, who + dogged her footsteps, could admire her no less than the editor. The + thought that his wife was sought after, that he was probably envied by + other men, warmed Stefan's heart pleasantly, just as Constance intended it + should. + </p> + <p> + “It sounds fascinating, and I certainly think we must come,” Mary was + saying, “though I don't know how I shall bring myself to part with + Elliston,” and she hugged the baby close. + </p> + <p> + “You born Mother!” said Constance. “I adored my boys, but I was always + enchanted to escape from them.” She laughed like a girl. “Now you grasp + the inwardness of my Christmas present—it is a coasting outfit. + Won't she look lovely in it, Mr. Byrd?” + </p> + <p> + “Glorious!” said Stefan, boyishly aglow; and “I don't believe two and two + do make four, after all,” thought Constance. + </p> + <p> + All through luncheon they discussed the plan with animation, Constance + enlisting Mary's help at the Suffrage Fête the first week in January in + advance payment, as she said, for the house-party. “Why not get your nurse + a few days earlier to break her in, and be free to give me as much time as + possible?” she urged. + </p> + <p> + “Good idea, Mary,” Stefan chimed in. “I'll stay in town that week and + lunch with you at the bazaar, and you could sleep a night or two at the + studio.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll see,” said Mary, a little non-committal. She knew she should enjoy + the Fête immensely, but somehow, she did not feel she could bring herself + to sleep in the little studio, with Felicity the Nixie sneering down at + her from one wall, and Felicity the Dancer challenging from the other. + </p> + <p> + But it was a much cheered couple that Constance left behind, and Stefan + came home every afternoon during the week that remained till the opening + of the bazaar. + </p> + <p> + Being in the city for this event, Mary, in addition to engaging a nurse, + indulged in some rather extravagant shopping. She had made up her mind to + look her best at Burlington, and though Mary was slow to move, when she + did take action her methods were thorough. She realized with gratitude + that Constance, whom she suspected of knowing more than she indicated, had + given her a wonderful opportunity of renewing her appeal to her husband, + and she was determined to use it to the full. Incapable—as are all + women of her type—of coquetry, Mary yet knew the value of her + beauty, and was too intelligent not to see that both it and she had been + at a grave disadvantage of late. She understood dimly that she was + confronted by one of the fundamental problems of marriage, the difficulty + of making an equal success of love and motherhood. She could not put her + husband permanently before her child, as Constance had done, and as she + knew most Englishwomen did, but she meant to do it completely for this one + week of holiday, at least. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, amidst the color and music of the great drill-hall where the + suffragists held their yearly Fête, Mary, dispensing tea and cakes in a + flower-garlanded tent, enjoyed herself with simple whole-heartedness. All + Constance's waitresses were dressed as daffodils, and the high cap, + representing the inverted cup of the flower, with the tight-sheathed + yellow and green of the gown, was particularly becoming to Mary. She knew + again the pleasure, which no one is too modest to enjoy, of being a center + of admiration. Stefan dropped in once or twice, and waxed enthusiastic + over Constance's arrangements and Mary's looks. + </p> + <p> + On one of these occasions Miss Berber suddenly appeared in the tent, + dressed wonderfully in white panne, with a barbaric mottle of black and + white civet-skins flung over one shoulder, and a tight-drawn cap of the + fur, apparently held in place by the great claws of some feline mounted in + heavy gold. She wore circles of fretted gold in her ears, and carried a + tall ebony stick with a gold handle, Louis Quatorze fashion. From her huge + civet muff a gold purse dangled. She looked at once more conventional and + more dynamic than Mary had seen her, and her rich dress made the simple + effects of the tent seem amateurish. + </p> + <p> + Neither Mary nor she attempted more than a formal salutation, but she + discoursed languidly with Constance for some minutes. Stefan, who had been + eating ice cream like a schoolboy with two pretty girls at the other side + of the tent, came forward on seeing the new arrival, and after a good deal + of undecided fidgeting, and a “See you later” to Mary, wandered off with + Miss Berber and disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. In spite of her + best efforts, Mary's spirits were completely dashed by this episode, but + they rose again when Stefan met her at the Pennsylvania Station and + traveled home with her. As they emerged from the speech-deadening roar of + the tunnel he said casually, “Felicity Berber is an amusing creature, but + she's a good deal of a bore at times.” Mary took his hand under the folds + of their newspaper. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + On the evening of their departure Mary parted from her baby with a pang, + but she knew him to be in the best of hands, and felt no anxiety as to his + welfare. The nurse she had obtained was a friend of Miss McCullock's, and + a most efficient and kindly young woman. + </p> + <p> + Their journey up to town reminded Mary of their first journey from + Shadeham, so full of spirits and enthusiasm was Stefan. The whole party + met at the Grand Central, and boarded the train amid laughter, + introductions, and much gay talk. Constance scintillated. The solid Mr. + Elliot was quite shaken out of his sobriety, McEwan's grin was at its + broadest, Farraday's smile its pleasantest, and the three young women whom + Constance had collected bubbled and shrilled merrily. + </p> + <p> + Only Gunther appeared untouched by the holiday atmosphere. He towered over + the rest of the party calm and direct, disposing of porters and + hand-baggage with an unruffled perfection of address. Mary, watching him, + pulled Stefan's sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Look,” she said, pointing to two long ribbons of narrow wood lashed to + some other impedimenta of Gunther's. “Skis, Stefan, how thrilling! I've + never seen them used.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan nodded. “I'd like to get a drawing of that chap in action. His + lines are magnificent,” Mary had never been in a sleeping car before, and + was fascinated to see the sloping ceilings of the state-rooms change like + pantomime trick into beds under the deft handling of the porter. She liked + the white coat of this autocrat of the road, and the smart, muslin + trimmings of the colored maid. She and Stefan had the compartment next + their host's; Farraday and McEwan shared one beyond; Gunther and his skis + and Walter, the Elliot's younger son, completely filled the next; Mrs. + Thayer, a cheerful young widow, and Miss Baxter and Miss Van Sittart, the + two girls of the party, occupied the remaining three. The drawing room had + been left empty to serve as a general overflow. To this high-balls, + coffee, milk and sandwiches were borne by white-draped waiters from the + buffet, and set upon a magically installed table. Mrs. Thayer, Constance, + and the men fell upon the stronger beverages, while Mary and the girls + divided the milk. + </p> + <p> + Under cover of the general chatter McEwan raised his glass to Constance. + </p> + <p> + “I take off my hat to you, Mrs. Elliot, for a stage manager,” he + whispered, glancing at the other women. “A black-haired soubrette, a brown + pony, and a redheaded slip; no rivals to the leading lady in this show!” + </p> + <p> + Their train reached Burlington in a flurry of snow, and they were bundled + into big, two-seated sleighs for the drive out of the city. + </p> + <p> + Mary, wrapped in her fur-lined coat and covered with a huge bearskin, + watched with interest the tidy, dignified little town speed by. Even + Stefan was willing to admit it had some claims to the picturesque, but a + little way beyond, when they came to the open country, he gave almost a + whoop of satisfaction. Before them stretched tumbled hills, converging on + an icebound lake. Their snowy sides glittered pink in the sun and purple + in the shadows; they reared their frosted crests as if in welcome of the + morning; behind them the sky gleamed opalescent. Stefan leant forward in + the speeding sleigh as if to urge it with the sway of his body, the frosty + air stung his nostrils, the breath of the horses trailed like smoke, the + road seemed leading up to the threshold of the world. The speed of their + cold flight was in tune with the frozen dance of the hills—Stefan + whooped again, intoxicated, the others laughed back at him and cheered, + Mary's face glowed with delight, they were like children in their joy. + </p> + <p> + The Elliot house lay in a high fold of the hills, overlooking the lake, + and almost out of sight of other buildings. Within, all was spacious + warmth and the crackle of great wood fires; on every side the icy view, + seen through wide windows, contrasted with the glowing colors of the + rooms. A steaming breakfast waited to fortify the hastily drunk coffee of + the train. After it, when the Byrds found themselves in their cozy bedroom + with its old New England furniture and blue-tiled bathroom, Stefan, + waltzing round the room, fairly hugged Mary in excited glee. + </p> + <p> + “What fun, Beautiful, what a lovely place, what air, what snow!” She + laughed with him, her own heart bounding with unwonted excitement. + </p> + <p> + The six-day party was a marked success throughout. Even the two young + girls were satisfied, for Constance contrived the appearance of several + stalwart youths of the neighborhood to help her son leaven the group of + older men. Mrs. Thayer flirted pleasantly and wittily with whoever chanced + to be at hand, Mr. Elliot hobnobbed with Farraday and made touchingly + laborious efforts to be frivolous, and McEwan kept the household laughing + at his gambols, heavy as those of a St. Bernard pup. + </p> + <p> + Constance darted from group to group like a purposeful humming-bird, but + did not lack the supreme gift of a hostess—that of leaving her + guests reasonably alone. All the women were inclined to hover about Byrd, + who, with Gunther, represented the most attractive male element. As the + women were sufficiently pretty and intelligent, Stefan enjoyed their + notice, but Gunther stalked away from them like a great hound surrounded + by lap-dogs. He was invariably courteous to his hostess, but had eyes only + for Mary. Never seeming to follow her, and rarely talking to her alone, he + was yet always to be found within a few yards of the spot she happened to + occupy. Farraday would watch her from another room, or talk with her in + his slow, kind way, and Wallace always drew her into his absurd games or + his sessions at the piano. But Gunther neither watched nor chattered, he + simply <i>was</i>, seeming to draw a silent and complete satisfaction from + her nearness. Of the men he took only cursory notice, talking sometimes + with Stefan on art, or with Farraday on life, but never seeking their + society. + </p> + <p> + Indoors Gunther seemed negative, outdoors he became godlike. The Elliots + possessed a little Norwegian sleigh they had brought from Europe. It was + swan-shaped, stood on low wooden runners, and was brightly painted in the + Norse manner. This Gunther found in the stable, and, promptly harnessing + to it the fastest horse, drove round to the house. Striding into the hall, + where the party was discussing plans for the day, he planted himself + before Mary, and invited her to drive. The others, looking out of the + window, exclaimed with pleasure at the pretty little sleigh, and Mary + gladly threw on her cap and coat. Gunther tucked her in and started + without a word. They were a mile from the house before he broke silence. + </p> + <p> + “This sleigh comes from my country, Mrs. Byrd; I wish I could drive you + there in it.” + </p> + <p> + He did not speak again, and Mary was glad to enjoy the exhilarating air in + silence. By several roads they had gradually climbed a hillside. Now from + below they could see the house at some distance to their right, and + another road running in one long slope almost straight to it from where + they sat. Gunther suddenly stood up in the sleigh, braced his feet, and + wrapped a rein round each arm. + </p> + <p> + “Now we will drive,” said he. They started, they gathered speed, they + flew, the horse threw himself into a stretching gallop, the sleigh rocked, + it leapt like a dashing wave. Gunther half crouched, swaying with it. The + horse raced, his flanks stretched to the snow. Mary clung to her seat + breathless and tense with excitement—she looked up at the driver. + His blue eyes blazed, his lips smiled above a tight-set jaw, he looked + down, and meeting her eyes laughed triumphantly. Expanding his great chest + he uttered a wild, exultant cry—they seemed to be rushing off the + world's rim. She could see nothing but the blinding fume of the upflung + snow. She, too, wanted to cry aloud. Then their pace slackened, she could + see the road, black trees, a wall, a house. They drove into the courtyard + and stopped. + </p> + <p> + The hall door was flung open. They were met by a group of faces excited + and alarmed. Gunther, his eyes still blazing, helped her down and, + throwing the reins to a waiting stable-boy, strode silently past the + guests and up to his room. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens! you might have been killed,” fussed Mr. Elliot. Farraday + looked pale, the women laughed excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” cried Stefan, his face flashing with eagerness, “you weren't + frightened, were you?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, still breathless. + </p> + <p> + “It was glorious, you were like storm gods. I've never seen anything so + inspiring.” And he embraced her before them all. + </p> + <p> + After this episode Gunther resumed his impassive manner, nor did any other + of their outdoor sports draw from him the strange, exultant look he had + given Mary in the sleigh. But his feats on the toboggan slide and with his + skis were sufficiently daring to supply the party with liberal thrills. + His obvious skill gained him the captaincy of the toboggan, but after his + exhibition of driving, most of the women hesitated at first to form one of + his crew. Mary, however, who was quite fearless and fascinated by this new + sport, dashed down with him and the other men again and again, and was, + with her white wraps and brilliant pink cheeks, as McEwan had prophesied, + “the queen of the slide.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan was intoxicated by the tobogganing, and though he was only less new + to it than Mary he soon became expert. But on his skis the great Norwegian + was alone, the whole party turning out to watch whenever he strapped them + to his feet. His daring leaps were, Stefan said, the nearest thing to + flying he had ever seen. “For I don't count aeroplanes—they are mere + machinery.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, if the lake were frozen enough for ice-boating,” replied Gunther, “I + could show you something nearer still. But they tell me there is little + chance till February for more than in-shore skating.” + </p> + <p> + Only in this last named sport had Gunther a rival, Stefan making up in + grace what he lacked in practice. Beside his, the Norwegian's skating was + powerful, but too unbending. + </p> + <p> + Mary, owing to the open English winters, had had less experience than any + one there, but she was so much more graceful and athletic than the other + women that she soon outstripped them. She skated almost entirely with + Stefan, only once with Gunther, who, since his strange look in the sleigh, + a little troubled her. On that one occasion he tore round the clear ice at + breakneck speed, halting her dramatically, by sheer weight, a few inches + from the bank, where she arrived breathless and thrilled. + </p> + <p> + Seeing her thus at her best, happy and admired, and full of vigorous life, + Stefan found himself almost as much in love as in the early weeks of their + marriage. + </p> + <p> + “You are more beautiful than ever, Mary,” he exclaimed; “there is an added + life and strength in you; you are triumphant.” + </p> + <p> + It was a joy again to feel her in his arms, to know that they were each + other's. After his troubled flights he came back to her love with a + feeling of deep spiritual peace. The night, when he could be alone with + her, became the happy climax of the day. + </p> + <p> + The amusements of the week ended in an impromptu dance which Constance + arranged by a morning at the telephone. For this, Mary donned her main + extravagance, a dress of rainbow colored silk gauze, cut short to the + ankle, and worn with pale pink slippers. She had found it “marked down” at + a Fifth Avenue house, and had been told it was a model dubbed “Aurora.” + With it she wore her mother's pearl ornaments. Stefan was entranced by the + result, and Constance almost wept with satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mary Byrd,” she cried, hugging her daintily to avoid crushing the + frock; “you are the best thing that has happened in my family since my + mother-in-law quit living with me.” + </p> + <p> + That night Stefan was at his best. Delighted with all his surroundings, he + let his faunlike spirits have full play, and his keen, brown face and + green-gold eyes flashed apparently simultaneously from every corner of the + room. Gunther did not dance; Farraday's method was correct but quiet, and + none of the men could rival Stefan in light-footed grace. Both he and Mary + were ignorant of any of the new dances, but Constance had given Mary a + lesson earlier in the day, and Stefan grasped the general scheme with his + usual lightning rapidity. Then he began to embroider, inventing steps of + his own which, in turn, Mary was quick to catch. No couple on the floor + compared with them in distinction and grace, and they danced, to the + chagrin of the other men and girls, almost entirely together. + </p> + <p> + Whatever disappointment this caused, however, was not shared by their + hostess and McEwan. After enduring several rounds of Mac's punishing + dancing, Constance was thankful to sit out with him and watch the others. + She was glad to be silent after her strenuous efforts as a hostess, and + McEwan was apparently too filled with satisfaction to have room left for + speech. His red face beamed, his big teeth glistened, pleasure radiated + from him. + </p> + <p> + “Aye, aye,” he chuckled, nodding his ponderous head, and again “Aye, aye,” + in tones of fat content, as the two Byrds swung lightly by. + </p> + <p> + “Aye, aye, Mr. McEwan,” smiled Constance, tapping his knee with her fan. + “All this was your idea, and you are a good fellow. From this moment, I + intend to call you by your first name.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, aye,” beamed McEwan, more broadly than before, extending a huge + hand; “that'll be grand.” + </p> + <p> + The dance was the climax of the week. The next day was their last, + leave-takings were in the air, and toward afternoon a bustle of packing. + Stefan was in a mood of slight reaction from his excitement of the night + before. While Mary packed for them both he prowled uncertainly about the + house, and, finding the men in the library, whiled away the time in an + utterly impossible attempt to quarrel with McEwan on some theory of art. + </p> + <p> + They all left for the train with lamentations, and arrived in New York the + next morning in a cheerless storm of wet snow. + </p> + <p> + But by this time Mary's regret at the ending of their holiday was lost in + joy at the prospect of seeing her baby. She urged the stiff and tired + Stefan to speed, and, by cutting short their farewells and jumping for a + street car, managed to make the next train out for Crab's Bay. She could + hardly sit still in the decrepit cab, and it had barely stopped at their + gate before she was out and tearing up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Stefan paid the cab, carried in their suitcase, and wandered, cold and + lonely, to the sitting room. For him their home-coming offered no + alleviating thrill. Already, he felt, Mary's bright wings were folding + again above her nest. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> + <p> + Refreshed, in spite of his natural reaction of spirits, by the week's + holiday, Stefan turned to his work with greater content in it than he had + felt for some time. His content was, to his own surprise, rather increased + than lessened by the discovery that Felicity Berber had left New York for + the South. Arriving at his studio the day after their return from Vermont, + he found one of her characteristic notes, in crimson ink this time, upon + snowy paper. + </p> + <p> + “Stefan,” it read, “the winter has found his strength at last in storms. + But our friendship dallies with the various moods of spring. It leaves me + restless. The snow chills without calming me. My designing is beauty + wasted on the blindness of the city's overfed. A need of warmth and + stillness is upon me—the south claims me. The time of my return is + unrevealed as yet. Felicity.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan read this epistle twice, the first time with irritation, the second + with relief. “Affected creature,” he said to himself, “it's a good job + she's gone. I've frittered away too much time with her as it is.” + </p> + <p> + At home that evening he told Mary. His devotion during their holiday had + already obscured her memory of the autumn's unhappiness, and his carefree + manner of imparting his tidings laid any ghost of doubt that still + remained with her. Secure once more in his love, she was as uncloudedly + happy as she had ever been. + </p> + <p> + In his newly acquired mood of sanity, Stefan faced the fact that he had + less work to show for the last nine months than in any similar period of + his career, and that he was still living on his last winter's success. + What had these months brought him? An expensive and inconclusive + flirtation at the cost of his wife's happiness, a few disturbing memories, + and two unfinished pictures. Out of patience with himself, he plunged into + his work. In two weeks of concentrated effort he had finished the Nixie, + and had arranged with Constantine to exhibit it and the Demeter + immediately. This last the dealer appeared to admire, pronouncing it a + fine canvas, though inferior to the Danaë. About the Nixie he seemed in + two minds. + </p> + <p> + “We shall have a newspaper story with that one, Mr. Byrd, the lady being + so well known, and the subject so dramatic, but if you ask me will it sell—” + he shrugged his fat shoulders—“that's another thing.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan stared at him. “I could sell that picture in France five times + over.” + </p> + <p> + Constantine waved his pudgy fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, France! V'là c' qui est autre chose, 's pas? But if we fail in New + York for this one I think we try Chicago.” + </p> + <p> + The reception of the pictures proved Constantine a shrewd prophet. The + academic Demeter was applauded by the average critic as a piece of + decorative work in the grand manner, and a fit rebuke to all Cubists, + Futurists, and other anarchists. It was bought by a committee from a + western agricultural college, which had come east with a check from the + state's leading politician to purchase suitable mural enrichments for the + college's new building. Constantine persuaded these worthies that one + suitable painting by a distinguished artist would enrich their institution + more than the half dozen canvases “to fit the auditorium” which they had + been inclined to order. Moreover, he mulcted them of two thousand dollars + for Demeter, which, in his private estimation, was more than she was + worth. He achieved the sale more readily because of the newspaper + controversy aroused by the Nixie. Was this picture a satire on life, or on + the celebrated Miss Berber? Was it great art, or merely melodrama? Were + Byrd's effects of river-light obtained in the old impressionist manner, or + by a subtler method of his own? Was he a master or a poseur? + </p> + <p> + These and other questions brought his name into fresh prominence, but + failed to sell their object. Just, however, as Constantine was considering + a journey for the Nixie to Chicago, a purchaser appeared in the shape of a + certain Mr. Einsbacher. Stefan happened to be in the gallery when this + gentleman, piloted by Constantine himself, came in, and recognized him as + the elderly satyr of the pouched eyes who had been so attentive to + Felicity on the night of Constance's reception. When, later, the dealer + informed him that this individual had bought the Nixie for three thousand, + Stefan made no attempt to conceal his disgust. + </p> + <p> + “Thousand devils, Constantine, I don't paint for swine of that type,” said + he, scowling. + </p> + <p> + The dealer's hands wagged. “His check is good,” he replied, “and who + knows, he may die soon and leave the picture to the Metropolitan.” + </p> + <p> + But Stefan was not to be mollified, and went home that afternoon in a + state of high rebellion against all commercialism. Mary tried to console + him by pointing out that even with the dealer's commission deducted, he + had made more than a year's income from the two sales, and could now work + again free from all anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “What's the good,” he exclaimed, “of producing beauty for sheep to bleat + and monkeys to leer at! What's the good of producing it in America at all? + Who wants, or understands it!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan, heaps of people. Doesn't Mr. Farraday understand art, for + instance?” + </p> + <p> + “Farraday,” he snorted, “yes!—landscapes and women with children. + What does he know of the radiance of beauty, its mystery, the hot soul of + it? Oh, Mary,” he flung himself down beside her, and clutched her hand + eagerly, “don't be wise; don't be sensible, darling. It's March, spring is + beginning in Europe. It's a year and a half since I became an exile. Let's + go, beloved. You say yourself we have plenty of money; let's take ship for + the land where beauty is understood, where it is put first, above all + things. Let's go back to France, Mary!” + </p> + <p> + His face was fired with eagerness; he almost trembled with the passion to + be gone. Mary flushed, and then grew pale with apprehension. “Do you mean + break up our home, Stefan, for good?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling. You know I've counted the days of bondage. We couldn't + travel last spring, and since then we've been too poor. What have these + last months brought us? Only disharmony. We are free now, there is nothing + to hold us back. We can leave Elliston in Paris, and follow the spring + south to the vineyards. A progress a-foot through France, each day finding + colors richer, the sun nearer—think of it, Beautiful!” He kissed her + joyously. + </p> + <p> + Her hands were quite cold now, “But, Stefan,” she temporized, “our little + house, our friends, my work, the—the <i>place</i> we've been + making?” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest, all these we can find far better there.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “I can't. I don't speak French properly, I don't + understand French people. I couldn't sell my stories there or—or + anything,” she finished weakly. + </p> + <p> + He jumped up, his eyes blank, hands thrust in his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “I don't get you, Mary. You don't mean—you surely can't mean, that + you don't want to go to France <i>at all</i>? That you want to <i>live</i> + here?” + </p> + <p> + She floundered. “I don't know, Stefan. Of course you've always talked + about France, and I should love to go there and see it, and so on, but + somehow I've come to think of the Byrdsnest as home—we've been so + happy here—” + </p> + <p> + “Happy?” he interrupted her. “You say we've been happy?” His tone was + utterly confounded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear, except—except when you were so—so busy last autumn—” + </p> + <p> + He dropped down by the table, squaring himself as if to get to the bottom + of a riddle. + </p> + <p> + “What is your idea of happiness, Mary, of <i>life</i> in fact?” he asked, + in an unusually quiet voice. She felt glad that he seemed so willing to + talk things over, and to concede her a point of view of her own. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she began, feeling for her words, “my idea of life is to have a + person and work that you love, and then to build—both of you—a + place, a position; to have friends—be part of the community—so + that your children—the immortal part of you—may grow up in a + more and more enriching atmosphere.” She paused, while he watched her, + motionless. “I can't imagine,” she went on, “greater happiness for two + people than to see their children growing up strong and useful—tall + sons and daughters to be proud of, such as all the generations before us + have had. Something to hand our life on to—as it was in the + beginning—you know, Stefan—” She flushed with the effort to + express. + </p> + <p> + “Then,”—his voice was quieter still; she did not see that his hands + were clenched under the flap of the table—“in this scheme of life of + yours, how many children—how many servants, rooms, all that sort of + thing—should you consider necessary?” + </p> + <p> + She smiled. “As for houses, servants and things, that just depends on + one's income. I hate ostentation, but I do like a beautifully run house, + and I adore horses and dogs and things. But the children—” she + flushed again—“why, dearest, I think any couple ought to be simply + too thankful for all the children they can have. Unless, perhaps,” she + added naïvely, “they're frightfully poor.” + </p> + <p> + “Where should people live to be happy in this way?” he asked, still in + those carefully quiet tones. + </p> + <p> + She was looking out of the window, trying to formulate her thoughts. “I + don't think it matters very much <i>where</i> one lives,” she said in her + soft, clear tones, “as long as one has friends, and is not too much in the + city. But to own one's house, and the ground under one, to be able to + leave it to one's son, to think of <i>his</i> son being born in it—that + I think would add enormously to one's happiness. To belong to the place + one lives in, whether it's an old country, or one of the colonies, or + anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Stefan slowly, in a voice low and almost harsh. Startled, + she looked at him. His face was knotted in a white mask; it was like the + face of some creature upon which an iron door has been shut. “Stefan,” she + exclaimed, “what—?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” he said, still slowly. “I suppose it's time we talked + this thing out. I've been a fool, and judged, like a fool, by myself. It's + time we knew each other, Mary. All that you have said is horrible to me—it's + like a trap.” She gave an exclamation. “Wait, let me do something I've + never done, let me <i>think</i> about it.” He was silent, his face still a + hard, knotted mask. Mary waited, her heart trembling. + </p> + <p> + “You, Mary, told me something about families in England who live as you + describe—you said your mother belonged to one of them. I remember + that now.” He nodded shortly, as if conceding her a point. “My father was + a New Englander. He was narrow and self-righteous, and I hated him, but he + came of people who had faced a hundred forms of death to live primitively, + in a strange land.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm willing to live in a strange country, Stefan,” she almost cried to + him. + </p> + <p> + “Don't, Mary—I'm still trying to understand. I'm not my father's + son, I'm my mother's. I don't know what she was, but she was beautiful and + passionate—she came of a mixed race, she may have had gipsy blood—I + don't know—but I do know she had genius. She loved only color and + movement. Mary—” he looked straight at her for the first time, his + eyes were tortured—“I loved you because you were beautiful and free. + When your child bound you, and you began to collect so many things and + people about you, I loved you less. I met some one else who had the beauty + of color and movement, and I almost loved her. She told me the name Berber + wasn't her own, that she had taken it because it belonged to a tribe of + wanderers—Arabs. I almost loved her for that alone. But, Mary, you + still held me. I was faithful to you because of your beauty and the love + that had been between us. Then you rose from your petty little + surroundings”—he cast a look of contempt at the pretty furnishings + of the room—“I saw you like a storm-spirit, I saw you moving among + other women like a goddess, adored of men. I felt your beautiful body + yield to me in the joy of wild movement, in the rhythm of the dance. You + were my bride, alive, gloriously free—once more, you were the + Desired. I loved you, Mary.” He rose and put his hands on her shoulders. + Her face was as white as his now. His hands dropped, he almost leapt away + from her, the muscles of his face writhed. “My God, Mary, I've never + wanted to <i>think</i> about you, only to feel and see you! Now I must + think. This—this existence that you have described! Is that all you + ask of life? Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “What more could one ask!” she uttered, dazed. + </p> + <p> + “What <i>more?</i>” he cried out, throwing up his arms. “What <i>more,</i> + Mary! Why, it isn't life at all, this deadly, petty intricate day by day, + surrounded by things, and more things. The hopeless, unalterable tameness + of it!” He began to pace the room. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, I don't understand you. We have love, and work, and if some + part of our life is petty, why, every one's always has been, hasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + She was deeply moved by his distress, afraid again for their happiness, + longing to comfort him. Yet, under and apart from all these emotions, some + cool little faculty of criticism wondered if he was not making rather a + theatrical scene. “Daily life must be a little monotonous, mustn't it?” + she urged again, trying to help him. + </p> + <p> + “No!” he almost shouted, with a gesture of fierce repudiation. “Was + Angelo's life petty? Was da Vinci's? Did Columbus live monotonously, did + Scott or Peary? Does any explorer or traveler? Did Thoreau surround + himself with <i>things</i>—to hamper—did George Borrow, or + Whitman, or Stevenson? Do you suppose Rodin, or de Musset, or Rousseau, or + Millet, or any one else who has ever <i>lived</i>, cared whether they had + a position, a house, horses, old furniture? All the world's wanderers, + from Ulysses down to the last tramp who knocked at this door, have known + more of life than all your generations of staid conventional county + families! Oh, Mary”—he leant across the table toward her, and his + voice pleaded—“think of what life <i>should</i> be. Think of the + peasants in France treading out the wine. Think of ships, and rivers, and + all the beauty of the forests. Think of dancing, of music, of that old + viking who first found America. Think of those tribes who wander with + their tents over the desert and pitch them under stars as big as lamps—all + the things we've never seen, Mary, the songs we've never heard. The + colors, the scents, and the cruel tang of life! All these I want to see + and feel, and translate into pictures. I want you with me, Mary—beautiful + and free—I want us to drink life eagerly together, as if it were + heady wine.” He took her hand across the table. “You'll come, Beloved, + you'll give all the little things up, and come?” + </p> + <p> + She rose, her face pitifully white. They stood with hands clasped, the + table between them. + </p> + <p> + “The boy, Stefan?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed, thinking he had won her. “Bring him, too, as the Arab women + carry theirs, in a shawl. We'll leave him here and there, and have him + with us whenever we stay long in one place.” + </p> + <p> + She pulled her hand away, her eyes filled with tears. “I love you, Stefan, + but I can't bring my child up like a gipsy. I'll live in France, or + anywhere you say, but I must have a home—I can't be a wanderer.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall have a home, sweetheart, to keep coming back to.” His face was + brightening to eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you don't understand. I can't leave my child; I can't be with him + only sometimes. I want him always. And it isn't only him. Oh, Stefan, + dear”—her voice in its turn was pleading—“I don't believe I + can come to France just now. I think, I'm almost sure, we're going to have + another baby.” + </p> + <p> + He straightened, they faced each other in silence. After a moment she + spoke again, looking down, her hands tremblingly picking at her + handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “I was so happy about it. It was the sign of your renewed love. I thought + we could build a little wing on the cottage, and have a nurse.” Her voice + fell to a whisper. “I thought it might be a little girl, and that you + would love her better than the boy. I'll come later, dear, if you say so, + but I can't come now.” She sank into her chair, her head drooping. He, + too, sat down, too dazed by this new development to find his way for a + minute through its implications. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, Mary,” he said at last, dully. “I don't want a little girl. If + she could be put away somewhere till she were grown, I should not mind. + But to live like this all through one's youth, with a house, and servants, + and people calling, and the place cluttered up with babies—I don't + think I can do that, possibly.” + </p> + <p> + She was frankly crying now. “But, dear one, can't we compromise? After + this baby is born, I'll give up the house. We'll live in France—I'll + travel with you a little. That will help, won't it?” + </p> + <p> + He sighed. “I suppose so. We shall have to think out some scheme. But the + ghastly part is that we shall both have to be content with half measures. + You want one thing of life, Mary, I another. No amount of self-sacrifice + on either side alters that fact. We married, strangers, and it's taken us + a year and a half to find it out. My fault, of course. I wanted love and + beauty, and I got it—I didn't think of the cost, and I didn't think + of <i>you</i>. I was just a damned egotistical male, I suppose.” He + laughed bitterly. “My father wanted a wife, and he got the burning heart + of a rose. I—I never wanted a wife, I see that now, I wanted to + snare the very spirit of life and make it my own—you looked a vessel + fit to carry it. But you were just a woman like the rest. We've failed + each other, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan,” she cried through her tears, “I've tried so hard. But I was + always the same—just a woman. Only—” her tears broke out + afresh—“when you married me, I thought you loved me as I was.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, transfixed. “My God,” he whispered, “that's what I heard + my mother say more than twenty years ago. What a mockery—each + generation a scorn and plaything for the high Gods! Well, we'll do the + best we can, Mary. I'm utterly a pagan, so I'm not quite the inhuman + granite my Christian father was. Don't cry, dear.” He stooped and kissed + her, and she heard his light, wild steps pass through the room and out + into the night. She sat silent, amid the ruins of her nest. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> + <p> + For a month Stefan brooded. He hung about the house, dabbled at a little + work, and returned, all without signs of life or interest. He was kind to + Mary, more considerate than he used to be, but she would have given all + his inanimate, painstaking politeness for an hour of his old, gay + thoughtlessness. They had reached the stage of marriage in which, all + being explained and understood, there seems nothing to hope for. Alone + together they were silent, for there was nothing to say. Each condoned but + could not comfort the other. Stefan felt that his marriage had been a + mistake, that he, a living thing, had tied about his neck a dead mass of + institutions, customs and obligations which would slowly crush his life + out. “I am twenty-seven,” he said to himself, “and my life is over.” He + did not blame Mary, but himself. + </p> + <p> + She, on the other hand, felt she had married a man outside the pale of + ordinary humanity, and that though she still loved him, she could no + longer expect happiness through him. “I am twenty-five,” she thought, “and + my personal life is over. I can be happy now only in my children.” As + those were assured her, she never thought of regretting her marriage, but + only deplored the loss of her dream. Nor did she judge Stefan. She + understood the wild risk she had run in marrying a man of whom she knew + nothing. “He is as he is,” she thought; “neither of us is to blame.” + Lonely and grieved, she turned for companionship to her writing, and began + a series of fairy tales which she had long planned for very young + children. The first instalment of her serial was out, charmingly + illustrated; she had felt rather proud on seeing her name, for the first + time, on the cover of a magazine. She engaged a young girl from the + village to take Elliston for his daily outings, and settled down to a + routine of work, small social relaxations, and morning and evening care of + the baby. The daily facts of life were pleasant to Mary; if some hurt or + disappointed, her balanced nature swung readily to assuage itself with + others. She honestly believed she felt more deeply than her husband, and + perhaps she did, but she was not of the kind whom life can break. Stefan + might dash himself to exhaustion against a rock round which Mary would + find a smooth channel. + </p> + <p> + While her work progressed, Stefan's remained at a standstill. + Disillusioned with his marriage and with his whole way of life he fretted + himself from his old sure confidence to a mood of despair. Their friends + bored him, his studio like his house became a cage. New York appeared in + her old guise of mammoth materialist, but now he had no heart to satirize + her dishonor. He wanted only to be gone, but told himself that in common + decency he must remain with Mary till her child was born. He longed for + even the superficial thrill of Felicity's presence, but she still lingered + in the South. So fretting, he tossed himself against the bars through the + long snows of an unusually severe March, until April broke the frost, and + the road to the Byrdsnest became a morass of running mud. + </p> + <p> + In the last two weeks Stefan had begun a portrait of Constance, but + without enthusiasm. She was a fidgety sitter, and was moreover so busy + with her suffrage work that she could never be relied on for more than an + hour at a time. After a few of these fragmentary sittings his ragged + nerves gave out completely. + </p> + <p> + “It's utterly useless, Constance!” he exclaimed, throwing down his + pallette and brushes, as the telephone interrupted them for the third time + in less than an hour. “I can't paint in a suffrage office. This is a + studio, not the Club's headquarters. If you can't shut these people off + and sit rationally, please don't trouble to come again.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, my dear boy, it's abominable, but what can I do? Our bill has + passed the Legislature; until it is submitted next year I can't be my own + or Theodore's, much less yours. As for you, you look a rag. This winter + has about made me hate my country. I don't wonder you long for France.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes narrowed at him, she dangled her beads reflectively, and perched + on the throne again without attempting to resume her pose. “My dear boy,” + she said suddenly, “why stay here and be eaten by devils—why not fly + from them?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to God I could,” he groaned. + </p> + <p> + “You can. Mary was in to see our shop yesterday; she looked dragged. You + are both nervous. Do what I have always done—take a holiday from + each other. There's nothing like it as a tonic for love.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really think she wouldn't mind?” he exclaimed eagerly. “You know + she—she isn't very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Chtt,” shrugged Constance, “<i>that's</i> only being more than usually + well. You don't think Mary needs coddling, do you? She's worried because + you are bored. If you aren't there, she won't worry. I shall take your + advice—I shan't come here again—” and she settled her hat + briskly—“and you take mine. Go away—” Constance threw on her + coat—“go anywhere you like, my dear Stefan—” she was at the + door—“except south,” she added with a mischievous twinkle, closing + it. + </p> + <p> + Stefan, grinning appreciatively at this parting shot, unscrewed his sketch + of Constance from the easel, set it face to the wall in a corner, cleaned + his brushes, with the meticulous care he always gave to his tools, and ran + for the elevated, just in time to catch the next train for Crab's Bay. At + the station he jumped into a hack, and, splashing home as quickly as the + liquid road bed would allow, burst into the house to find Mary still + lingering over her lunch. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened, Stefan?” she exclaimed, startled at his excited face. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I've got an idea, that's all. Let me have something to eat and + I'll tell you about it.” + </p> + <p> + She rang for Lily, and he made a hasty meal, asking her unwonted questions + meantime about her work, her amusements, whether many of the neighbors + were down yet, and if she felt lonely. + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm not lonely, dear. There are only a few people here, but they are + awfully decent to me, and I'm very busy at home.” + </p> + <p> + “You are sure you are not lonely?” he asked anxiously, drinking his + coffee, and lighting a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, quite sure. I'm not exactly gay—” and she smiled a little + sadly—“but I'm really never lonely.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” he asked nervously, “what would you say if I suggested going off + by myself for two or three months, to Paris.” He watched her intently, + fearful of the effect of his words. To his unbounded relief, she appeared + neither surprised nor hurt, but, after twisting her coffee cup + thoughtfully for a minute, looked up with a frank smile. + </p> + <p> + “I think it would be an awfully good thing, Stefan dear. I've been + thinking so for a month, but I didn't like to say anything in case you + might feel—after our talk—” her voice faltered for a moment—“that + I was trying to—that I didn't care for you so much. It isn't that, + dear—” she looked honestly at him—“but I know you're not + happy, and it doesn't help me to feel I am holding you back from something + you want. I think we shall be happier afterwards if you go now.” + </p> + <p> + “I do, too,” said he, “but I was so afraid it would seem cruel in me to + suggest it. I don't want to grow callous like my father.” He shuddered. “I + want to do the decent thing, Mary.” His eyes were pleading. + </p> + <p> + “I know, dearest, you've been very kind. But for both our sakes, it will + be far better if you go for a time.” She rose, and, coming round the + table, kissed his rough hair. He caught her hand, and pressed it + gratefully. “You are good to me, Mary.” + </p> + <p> + The matter settled, Stefan's spirit soared. He rang up the French Line and + secured one of the few remaining berths for their next sailing, which was + in three days. He telephoned an ecstatic cable to Adolph. Then, hurrying + to the attic, he brought down his friend's old Gladstone, and his own + suitcase, and began to sort out his clothes. Mary, anxious to quell her + heartache by action, came up to help him, and vetoed his idea of taking + only the barest necessities. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” she said, “you want to get back to your old Bohemia. But + remember you are a well-known artist now—the celebrated Stefan + Byrd,” and she courtesied to him. “Suppose you were to meet some charming + people whom you wanted to see something of? Do take a dinner-jacket at + least.” + </p> + <p> + He grinned at her. “I shall live in a blouse and sleep in my old attic + with Adolph. That's the only thing I could possibly want to do. But I + won't be fractious, Mary. If it will please you to have me take dress + clothes I'll do it—only you must pack them yourself!” + </p> + <p> + She nodded smilingly. “All right, I shall love to.” She had failed to make + her husband happy in their home, she thought; at least she would succeed + in her manner of speeding him from it. It was her tragedy that he should + want to go. That once faced, she would not make a second tragedy of his + going. + </p> + <p> + She spent the next morning, while he went to town to buy his ticket, in a + thorough overhauling of his clothes. She found linen bags to hold his + shoes and a linen folder for his shirts. She pressed his ties and brushed + his coats, packed lavender bags in his underwear, and slipped a framed + snapshot of herself and Elliston into the bottom of the Gladstone. With + it, in a box, she put the ring she had given him, with the winged head, + which he had ceased to wear of late. She found some new poems and a novel + he had not read, and packed those. She gave him her own soapbox and + toothbrush case. She cleaned his two bags with shoe polish. Everything she + could think of was done to show that she sent him away willingly, and she + worked so hard that she forgot to notice how her heart ached. In the + afternoon she met him in town and they had dinner together. He suggested + their old hotel, but she shook her head. “No dear, not there,” she said, + smiling a little tremulously. They went to a theatre, and got home so late + that she was too tired to be wakeful. + </p> + <p> + “By the by,” she said next morning at breakfast, “don't worry about my + being alone after you've gone. I thought it might be triste for the first + few days, so I've rung up the Sparrow, and she's coming to occupy your + room for a couple of weeks. She's off for her yearly trip abroad at the + end of the month. Says she can't abide the Dutch, but means to see what + there is to their old Rhine, and come back by way of Tuscany and France.” + Mary gurgled. “Can't you see her in Paris, poor dear, 'doing' the Louvre, + with her nose in a guidebook. Why! Perhaps you may!” + </p> + <p> + “The gods forbid,” said Stefan devoutly. + </p> + <p> + He had brought his paints and brushes home the night before, and after + breakfast Mary helped him stow them away in the Gladstone, showing him + smilingly how well she had done his packing. While he admired, she + remembered to ask him if he had obtained a letter of credit. He burst out + laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, you wonder! I have about fifty dollars in my pocket, and should + have entirely forgotten to take more if you hadn't spoken of it. What a + bore! Can't I get it to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “You might not have time before sailing. I think you'd better go up + to-day, and then you could call on Constance to say good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't like to leave you on our last day,” he said uneasily, + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that will be all right, dear,” she smiled, patting his hand. “I have + oceans to do, and I think you ought to see Constance. Get your letter of + credit for a thousand dollars, then you'll be sure to have enough.” + </p> + <p> + “A thousand! Great Scott, Adolph would think I'd robbed a bank if I had + all that.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't need to spend it, silly, but you ought to have it behind you. + You never know what might happen.” + </p> + <p> + “Would there be plenty left for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Bless me, yes,” she laughed; “we're quite rich.” + </p> + <p> + While he was gone Mary arranged an impromptu farewell party for him, so + that instead of spending a rather depressing evening alone with her, as he + had expected, he found himself surrounded by cheerful friends—McEwan, + the Farradays, their next neighbors, the Havens, and one or two others. + McEwan was the last to leave, at nearly midnight, and pleading fatigue, + Mary kissed Stefan good night at the door of her room. She dared not + linger with him lest the stifled pain at her heart should clamor for + expression too urgently to be denied. But by this time he himself began to + feel the impending separation. Ready for bed, he slipped into her room and + found her lying wide-eyed in a swathe of moonlight. Without a word he lay + down beside her and drew her close. Like children lost in the dark, they + slept all night in each other's arms. + </p> + <p> + Next day Mary saw him off. New York ended at the gangway. Across it, they + were in France. French decorations, French faces, French gaiety, the + beloved French tongue, were everywhere. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to it, Mary,” he cried exultingly, and she smiled a cheerful + response. + </p> + <p> + When the warning bell sounded he suddenly became grave. + </p> + <p> + “Say good-bye again to Elliston for me, dear,” he said, holding her hand + close. “I hope he grows up like you.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were swimming now, in spite of herself. “Mary,” he went on, “this + separation makes or mars us. I hope, dear, I believe, it will make us. God + bless you.” He kissed her, pressed her to him. Suddenly they were both + trembling. + </p> + <p> + “Why are we parting?” he cried, in a revulsion of feeling. + </p> + <p> + She smiled at him, wiping away her tears. “It's better, dearest,” she + whispered; “let me go now.” They kissed again; she turned hurriedly away. + He watched her cross the gangway—she waved to him from the dock—then + the crowd swallowed her. + </p> + <p> + For a moment he felt bitterly bereaved. “How ironic life is,” he thought. + Then a snatch of French chatter and a gay laugh reached him. The gangway + lifted, water widened between the bulwarks and the dock. As the ship swung + out he caught the sea breeze—a flight of gulls swept by—he was + outbound! + </p> + <p> + With a deep breath Stefan turned a brilliant smile upon the deck ... + Freedom! + </p> + <p> + Mary, hurrying home with aching heart and throat, let the slow tears run + unheeded down her cheeks. From the train she watched the city's outskirts + stream by, formless and ugly. She was very desolate. But when, tired out, + she entered her house, peace enfolded her. Here were her child, the things + she loved, her birds, her pleasant, smiling servant. Here were white walls + and gracious calm. Her mate had flown, but the nest remained. Her heart + ached still, but it was no longer torn. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> + <p> + The day after Stefan sailed Felicity Berber returned from Louisiana. The + South had bored her, without curing her weariness of New York. She drove + from the Pennsylvania Station to her studio, looked through the books, + overhauled the stock, and realized with indifference that her business had + suffered heavily through her absence. She listened lazily while her + lieutenants, emphasizing this fact, implored her to take up the work + again. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter,” she murmured through her smoke. “The place still + pays. Your salaries are all secure, and I have plenty of money. I may come + back, I may not. In any event, I am bored.” She rippled out to her + landaulette, and drove home. At her apartment, her Chinese maid was + already unpacking her trunks. + </p> + <p> + “Don't unpack any more, Yo San. I may decide to go away again—abroad + perhaps. I am still very bored—give me a white kirtle and telephone + Mr. Marchmont to call in an hour.” + </p> + <p> + With her maid's help she undressed, pinned her hair high, and slipped on a + knee-high tunic of heavy chiffon. Barefooted, she entered a large room, + walled in white and dull silver—the end opposite the windows filled + by a single mirror. Between the windows stood a great tank of gold and + silver fish swimming among water lilies. + </p> + <p> + Two enormous vases of dull glass, stacked with lilies against her + homecoming, stood on marble pedestals. The floor was covered with a + carpeting of dead black. A divan draped in yellow silk, a single ebony + chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and a low table in teakwood were the + sole furniture. Here, quite alone, Felicity danced away the stiffness of + her journey, danced away the drumming of the train from her ears, and its + dust from her lungs. Then she bathed, and Yo San dressed her in a loose + robe of silver mesh, and fastened her hair with an ivory comb carved and + tinted to the model of a water lily. These rites complete, Felicity slowly + partook of fruit, coffee and toast. Only then did she re-enter the dance + room, where, on his ebony chair, the dangling Marchmont had been + uncomfortably waiting for half an hour. + </p> + <p> + She gave him her hand dreamily, and sank full length on the divan. + </p> + <p> + “You are more marvelous than ever, Felicity,” said he, with an adoring + sigh. + </p> + <p> + She waved her hand. “For all that I am not in the mood. Tell me the news, + my dear Marchmont—plays, pictures, scandals, which of my clients are + richer, which are bankrupt, who has gone abroad, and all about my + friends.” + </p> + <p> + Marchmont leant forward, and prepared to light a cigarette, his thin mouth + twisted to an eager smile, his loose hair wagging. + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” she breathed, “I weary of smoke. Give me a lily, Marchmont.” He + fetched one of the great Easter lilies from its vase. Placing this on her + bosom, she folded her supple hands over it, closed her eyes, and lay + still, looking like a Bakst version of the Maid of Astolat. Felicity's + hints were usually sufficient for her slaves. Marchmont put away his + cigarette, and proceeded with relish to recount the gossip with which, to + his long finger-tips, he was charged. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said he, after an hour's general survey of New York as they both + knew it, “I think that about covers the ground. There is, as I said, no + question that Einsbacher is still devoted. My own opinion is he will + present you with the Nixie. I suppose you received the clippings I sent + about the picture? Constance Elliot has only ordered two gowns from the + studio since you left—but you will have seen that by the books. She + says she is saving her money for the Cause.” He snickered. “The fact is, + she grows dowdy as she grows older. Gunther has gone to Frisco with his + group. Polly Thayer tells me his adoration of the beautiful Byrd is + pathetic. So much in love he nearly broke her neck showing off his driving + for her benefit.” Marchmont snickered again. “As for your friend Mr. Byrd—” + he smiled with a touch of sly pleasure—“you won't see him, he sailed + for France yesterday, alone. His name is in this morning's list of + departures.” And he drew a folded and marked newspaper from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + A shade of displeasure had crept over the immobile features of Miss + Berber. She opened her eyes and regarded the lank Marchmont with distaste. + Her finger pressed a button on the divan. Slowly she raised herself to her + elbow, while he watched, his pale eyes fixed on her with the expression of + a ratting dog waiting its master's thanks after a catch. + </p> + <p> + “All that you have told me,” said Felicity at last, a slight edge to her + zephyr-like voice, “is interesting, but I wish you would remember that + while you are free to ridicule my clients, you are not free as regards my + friends. Your comment on Connie was in poor taste. I am not in the mood + for more conversation this morning. I am fatigued. Good-day, Marchmont.” + She sank to her pillows again—her eyes closed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say, Felicity, is that all the thanks I get?” whined her visitor. + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, Marchmont,” she breathed again. The door opened, disclosing Yo + San. Marchmont's aesthetic veneer cracked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shucks,” he said, “how mean of you!” and trailed out, his cutaway + seeming to hang limp like the dejected tail of a dog. + </p> + <p> + The door closed, Felicity bounded up and, running across the room, invoked + her own loveliness in the mirror. + </p> + <p> + “Alone,” she whispered to herself, “alone.” She danced a few steps, + swayingly. “You've never lived, lovely creature, you've never lived yet,” + she apostrophized the dancing vision in the glass. + </p> + <p> + Still swaying and posturing to some inward melody, she fluttered down the + passage to her bedroom. “Yo San,” she called, her voice almost full, “we + shall go to Europe.” The stolid little maid nodded acquiescence. + </p> + <p> + For the next three days Felicity Berber, creator of raiment, shut in her + pastoral fitting room and surrounded by her chief acolytes, sat at a table + opposite Stefan's dancing faun, and designed spring gowns. Felicity the + idle, the somnolent, the alluring, gave place to Felicity the inventor, + and again to Felicity the woman of business. Scissors clipped, typewriters + clicked, colored chalks covered dozens of sheets with drawings. + </p> + <p> + The staff became first relieved, then enthusiastic. What a spring display + they were to have! On the third day hundreds of primrose-yellow envelopes, + inscribed in green ink to the studio's clients, poured into the + letter-chute. Within them an announcement printed in flowing green script + read, under Felicity's letterhead, “I offer twenty-one original designs + for spring raiment, created by me under the inspiration of a sojourn in + the South. Each will be modified to the wearer's personality, and none + will be duplicated. I am about to travel in Europe, there to gain + atmosphere for my fall creations.” After her signature, was stamped, by + way of seal, a tiny woodcut of Stefan's faun. + </p> + <p> + The last design was complete by Friday, and on Saturday Felicity sailed on + the Mauretania, her suite of three rooms a wilderness of flowers. + Marchmont, calling at the apartment to escort her to the boat, found the + dance-room swathed in sheeting, its heavy carpet rolled into a corner. + Evidently, this was to be no brief “sojourn.” The heavy Einsbacher was at + the dock to see her off, together with a small pack of nondescript young + men. Constance was not there, and Marchmont guessed that she had not been + told of her friend's departure. + </p> + <p> + Einsbacher had the last word with Felicity. “I hope you will like the + vlowers,” he whispered gutturally. “Let me know if I may make you a + present of the Nixie,” and he gave a thick smile. + </p> + <p> + “You know my rule,” she murmured, her lids heavy, a bored droop at the + corners of her mouth. “Nothing worth more than five dollars, except + flowers. Why should I break it—” her voice hovered—“for you?”—it + sank. She turned away, melting into the crowd. Marchmont, with malicious + pleasure, watched Einsbacher's discomfited retreat. + </p> + <p> + In her cabin Felicity collected all the donors' cards from her flowers + and, stepping outside, with a faint smile dropped them into the sea. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> + <p> + It was the end of April, and Paris rustled gaily in her spring dress. + Stefan and Adolph, clad in disreputable baggy trousers topped in one case + by a painter's blouse and in the other by an infinitely aged alpaca + jacket, strolled homeward in the early evening from their favorite café. + </p> + <p> + Adolph was in the highest spirits, as he had been ever since Stefan's + arrival three weeks before, but the other's face wore a rather moody + frown. He had begun to weary a little of his good friend's ecstatic + pleasure in their reunion. + </p> + <p> + He was in Paris again, in his old attic; it was spring, and his beloved + city as beautiful as ever. He had expected a return of his old-time + gaiety, but somehow the charm lacked potency. He wanted to paint, but his + ideas were turgid and fragmentary. He wanted excitement, but the city only + seemed to offer memories. The lapse of a short eighteen months had + scattered his friends surprisingly. Adolph remained, but Nanette was + married. Louise had left Paris, and Giddens, the English painter, had gone + back to London. Perhaps it was the spring, perhaps it was merely the law + which decrees that the past can never be recaptured—whatever the + cause, Stefan's flight had not wholly assuaged his restlessness. Of + adventures in the hackneyed sense he had not thought. He was too + fastidious for the vulgar sort, and had hitherto met no women who stirred + his imagination. Moreover, he harbored the delusion that the failure of + his great romance had killed his capacity for love. “I am done with + women,” he said to himself. + </p> + <p> + Mary seemed very distant. He thought of her with gratitude for her + generosity, with regret, but without longing. + </p> + <p> + “Never marry,” he said to Adolph for the twentieth time, as they turned + into the rue des Trois Ermites; “the wings of an artist must remain + unbound.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Stefan,” Adolph replied, sighing over his friend's disillusionment, + “I am not like you. I should be grateful for a home, and children. I am + only a cricket scraping out my little music, not an eagle.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan snorted. “You are a great violinist, but you won't realize it. Look + here, Adolph, chuck your job, and go on a walking tour with me. Let's + travel through France and along the Riviera to Italy. I'm sick of cities. + There's lots of money for us both, and if we run short, why, bring your + fiddle along and play it—why not?” + </p> + <p> + At their door the concierge handed Adolph some letters. + </p> + <p> + “My friend,” said he, holding up a couple of bills, “one cannot slip away + from life so easily. How should I pay my way when we returned?” + </p> + <p> + “Hang it,” said Stefan impatiently, “don't you begin to talk obligations. + I came to France to get away from all that. Have a little imagination, + Adolph. It would be the best thing that could happen to you to get shaken + out of that groove at the Opera—be the making of you.” + </p> + <p> + They had reached the attic, and Adolph lit a lamp. + </p> + <p> + “We'll talk of it to-morrow, my infant, now I must dress—see, here + is a letter for you.” + </p> + <p> + He handed Stefan a tinted envelope, and began leisurely to don his + conventional black. Holding the note under the lamp, Stefan saw with a + start that it was from Felicity, and had been left by hand. Excited, he + tore it open. It was written in ordinary ink, upon pale pink paper, + agreeably scented. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My dear friend,” he read in French, “I am in Paris, and + chancing to remember your old address—(“I swear I never told + her the number,” he thought)—send this in search of you. + How pleasant it would be to see you, and to have a little converse + in the sweet French tongue. You did not know that it + was my own, did you? But yes, I have French-Creole blood. + One is happy here among one's own kind. This evening I shall + be alone. Felicity.” + </pre> + <p> + So, she was a Creole—of the race of Josephine! His pulses beat. + Cramming the note into his pocket he whirled excitedly upon his friend. + </p> + <p> + “Adolph,” he cried, “I'm going out—where are my clothes?” and began + hastily to rummage for his Gladstone amidst a pile of their joint + belongings. Throwing it open, he dragged out his dress suit—folded + still as Mary had packed it—and strewed a table with collars, ties, + shirts, and other accessories. + </p> + <p> + “Hot water, Adolph! Throw some sticks into the stove—I must shave,” + he called, and Adolph, amazed at this sudden transformation, hastily + obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you go?” he asked, as he filled the kettle. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to see a very attractive young woman,” Stefan grinned. “Wow, + what a mercy I brought some decent clothes, eh?” He was already stripped, + and shaking out a handful of silk socks. Something clicked to the floor, + but he did not notice it. The dressing proceeded in a whirl, Adolph much + impressed by the splendors of his friend's toilet. A fine shirt of tucked + linen, immaculate pumps, links of dull gold—his comrade in Bohemia + had completely vanished. + </p> + <p> + “O là, là!” cried he, beaming, “now I see it is true about all your + riches!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to take a taxi,” Stefan announced as he slipped into his coat; + “can I drop you?” + </p> + <p> + He stood ready, having overtaken Adolph's sketchy but leisured dressing. + </p> + <p> + “What speed, my child! One moment!” Adolph shook on his coat, found his + glasses, and was crossing to put out the lamp when his foot struck a small + object. + </p> + <p> + “What is this, something of yours?” He stooped and picked up a framed + snapshot of a girl playing with a baby. “How beautiful!” he exclaimed, + holding it under the lamp. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” said Stefan with a slight frown, “that's Mary. I didn't know I + had it with me. Come on, Adolph,” and he tossed the picture back into the + open Gladstone. + </p> + <p> + While Adolph found a taxi, Stefan paused a moment to question the + concierge. Yes, monsieur's note had been left that afternoon, Madame + remembered, by une petite Chinoise, bien chic, who had asked if Monsieur + lived here. Madame's aged eyes snapped with Gallic appreciation of a + possible intrigue. + </p> + <p> + Stefan was glad when he had dropped Adolph. He stretched at ease along the + cushions of his open taxi, breathing in the warm, audacious air of spring, + and watched the faces of the crowds as they emerged under the lights to be + lost again mysteriously in the dusk. + </p> + <p> + Paris, her day's work done, was turning lightly, with her entrancing + smile, to the pursuit of friendship, adventure, and love. All through the + scented streets eyes sought eyes, voices rose in happy laughter or drooped + to soft allurement. Stefan thrilled to the magic in the air. He, too, was + seeking his adventure. + </p> + <p> + The taxi drew up in the courtyard of an apartment house. Giving his name, + Stefan entered a lift and was carried up one floor. A white door opened, + and the small Yo San, with a salutation, took his hat, and lifted a + curtain. He was in a long, low room, yellow with candlelight. Facing him, + open French windows giving upon a balcony showed the purpling dusk above + the river and the black shapes of trees. Lights trickled their reflection + in the water, the first stars shone, the scent of flowers was heavy in the + air. + </p> + <p> + All this he saw; then a curtain moved, and a slim form appeared from the + balcony as silently as a moth fluttering to the light. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Stefan, welcome,” a voice murmured. + </p> + <p> + The setting was perfect. As Felicity moved toward him—her gown + fluttering and swaying in folds of golden pink as delicately tinted as the + petals of a rose—Stefan realized he had never seen her so alluring. + Her strange eyes shone, her lips curved soft and inviting, her cheeks and + throat were like warm, white velvet. + </p> + <p> + He took her outstretched hand—of the texture of a camelia—and + it pulsed as if a heart beat in it. + </p> + <p> + “Felicity,” he half whispered, holding her hand, “how wonderful you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” she breathed, sighingly. “I have been asleep so long, Stefan. + perhaps I am awake a little now.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes, wide and gleaming as he had never seen them, held him. A + mysterious perfume, subtle and poignant, hung about her. Her gauzy dress + fluttered as she breathed; she seemed barely poised on her slim feet. He + put out his arm as if to stay her from mothlike flight, and it fell about + her waist. He pressed her to him. Her lips met his—they were + incredibly soft and warm—they seemed to blossom under his kisses. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Adolph, returning from the opera at midnight, donned his old jacket and a + pair of slippers and, lighting his pipe, settled himself with a paper to + await Stefan's coming. Presently first the paper, then the burnt-out pipe, + fell from his hands—he dozed, started awake, and dozed again. + </p> + <p> + At last he roused himself and stretched stiffly. The lamp was burning low—he + looked at his watch—it was four o'clock. Stefan's Gladstone bag + still yawned on a chair beside the table. In it, the dull glow of the lamp + was reflected from a small silver object lying among a litter of ties and + socks. Adolph picked it up, and looked for some moments at the face of + Mary, smiling above her little son. He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Tch, tch! Quel dommage-what a pity!” he sighed, and putting down the + picture undressed slowly, blew out the lamp, and went to bed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> + <p> + On a Saturday morning at the end of June, Mary stood by the gate of the + Byrdsnest, looking down the lane. McEwan, who was taking a whole holiday + from the office, had offered to fetch her mail from the village. Any + moment he might be back. It was quite likely, she told herself, that there + would be a letter from France this morning—a steamer had docked on + Thursday, another yesterday. Surely this time there would be something for + her. Mary's eyes, as they strained down the lane, had lost some of their + radiant youth. A stranger might have guessed her older than the twenty-six + years she had just completed—she seemed grave and matronly—her + face had a bleak look. Mary's last letter from France had come more than a + month ago, and a face can change much in a month of waiting. She knew that + last letter—a mere scrap—by heart. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thank you for your sweet letters, dear,” it read. “I am + well, and having a wonderful time. Not much painting yet; + that is to come. Adolph admires your picture prodigiously. + I have found some old friends in Paris, very agreeably. I may + move about a bit, so don't expect many letters. Take care of + yourself. Stefan.” + </pre> + <p> + No word of love, nothing about Elliston, or the child to come; just a + hasty word or two dashed off in answer to the long letters which she had + tried so hard to make amusing. Even this note had come after a two weeks' + silence. “Don't expect many letters—” she had not, but a month was a + long time. + </p> + <p> + There came Wallace! He had turned the corner—he had waved to her—but + it was a quiet wave. Somehow, if there had been a letter from France, Mary + thought he would have waved his hat round his head. She had never spoken + of her month-long wait, but Wallace always knew things without being told. + No, she was sure there was no letter. “It's too hot here in the sun,” she + thought, and walked slowly into the house. + </p> + <p> + “Here we are,” called McEwan cheerily as he entered the sitting room. + “It's a light mail to-day. Nothing but 'Kindly remit' for me, and one + letter for you—looks like the fist of a Yankee schoolma'am.” + </p> + <p> + He handed her the letter, holding it with a big thumb over the right-hand + corner, so that she recognized Miss Mason's hand before she saw the French + stamp. + </p> + <p> + “Mind if I hang round on the stoop and smoke a pipe?” queried McEwan, + pulling a newspaper from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Do,” said Mary, opening her letter. It was a long, newsy sheet written + from Paris and filled with the Sparrow's opinions on continental hotels, + manners, and morals. She read it listlessly, but at the fourth page + suddenly sat upright. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I thought as long as I was here I'd better see what there is + to see,” Miss Mason's pen chatted; “so I've been doing a play + or the opera every night, and I can say that not understanding + the language don't make the plays seem any less immoral. + However, that's what people go abroad to get, so I guess we + can't complain. The night before last who was sitting in the + orchestra but your husband with that queer Miss Berber? I + saw them as plain as daylight, but they couldn't see me away up + in the circle. When I was looking for a bus at the end I + saw them getting into an elegant electric. I must say she + looked cute, all in old rose color with a pearl comb in her hair. + I think your husband looked real well too—I suppose they + were going to some party together. It's about time that young + man was home again with you, it seems to me, and so I should + have told him if I could have got anywhere near him in the + crowd. All I can say is, <i>I've</i> had enough of Europe. I'm thinking + of going through to London for a week, and then sailing.” + </pre> + <p> + At the end of the letter Mary turned the last page back, and slowly read + this paragraph again. There was a dull drumming in her ears—a hand + seemed to be remorselessly pressing the blood from her heart. She sat + staring straight before her, afraid to think lest she should think too + much. At last she went to the window. + </p> + <p> + “Wallace,” she called. He jumped in, paper in hand, and saw her standing + dead white by her chair. + </p> + <p> + “Ye've no had ill news, Mary?” he asked with a burr. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “No, Wallace; no, of course not. But I feel rather + rotten this morning. Talk to me a little, will you?” + </p> + <p> + Obediently he sat down, and shook out the paper. “Hae ye been watching the + European news much lately, Mary?” he began. + </p> + <p> + “I always try to, but it's difficult to find much in the American papers.” + </p> + <p> + “It's there, if ye know where to look. What would ye think o' this + assassination o' the Grand Duke now?” He cocked his head on one side, as + if eagerly waiting for her opinion. She began to rally. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it's awful, of course, but somehow I can't feel much sympathy for + the Austrians since they took Bosnia and Herzegovina.” + </p> + <p> + “What would ye think might come of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Wallace—what would you!” + </p> + <p> + “Weel,” he said gravely, “I think something's brewing down yonder—there'll + be trouble yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Those poor Balkans, always fighting,” she sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I'm feered it'll be more than the Balkans this time. Watch the papers, + Mary—I dinna' like the looks o' it mesel'.” + </p> + <p> + They talked on, he expounding his views on the menace of Austria's + near-east aspirations as opposed to Russia's friendship for the Slavic + races. Mary tried to listen intelligently—the effort brought a + little color to her face. + </p> + <p> + “Wallace,” she said presently, “do you happen to know where Miss Berber is + this summer?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not,” he said, his blue eyes steadily watching her. “But Mrs. Elliot + would ken maybe—ye might ask her.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it doesn't matter,” said Mary. “I just wondered.” + </p> + <p> + When McEwan had gone Mary read Miss Mason's letter for the third time, and + again the cold touch of fear assailed her. She took a camp stool and sat + by the edge of the bluff for a long time, watching the water. Then she + went indoors again to her desk. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dear Stefan,” she wrote, “I have only had one note from + you in six weeks, and am naturally anxious to know how you + are getting on. I am very well, and expect our baby about + the tenth of October. Elliston is beautiful; imagine, he is a + year old now! I think he will have your eyes. I am sorry + you are not getting on well with your work, but perhaps that + has changed by now. Dear, I had a letter from Miss Mason + this morning, and she writes of having seen you and Miss + Berber together at the opera. You didn't tell me she was in + Paris, and I can't help feeling it strange that you should not + have done so, and should leave me without news for so long. + I trust you, dear Stefan, and believe in our love in spite of the + difficulties we have had. And I think you did rightly to take + a holiday abroad. But you have been gone three months, and + I have heard so little. Am I wrong still to believe in our love? + Only six months ago we were so happy together. Do you wish + our marriage to come to an end? Please write me, dear, and + tell me what you really think, for, Stefan, I don't know how + I shall bear the suspense much longer. I'm trying to be brave, + dear—and I <i>do</i> believe still. + + “Your + + “Mary.” + </pre> + <p> + Her hand was trembling as she finished writing. She longed to cry out, + “For God's sake, come back to me, Stefan”—she longed to write of the + wild ache at her heart—but she could not. She could not plead with + him. If he did not feel the pain in her halting sentences it would be true + that he no longer loved her. She sealed and stamped the letter. “I must + still believe,” she kept repeating to herself. There was nothing to do but + wait. + </p> + <p> + In the weeks that followed it seemed to Mary that her friends were more + than ever kind to her. Not only did James Farraday continually send his + car to take her driving, and Mrs. Farraday appear in the pony carriage, + but not a day passed without McEwan, Jamie, the Havens, or other neighbors + dropping in for a chat, or planning a walk, a luncheon, or a sail. + Constance, too, immersed in work though she was, ran out several times in + her car and spent the night. Mary was grateful—it made her waiting + so much less hard—while her friends were with her the constant ache + at her heart was drugged asleep. Knowing Wallace, she suspected his hand + in this widespread activity, nor was she mistaken. + </p> + <p> + The day after the arrival of Miss Mason's letter McEwan had dropped in + upon Constance in the evening, when he knew she would be resting after her + strenuous day's work at headquarters. By way of a compliment on her gown + he led the conversation round to Felicity Berber, and elicited the + information that she was abroad. + </p> + <p> + “In Paris, perhaps?” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Now you mention it, I think they did say Paris when I was last in the + shop.” + </p> + <p> + “Byrd is in Paris, you know,” said McEwan, meeting her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Constance, and she stared at him, her lids narrowing. “I hadn't + thought of that possibility.” She fingered her jade beads. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you ever write her?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I never write any one, my dear man, and, besides, what could I say?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said he, “I had a hunch you might need a new rig for the summer + Votes campaign, or something. I thought maybe you'd want the very latest + Berber styles, and would ask her to send a tip over. Then I thought you'd + string her the local gossip, how Mrs. Byrd's baby will be born in October, + and you don't think her looking as fit as she might. You want a cute + rattle for it from Paris, or something. Get the idea?” + </p> + <p> + “You think she doesn't know?” + </p> + <p> + “I think the kid's about as harmless as a short-circuited wire, but I + think she's a sport at bottom. My dope is, <i>if</i> there's anything to + this proposition, then she doesn't know.” He rose to go. + </p> + <p> + “Wallace, you are certainly a bright boy,” said Constance, holding out her + hand. “The missive shall be despatched.” + </p> + <p> + “Moreover,” said Mac, turning at the door, “Mary's worried—a little + cheering up won't hurt her any.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll come out,” said Constance'. “What a shame it is—I'm so fond of + them both.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's a mean world—but we have to keep right on smiling. Good + night,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Good night,” called Constance. “You dear, good soul,” she added to + herself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> + <p> + Adolph was practising some new Futurist music of Ravel's. Its dissonances + fatigued and irritated him, but he was lured by its horrible fascination, + and grated away with an enraged persistence. Paris was hot, the attic + hotter, for it was July. Adolph wondered as he played how long it would be + before he could get away to the sea. He was out of love with the city, and + thought longingly of a possible trip to Sweden. His reflections were + interrupted by Stefan, who pushed the door open listlessly, and instantly + implored him to stop making a din. + </p> + <p> + “What awful stuff—it's like the Cubist horrors,” said he, + petulantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my friend, yet I play the one, and you go to see the other,” said + Adolph, laying down his fiddle and mopping his head and hands. + </p> + <p> + “Not I,” contradicted Stefan, wandering over to his easel. On it was an + unfinished sketch of Felicity dancing—several other impressions of + her stood about the room. + </p> + <p> + “Rotten work,” he said, surveying them moodily. “All I have to show for + over three months here. Adolph,” he flung himself into a chair, and + rumpled his hair angrily, “I'm sick of my way of life. My marriage was a + mistake, but it was better than this. I did better work with Mary than I + do with Felicity, and I didn't hate myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my infant,” said Adolph, with a relieved sigh, “I'm glad to hear + you say it. You've told me nothing, but I am sure your marriage was a + better thing than you think. As for this little lady—” he shrugged + his shoulders—“I make nothing of this affair.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan's frown was moodier still. + </p> + <p> + “Felicity is the most alluring woman I have ever known, and I believe she + is fond of me. But she is affected, capricious, and a perfect mass of + egotism.” + </p> + <p> + “For egotism you are not the man to blame her,” smiled his friend. + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” shrugged Stefan. “I've always believed in egotism, but I + confess Felicity is a little extreme.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she's gone to Biarritz for a week with a party of Americans. I + wouldn't go. I loathe mobs of dressed-up spendthrifts. We had planned to + go to Brittany, but she said she needed a change of companionship—that + her soul must change the color of its raiment, or some such piffle.” He + laughed shortly. “Here I am hanging about in the heat, most of my money + gone, and not able to do a stroke of work. It's hell, Adolph.” + </p> + <p> + “My boy,” said his friend, “why don't you go home?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't the face, and that's a fact. Besides, hang it, I still want + Felicity. Oh, what a mess!” he growled, sinking lower into his chair. + Suddenly Adolph jumped up. + </p> + <p> + “I had forgotten; there is a letter for you,” and he tossed one into his + lap. “It's from America.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan flushed, and Adolph watched him as he opened the letter. The flush + increased—he gave an exclamation, and, jumping up, began walking + feverishly about the room. + </p> + <p> + “My God, Adolph, she's heard about Felicity!” Adolph exclaimed in his + turn. “She asks me about it—what am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + “What does she say; can you tell me?” enquired the Swede, distressed. + </p> + <p> + “Tiens, I'll read it to you,” and Stefan opened the letter and hastily + translated it aloud. “She's so generous, poor dear,” he groaned as he + finished. Adolph's face had assumed a deeply shocked expression. He was + red to the roots of his blonde hair. + </p> + <p> + “Is your wife then enceinte, Stefan!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course she is—she cares for nothing but having children.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>But</i>, Stefan!” Adolph's hands waved helplessly—he stammered. + “It cannot be—it is impossible, <i>impossible</i> that you desert a + beautiful and good wife who expects your child. I cannot believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>haven't</i> deserted her,” Stefan retorted angrily. “I only came + away for a holiday, and the rest just happened. I should have been home by + now if I hadn't met Felicity. Oh, you don't understand,” he groaned, + watching his friend's grieved, embarrassed face. “I'm fond of Mary—devoted + to her—but you don't know what the monotony of marriage does to a + man of my sort.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't understand,” echoed his friend. “But now, Stefan,” and he + brought his fist down on the table, “now you will go home, will you not, + and try to make her happy?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think she will forgive this,” muttered Stefan. + </p> + <p> + “This!” Adolph almost shouted. “This you will explain away, deny, so that + it troubles her no more!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, rot, Adolph, I can't lie to Mary,” and Stefan began to pace the room + once more. + </p> + <p> + “For her sake, it seems to me you must,” his friend urged. + </p> + <p> + “Stop talking, Adolph; I want to think!” Stefan exclaimed. He walked in + silence for a minute. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said at last, “if my marriage is to go on, it must be on a basis + of truth. I can't go back to Mary and act and live a lie. If she will have + me back, she must know I've made some sacrifice to come, I'll go, if she + says so, because I care for her, but I <i>can't</i> go as a faithful, + loving husband—it would be too grotesque.” + </p> + <p> + “Consider her health, my friend,” implored Adolph, still with his + bewildered, shocked air; “it might kill her!” + </p> + <p> + “Can't! She's as strong as a horse—she can face the truth like a + man.” + </p> + <p> + “Then think of the other woman; you must protect her.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! she doesn't need protection! You don't know Felicity; she'd be + just as likely as not to tell Mary herself.” + </p> + <p> + “I always thought you so honorable, so generous,” Adolph murmured, + dejectedly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, cut it, Adolph. I'm being as honorable and generous as I know how. + I'll write to Mary now, and offer to come back if she says the word, and + never see Felicity again. I can't do more.” + </p> + <p> + He flung himself down at the desk, and snatched a pen. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My dearest girl:” he wrote rapidly, “your brave letter has + come to me, and I can answer it only with the truth. All that + you feared when you heard of F.'s being with me is true. I + found her here two months ago, and we have been together + most of the time since. It was not planned, Mary; it came to + me wholly unexpectedly, when I thought myself cured of love. + I care for you, my dear, I believe you the noblest and most + beautiful of women, but from F. I have had something which + a woman of your kind could never give, and in spite of the + pain I feel for your grief, I cannot say with truth that I regret + it. There are things—in life and love of which you, my + beautiful and clear-eyed Goddess, can know nothing—there is + a wild grape, the juice of which you will never drink, but which + once tasted, must ever be desired. Because this draught is so + different from your own milk and honey, because it leaves my + tenderness for you all untouched, because drinking it has assuaged + a thirst of which you can have no knowledge, I ask you + not to judge it with high Olympian judgment. I ask you + to forgive me, Mary, for I love you still—better now than when + I left you—and I hold you above all women. The cup is still + at my lips, but if you will grant me forgiveness I will drink + no more. I agonize over your grief—if you will let me I will + return and try to assuage it. Write me, Mary, and if the word + is forgive, for your sake I will bid my friend farewell now and + forever. I am still your husband if you will have me—there + is no woman I would serve but you. + + “Stefan.” + </pre> + <p> + He signed his name in a dashing scrawl, blotted and folded the letter + without rereading it, addressed and stamped it, and sprang hatless down + the stairs to post it. + </p> + <p> + An enormous weight seemed lifted from him. He had shifted his dilemma to + the shoulders of his wife, and had no conception that in so doing he was + guilty of an act of moral cowardice. Returning to the studio, he pulled + out a clean canvas and began a vigorous drawing of two fauns chasing each + other round a tree. Presently, as he drew, he began to hum. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV + </h2> + <p> + It was the fourth of August. + </p> + <p> + Stefan and Felicity sat at premier déjeuner on the balcony of her + apartment. About them flowers grew in boxes, a green awning hung over + them, their meal of purple fruit, coffee, and hot brioches was served from + fantastic green china over which blue dragons sprawled. Felicity's + negligée was of the clear green of a wave's concavity—a butterfly of + blue enamel pinned her hair. A breeze, cool from the river, fluttered + under the awning. + </p> + <p> + It was an attractive scene, but Felicity's face drooped listlessly, and + Stefan, hands deep in the pockets of his white trousers, lay back in his + wicker chair with an expression of nervous irritability. It was early, for + the night had been too hot for late sleeping, and Yo San had not yet + brought in the newspapers and letters. Paris was tense. Germany and Russia + had declared war. France was mobilizing. Perhaps already the axe had + fallen. + </p> + <p> + Held by the universal anxiety, Stefan and Felicity had lingered on in + Paris after her return from Biarritz, instead of traveling to Brittany as + they had planned. + </p> + <p> + Stefan had another reason for remaining, which he had not imparted to + Felicity. He was waiting for Mary's letter. It was already overdue, and + now that any hour might bring it he was wretchedly nervous as to the + result. He did not yet wish to break with Felicity, but still less did he + wish to lose Mary. Without having analyzed it to himself, he would have + liked to keep the Byrdsnest and all that it contained as a warm and safe + haven to return to after his stormy flights. He neither wished to be + anchored nor free; he desired both advantages, and the knowledge that he + would be called upon to forego one frayed his nerves. Life was various—why + sacrifice its fluid beauty to frozen forms? + </p> + <p> + “Stefan,” murmured Felicity, from behind her drooping mask, “we have had + three golden months, but I think they are now over.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he asked crossly. + </p> + <p> + “Disharmony”—she waved a white hand—“is in the air. Beauty—the + arts—are to give place to barbarity. In a world of war, how can we + taste life delicately? We cannot. Already, my friend, the blight has + fallen upon you. Your nerves are harsh and jangled. I think”—she + folded her hands and sank back on her green cushions—“I shall make a + pilgrimage to China.” + </p> + <p> + “All of which,” said Stefan with a short laugh, “is an elaborate way of + saying you are tired of me.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyebrows raised themselves a fraction. + </p> + <p> + “You are wonderfully attractive, Stefan; you fascinate me as a panther + fascinates by its lithe grace, and your mind has the light and shade of + running brooks.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan looked pleased. + </p> + <p> + “But,” she went on, her lids still drooping, “I must have harmony. In an + atmosphere of discords I cannot live. Of your present discordant mood, my + friend, I <i>am</i> tired, and I could not permit myself to continue to + feel bored. When I am bored, I change my milieu.” + </p> + <p> + “You are no more bored than I am, I assure you,” he snapped rudely. + </p> + <p> + “It is such remarks as those,” breathed Felicity, “which make love + impossible.” Her eyes closed. + </p> + <p> + He pushed back his chair. “Oh, my dear girl, do have some sense of humor,” + he said, fumbling for a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + Yo San entered with a folded newspaper, and a plate of letters for + Felicity. She handed one to Stefan. “Monsieur Adolph leave this,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + Disregarding the paper, Felicity glanced through her mail, and abstracted + a thick envelope addressed in Constance's sprightly hand. Stefan's letter + was from Mary; he moved to the end of the balcony and tore it open. A + banker's draft fell from it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Good-bye, Stefan,” he read, “I can't forgive you. What you + have done shames me to the earth. You have broken our marriage. + It was a sacred thing to me—now it is profaned. I ask + nothing from you, and enclose you the balance of your own + money. I can make my living and care for the children, whom + you never wanted.” + </pre> + <p> + The last three words scrawled slantingly down the page; they were in large + and heavier writing—they looked like a cry. The letter was unsigned, + and smudged. It might have been written by a dying person. The sight of it + struck him with unbearable pain. He stood, staring at it stupidly. + </p> + <p> + Felicity called him three times before he noticed her—the last time + she had to raise her voice quite loudly. He turned then, and saw her + sitting with unwonted straightness at the table. Her eyes were wide open, + and fixed. + </p> + <p> + “I have a letter from Connie.” She spoke almost crisply. “Why did you not + tell me that your wife was enceinte?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I tell you?” he asked, staring at her with indifference. + </p> + <p> + “Had I known it I should not have lived with you. I thought she had let + you come here alone through phlegmatic British coldness. If she lost you, + it was her affair. This is different. You have not played fair with us.” + </p> + <p> + “Mary was never cold,” said Stefan dully, ignoring her accusation. + </p> + <p> + “That makes it worse.” She sat like a ramrod; her face might have been + ivory; her hands lay folded across the open letter. + </p> + <p> + “What do you know—or care—about Mary?” he said heavily; “you + never even liked her.” + </p> + <p> + “Your wife bored me, but I admired her. Women nearly always bore me, but I + believe in them far more than men, and wish to uphold them.” + </p> + <p> + “You chose a funny way of doing so this time,” he said, dropping into his + chair with a hopeless sigh. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with distaste. “True, I mistook the situation. + Conventions are nothing to me. But I have a spiritual code to which I + adhere. This affair no longer harmonizes with it. I trust—” Felicity + relaxed into her cushions—“you will return to your wife + immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” he said ironically. “But you're too late. Mary knows, and has + thrown me over.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for several minutes. Then Stefan rose, picked up the + draft from the floor, looked at it idly, refolded it into Mary's letter, + and put both carefully away in his inside pocket. His face was very pale. + </p> + <p> + “Adieu, Felicity,” he said quietly. “You are quite right about it.” And he + held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Adieu, Stefan,” she answered, waving her hand toward his, but not + touching it. “I am sorry about your wife.” + </p> + <p> + Turning, he went in through the French window. + </p> + <p> + Felicity waited until she heard the thud of the apartment door, then + struck her hands together. Yo San appeared. + </p> + <p> + “A kirtle, Yo San. I must dance away a wound. Afterwards I will think. Be + prepared for packing. We may leave Paris. It is time again for work.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan, walking listlessly toward his studio, found the streets filled + with crowds. Newsboys shrieked; men stood in groups gesticulating; there + were cries of “Vive la France!” and “A bas l'Allemagne!” Everywhere was + seething but suppressed excitement. As he passed a great hotel he found + the street, early as it was, blocked with departing cabs piled high with + baggage. + </p> + <p> + “War is declared,” he thought, but the knowledge conveyed nothing to his + senses. He crossed the Seine, and found himself in his own quarter. At the + corner of the rue des Trois Ermites a hand-organ, surrounded by a + cosmopolitan crowd of students, was shrilly grinding out the Marseillaise. + The students sang to it, cheering wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Who fights for France?” a voice yelled hoarsely, and among cheers a score + of hands went up. + </p> + <p> + “Who fights for France?” Stefan stood stock still, then hurried past the + crowd, and up the stairs to his attic. + </p> + <p> + There, in the midst of gaping drawers and fast emptying shelves, stood + Adolph in his shirt sleeves, methodically packing his possessions into a + hair trunk. He looked up as his friend entered; his mild face was alight; + tears of excitement stood in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my infant,” he exclaimed, “it has arrived! The Germans are across the + frontier. I go to fight for France.” + </p> + <p> + “Adolph!” cried Stefan, seizing and wringing his friend's hand. “Thank God + there's something great to be done in the world after all! I go with you.” + </p> + <p> + “But your wife, Stefan?” + </p> + <p> + Stefan drew out Mary's letter. For the first time his eyes were wet. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” he said, and translated the brief words. + </p> + <p> + Hearing them, the good Adolph sat down on his trunk, and quite frankly + cried. “Ah, quel dommage! quel dommage!” he exclaimed, over and over. + </p> + <p> + “So you see, mon cher, we go together,” said Stefan, and lifted his + Gladstone bag to a chair. As he fumbled among its forgotten contents, a + tiny box met his hand. He drew out the signet ring Mary had given him, + with the winged head. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Mary,” he whispered with a half sob, “after all, you gave me wings!” + and he put the ring on. He was only twenty-seven. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Later in the day Stefan went to the bank and had Mary's draft endorsed + back to New York. He enclosed it in a letter to James Farraday, in which + he asked him to give it to his wife, with his love and blessing, and to + tell her that he was enlisting with Adolph Jensen in the Foreign Legion. + </p> + <p> + That night they both went to a vaudeville theatre. It was packed to the + doors—an opera star was to sing the Marseillaise. Stefan and Adolph + stood at the back. No one regarded the performance at all till the singer + appeared, clad in white, the French liberty cap upon her head, a great + tricolor draped in her arms. Then the house rose in a storm of applause; + every one in the vast audience was on his feet. + </p> + <p> + “'<i>Allons, enfants de la patrie</i>,'” began the singer in a magnificent + contralto, her eyes flashing. The house hung breathless. + </p> + <p> + “'<i>Aux armes, citoyens!</i>'” Her hands swept the audience. “'<i>Marchons! + Marchons!</i>'” She pointed at the crowd. Each man felt her fiery glance + pierce to him—France called—she was holding out her arms to + her sons to die for her— + </p> + <p> + “'<i>Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!</i>'” + </p> + <p> + The singer gathered the great flag to her heart. The tears rolled down her + cheeks; she kissed it with the passion of a mistress. The house broke into + wild cheers. Men fell upon each other's shoulders; women sobbed. The + singer was dumb, but the drums rolled on—they were calling, calling. + The folds of the flag dazzled Stefan's eyes. He burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The next morning Stefan Byrd and Adolph Jensen were enrolled in the + Foreign Legion of France. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART V + </h2> + <h3> + THE BUILDER + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + It was spring once more. In the garden of the Byrdsnest flowering shrubs + were in bloom; the beds were studded with daffodils; the scent of lilac + filled the air. Birds flashed and sang, for it was May, high May, and the + nests were built. Mary, warm-cheeked in the sun, and wearing a + broad-brimmed hat and a pair of gardening gloves, was thinning out a clump + of cornflowers. At one corner of the lawn, shaded by a flowering dog-wood, + was a small sand-pit, and in this a yellow-haired two-year-old boy + diligently poured sand through a wire sieve. In a white perambulator lay a + pink, brown-haired, baby girl, soundly sleeping, a tiny thumb held + comfortably in her mouth. Now and then Mary straightened from her task and + tiptoed over to the baby, to see that she was still in the shade, or that + no flies disturbed her. + </p> + <p> + Mary's face was not that of a happy woman, but it was the face of one who + has found peace. It was graver than of old, but lightened whenever she + looked at her children with an expression of proud tenderness. She was + dressed in the simplest of white cotton gowns, beneath which the lines of + her figure showed a little fuller, but strong and graceful as ever. She + looked very womanly, very desirable, as she bent over the baby's carriage. + </p> + <p> + Lily emerged from the front door, and set a tea-tray upon the low porch + table. She lingered for a moment, glancing with pride at the verandah with + its green rocking chairs, hammock, and white creeping-rug. + </p> + <p> + “My, Mrs. Byrd, don't our new porch look nice, now it's all done?” she + exclaimed, beaming. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mary, dropping into a rocking-chair to drink her tea, and + throwing off her hat to loosen the warm waves of hair about her forehead, + “isn't it awfully pretty? I don't know how we should have managed without + it on damp mornings, now that Baby wants to crawl all the time. Ah, here + is Miss Mason!” she exclaimed, smiling as that spinster, in white + shirtwaist and alpaca skirt, dismounted from a smart bicycle at the gate. + </p> + <p> + “Any letters, Sparrow?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mason, extracting several parcels from her carrier, flopped + gratefully into a rocker, and drew off her gloves. + </p> + <p> + “One or two,” she said. “Here, Lily; here's your marmalade, and here's the + soap, and a letter for you. There are a few bills, Mary, and a couple of + notes—” she passed them across—“and here's an afternoon paper + one of the Haven youngsters handed me as I passed him on the road. He + called out something about another atrocity. I haven't looked at it. I + hate to open the things these days.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” nodded Mary, busy with her letters, “so do I. This is from Mr. + Gunther, from California. He's been there all the winter, you know. Oh, + how nice; he's coming back! Says we are to expect a visit from him soon,” + Mary exclaimed, with a pleased smile. “Here's a line from Constance,” she + went on. “Everything is doing splendidly in her garden, she says. She + wants us all to go up in June, before she begins her auto speaking trip. + Don't you think it would be nice!” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly elegant,” said the Sparrow. “I'm glad she's taking a little + rest. I thought she looked real tired this spring.” + </p> + <p> + “She works so frightfully hard.” + </p> + <p> + “Land sakes, work agrees with <i>you</i>, Mary! You look simply great. If + your new book does as well as the old one I suppose porches won't satisfy + you—you'll be wanting to build an ell on the house?” + </p> + <p> + “That's just what I do want,” said Mary, smiling. “I want to have a spare + room, and proper place for the babies. We're awfully crowded. Did I tell + you Mr. Farraday had some lovely plans that he had made years ago, for a + wing?” + </p> + <p> + “You don't say!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I'm afraid we'll have to wait another year for that, till I can + increase my short story output.” + </p> + <p> + “My, it seems to me you write them like a streak.” + </p> + <p> + Mary shook her head. “No, after Baby is weaned I expect to work faster, + and ever so much better.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you do any better than you are doing, Frances Hodgson Burnett + won't be in it; that's all I can say.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Sparrow!” smiled Mary, “she writes real grown-up novels, too, and I + can only do silly little children's things.” + </p> + <p> + “They're not silly, Mary Byrd, I can tell you that,” sniffed Miss Mason, + shaking out her paper. + </p> + <p> + “My gracious!” She turned a shocked face to Mary. “What do you suppose + those Germans have done now? Sunk the Lusitania!” + </p> + <p> + “The Lusitania?” exclaimed Mary, incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear; torpedoed her without warning. My, ain't that terrible? It + says they hope most of the passengers are saved—but they don't know + yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see!” Mary bent over her shoulder. “The Lusitania gone!” she + whispered, awed. + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” exclaimed the Sparrow suddenly, hurrying off the porch. “Ellie + not pour sand over his head! No, naughty!” + </p> + <p> + Mary sank into her chair with the paper. There was the staring black + headline, but she could hardly believe it. The Lusitania gone? The great + ship she knew so well, on which she and Stefan had met, gone! Lying in the + ooze, with fish darting above the decks where she had walked with Stefan. + Those hundreds of cabins a labyrinth for fish to lose their way in—all + rotting in the black sea currents. The possible loss of life had not yet + come home to her. It was inconceivable that there would not have been + ample time for every one to escape. But the ship, the great English ship! + So swift—so proud! + </p> + <p> + Dropping the paper, she walked slowly across the garden and the lane, and + found her way to a little seat she had made on the side of the bluff + overlooking the water. Here, her back to a tree trunk, she sat immobile, + trying to still the turmoil of memories that rose within her. + </p> + <p> + The Lusitania gone! + </p> + <p> + It seemed like the breaking of the last link that bound her to the past. + All the belief, all the wonder of that time were already gone, and now the + ship, her loveship, was gone, too, lost forever to the sight of men. + </p> + <p> + She saw again its crowded decks, saw the lithe, picturesque figure of the + young artist with the eager face bending over her— + </p> + <p> + “Won't you be perfectly kind, and come for a walk?” + </p> + <p> + She saw the saloon on her engagement night when she sang at the ship's + concert. What were the last words she had sung? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty— + Love's a stuff will not endure.” + </pre> + <p> + Alas, how unconsciously prophetic she had been. Nothing had endured, + neither love, nor faith, nor the great ship of their pilgrimage herself. + </p> + <p> + Other memories crowded. Their honeymoon at Shadeham, the sweet early days + of their studio life, her glorious pride in his great painting of love + exalted.... The night of Constance's party, when, after her singing, her + husband had left his place by Miss Berber and crossed the room so eagerly + to her side. Their first weeks at the Byrdsnest—how happy they had + been then, and how worshipfully he had looked at her the morning their son + was born. All gone. She had another baby now, but he had never seen it—never + would see it, she supposed. Her memory traveled on, flitting over the dark + places and lingering at every sunny peak of their marriage journey. Their + week in Vermont! How they had skated and danced together; how much he + seemed to love her then! Even the day he sailed for France he seemed to + care for her. “Why are we parting?” he had cried, kissing her. Yes, even + then their marriage, for all the clouds upon it, had seemed real—she + had never doubted in her inmost heart that they were each other's. + </p> + <p> + With a stab of the old agony, Mary remembered the day she got his letter + admitting his relations with Felicity. The unbelievable breakdown of her + whole life! His easy, lightly made excuses. He, in whose arms she had lain + a hundred times, with whom she had first learnt the sacrament of love, had + given himself to another woman, had given all that most close and sacred + intimacy of love, and had written, “I cannot say with truth that I regret + it.” How she had lived through the reading of those words she did not + know. Grief does not kill, or surely she would have died that hour. Her + own strength, and the miracle of life within her, alone stayed her longing + for death. It was ten months ago; she had lived down much since then, had + schooled herself daily to forgetfulness; yet now again the unutterable + pang swept over her—the desolation of loss, and the incapacity to + believe that such loss could be. + </p> + <p> + She rebelled against the needlessness of it all now, as she had done then, + in those bitter days before her little Rosamond came to half-assuage her + pain. + </p> + <p> + Well, he had redeemed himself in a way. The day James Farraday came to + tell her that Stefan had enlisted, some part of her load was eased. The + father of her children was not all ignoble. + </p> + <p> + Mary mused on. How would it end? Would Stefan live? Should she—could + she—ever see him again? She thanked God he was there, serving the + country he loved. “The only thing he ever really loved, perhaps,” she + thought. She supposed he would be killed—all that genius lost like + so much more of value that the world was scrapping to-day—and then + it would all be quite gone— + </p> + <p> + Through the trees dropped the insistent sound of a baby's cry to its + mother. She rose; the heavy clouds of memory fell away. The past was gone; + she lived for the future, and the future was in her children. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The next morning Mary had just bathed the baby, and was settling her in + her carriage, when the Sparrow, who, seated on the porch with Elliston, + was engaged in cutting war maps from the papers and pasting them in an + enormous scrapbook, gave a warning cough. + </p> + <p> + “Here comes Mr. McEwan,” she whispered, in the hushed voice reserved by + her simple type for allusions to the afflicted. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, poor dear,” said Mary, hurrying across the lawn to meet him. She felt + more than ever sympathetic toward him, for Mac's wife had died in a New + Hampshire sanitarium only a few weeks before, and all his hopes of mending + her poor broken spirit were at an end. Reaching the gate, she gave an + involuntary cry. + </p> + <p> + McEwan was stumbling toward her almost like a drunken man. His face was + red, his eyes bloodshot; a morning paper trailed loosely from his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” he cried, “I came back from the station to see ye—hae ye + heard, my girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Wallace!” she exclaimed, frightened, “what is it? What has happened?” She + led him to a seat on the porch; he sank into it unresisting. Miss Mason + pushed away her scrapbook, white-faced. + </p> + <p> + “The Lusitania! They were na' saved, Mary. There's o'er a thousand gone. + O'er a hundred Americans—hundreds of women and little bairns, Mary—like + yours—Canadian mithers and bairns going to be near their brave lads—babies, + Mary.” And the big fellow dropped his rough head on his arms and sobbed + like a child. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Wallace; oh, Wallace!” whispered Mary, fairly wringing her hands; “it + can't be! Over a thousand lost?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” he cried suddenly, bringing his heavy fist down with a crash on the + wicker table, “they drooned them like rats—God damn their bloody + souls.” + </p> + <p> + His face, crimson with rage and pity, worked uncontrollably. Mary covered + her eyes with her hands. The Sparrow sat petrified. The little Elliston, + terrified by their strange aspects, burst into loud wails. + </p> + <p> + “There, darling; there, mother's boy,” crooned Mary soothingly, pressing + her wet cheek to his. + </p> + <p> + “Little bairns like that, Mary,” McEwan repeated brokenly. Mary gathered + the child close into her arms. They sat in stunned horror. + </p> + <p> + “Weel,” said McEwan at last, more quietly. “I'll be going o'er to enlist. + I would ha' gone long sine, but that me poor girl would ha' thocht I'd + desairted her. She doesna' need me now, and there's eno' left for the lad. + Aye, this is me call. I was ay a slow man to wrath, Mary, but now if I can + but kill one German before I die—” His great fist clenched again on + the table. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't, dear man, don't,” whispered Mary, with trembling lips, laying + her cool hand over his. “You're right; you must go. But don't feel so + terribly.” + </p> + <p> + His grip relaxed; his big hand lay under hers quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I could envy you, Wallace, being able to go. It's hard for us who have to + stay here, just waiting. My poor sister has lost her husband already, and + I don't know whether mine is alive or dead. And now you're going! + Elliston's pet uncle!” She smiled at him affectionately through her tears. + </p> + <p> + “I'll write you if I hear aught about the Foreign Legion, Mary,” he said, + under his breath. + </p> + <p> + She pressed his hand in gratitude. “When shall you go?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “By the next boat.” + </p> + <p> + “Go by the American Line.” + </p> + <p> + His jaw set grimly. “Aye, I will. They shall no torpedo me till I've had + ae shot at them!” + </p> + <p> + Mary rose. “Now, Wallace, you are to stay and lunch with us. You must let + us make much of the latest family hero while we have him. Eh, Sparrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” nodded Miss Mason emphatically, “I've hated the British ever since + the Revolution—I and my parents and my grandparents—but I + guess I'm with them, and those that fight for them, from now on.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + On the Monday following the sinking of the Lusitania, James Farraday + received a letter from the American Hospital in Paris, written in French + in a shaky hand, and signed Adolph Jensen. + </p> + <p> + New York was still strained and breathless from Saturday's horror. Men sat + idle in their offices reading edition after edition of the papers, rage + mounting in their hearts. Flags were at half mast. Little work was being + done anywhere save at the newspaper offices, which were keyed to the + highest pitch. Farraday's office was hushed. Those members of his staff + who were responsible for The Child at Home—largely women, all picked + for their knowledge of child life—were the worst demoralized. How + think of children's play-time stories when those little bodies were being + brought into Queenstown harbor? Farraday himself, the efficient, the + concentrated, sat absent-mindedly reading the papers, or drumming a slow, + ceaseless tap with his fingers upon the desk. The general gloom was + enhanced by their knowledge that Mac, their dear absurd Mac, was going. + But they were all proud of him. + </p> + <p> + By two o'clock Farraday had read all the news twice over, and Adolph's + letter three times. + </p> + <p> + Telephoning for his car to meet him, he left the office and caught an + early afternoon train home. He drove straight to the Byrdsnest and found + Mary alone in the sitting room. + </p> + <p> + She rose swiftly and pressed his hand: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear friend,” she murmured, “isn't it terrible?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. “Sit down, Mary, my dear girl.” He spoke very quietly, + unconsciously calling her by name for the first time. “I have something to + tell you.” + </p> + <p> + She turned white. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said quickly, “he isn't dead.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down, trembling. + </p> + <p> + “I have a letter from Adolph Jensen. They are both wounded, and in the + American Hospital in Paris. The Foreign Legion has suffered heavily. + Jensen is convalescent, and returns to the front. He was beside your + husband in the trench. It was a shell. Byrd was hit in the back. My dear + child—” he stopped for a moment. “Mary—” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” she whispered through stiff lips. + </p> + <p> + “He is paralyzed, my dear, from the hips down.” + </p> + <p> + She stared at him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, James—oh, no, James—oh, no!” she whispered, over and + over. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my poor child. He is quite convalescent, and going about the wards + in a wheeled chair. But he will never be able to walk again.” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said Mary, wonderingly, “he never used to be still—he always + ran, and skipped, like a child.” Her breast heaved. “He always ran, James—” + she began to cry—the tears rolled down her cheeks—she ran + quickly out of the room, sobbing. + </p> + <p> + James waited in silence, smoking a pipe, his face set in lines of + inexpressible sadness. In half an hour she returned. Her eyes were + swollen, but she was calm again. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” she said, with a pitiful + attempt at a smile. “Please read me the letter, will you?” + </p> + <p> + James read the French text. Stefan had been so brave in the trenches, + always kept up a good heart. He used to sing to the others. A shell had + struck the trench; they were nearly all killed or wounded. Stefan knew he + would walk no more, but he was still so brave, with a smile for every one. + He was drawing, too, wonderful pencil drawings of the front. Adolph + thought they were much more wonderful than anything he had ever done. All + the nurses and wounded asked for them. Adolph would be going back in a + month. He ventured to ask Mr. Farraday to lay the affair before Mrs. Byrd. + Stefan had no money, and no one to take care of him when he left the + hospital. He, Adolph, would do all that was possible, but he was sure that + his friend should go home. Stefan often, very often, spoke of his wife to + Adolph. He wore a ring of hers. Would Mr. Farraday use his good offices? + </p> + <p> + James folded the letter and looked at Mary. + </p> + <p> + “I must go and fetch him,” she said simply. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Byrd—Mary—I want you to let me go. Mac has offered to do + it before enlisting, but I don't think your husband cared for Mac, and he + always liked me. It wouldn't be fair to the baby for you to go, and it + would be very painful for you. But it will give me real happiness—the + first thing I've been able to do in this awful business.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, James, I couldn't let you. Your work—it is too much + altogether.” + </p> + <p> + “The office can manage without me for three weeks. I want you to let me do + this for you both—it's such a small thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel I ought to go, James,” she reiterated, “I ought to be there.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't take the baby—and she mustn't suffer,” he urged. “There + will be any amount of red tape. You really must let me go.” + </p> + <p> + They discussed it for some time, and at last she agreed, for the sake of + the small Rosamond. She began to see, too, that there would be much for + her to do at this end. With her racial habit of being coolest in an + emergency, Mary found herself mentally reorganizing the régime of the + Byrdsnest, and rapidly reviewing one possible means after another of + ensuring Stefan's comfort. She talked over her plans with James, and + before he left that afternoon their arrangements were made. On one point + he was obliged to give way. Stefan's money, which he had returned to Mary + before enlisting, was still intact, and she insisted it should be used for + the expenses of the double journey. Enough would be left to carry out her + plans at this end, and Stefan would know that he was in no sense an object + of charity. + </p> + <p> + James, anxious as he was to help his friends in all ways, had to admit + that she was right. He was infinitely relieved that the necessity for + practical action had so completely steadied her. He knew now that she + would be almost too busy in the intervening weeks for distress. + </p> + <p> + The next day James engaged his passage, sent a long cable to Adolph, and + performed prodigies of work at the office. By means of some wire-pulling + he and Mac succeeded in securing a cabin together on the next American + liner out. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Mary began her campaign. At breakfast she expounded her plans + to Miss Mason, who had received the news overnight. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Sparrow,” she said, “we don't know how much quiet he will need, + but we couldn't give him <i>any</i> in this little cottage, with the + babies. So I shall fit up the studio—a big room for him, a small one + for the nurse, and a bath. The nurse will be the hardest part, for I'm + sure he would rather have a man. The terrible helplessness”—her + voice faltered for a second—“would humiliate him before a woman. But + it must be the right man, Sparrow, some one he can like—who won't + jar him—and some one we can afford to keep permanently. I've been + thinking about it all night and, do you know, I have an idea. Do you + remember my telling you about Adolph Jensen's brother?” + </p> + <p> + “The old one, who failed over here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Stefan helped him, you know, and I'm sure he was awfully grateful. + When the Berber shop changed hands in January, I wondered what would + become of him; I believe Miss Berber was only using him out of kindness. + It seems to me he might be just the person, if we could find him.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a smart girl, Mary, and as plucky as they make 'em,” nodded the + spinster. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Sparrow, when I think of his helplessness! He, who always wanted + wings!” Mary half choked. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Miss Mason, rising briskly, “we've got to act, not think. Come + along, child, and let's go over to the barn.” Gratefully Mary followed + her. + </p> + <p> + Enquiries at the now cheapened and popularized Berber studio elicited + Jensen's old address, and Mary drove there in a taxi, only to find that he + had moved to an even poorer quarter of the city. She discovered his + lodgings at last, in a slum on the lower east side. He was out, looking + for a job, the landlady thought, but Mary left a note for him, with a bill + inside it, asking him to come out to Crab's Bay the next morning. She + hurried back to Rosamond, and found that the excellent Sparrow had already + held lively conferences with the village builders and plumbers. + </p> + <p> + “I told 'em they'd get a bonus for finishing the job in three weeks, and I + guess I got the whole outfit on the jump,” said she with satisfaction. + “Though the dear Lord knows,” she added, “if the plumbers get through on + schedule it'll be the first time in history.” + </p> + <p> + When Henrik Jensen arrived next day Mary took an instant liking to him. He + was shabbier and more hopeless than ever, but his eyes were kind, his + mouth gentle, and when she spoke of Stefan his face lighted up. + </p> + <p> + She told him the story of the two friends, of his brother's wound and + Stefan's crippling, and saw that his eyes filled with tears. + </p> + <p> + “He was wonderful to me, Mrs. Byrd, he gave me a chance. I was making + good, too, till Miss Berber left and the whole scheme fell to pieces. I'm + glad Adolph is with him; it was very gracious of you to let me hear about + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you very busy now, Mr. Jensen?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled hopelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very busy—looking for work. I'm down and out, Mrs. Byrd.” + </p> + <p> + She unfolded her scheme to him. Stefan would need some one near him night + and day. He would be miserable with a servant; he would—she knew—feel + his helplessness more keenly in the presence of a woman. She herself could + help, but she had her work, and the children. Mr. Jensen would be one of + the family. She could offer him a home, and a salary which she hoped would + be sufficient for his needs— + </p> + <p> + “I have no needs, Mrs. Byrd,” he interrupted at this point, his eyes + shining with eagerness. “Enough clothes for decency, that's all. If I + could be of some use to your husband, to my friend and Adolph's, I should + ask no more of life. I'm a hopeless failure, ma'am, and getting old—you + don't know what it is like to feel utterly useless.” + </p> + <p> + Mary listened to his gentle voice and watched his fine hands—hands + used to appraising delicate, beautiful things. The longer they talked, the + more certain she felt that here was the ideal person, one bound to her + husband by ties of gratitude, and whose ministrations could not possibly + offend him. + </p> + <p> + She rang up Mrs. Farraday, put the case to her, and obtained her offer of + a room to house Mr. Jensen while the repairs were making. She arranged + with him to return next day with his belongings, and advanced a part of + his salary for immediate expenses. Mary wanted him to come to her at once, + both out of sympathy for his wretched circumstances, and because she + wished thoroughly to know him before Stefan's return. + </p> + <p> + Luckily, the Sparrow took to Jensen at once, so there was nothing to fear + on that score. For the Sparrow was now a permanent part of Mary's life. + She had a small independent income, but no home—her widowed sister + having gone west to live with a daughter—and she looked upon herself + as the appointed guardian of the Byrdsnest. Not only did she relieve Mary + of the housekeeping, and help Lily with the household tasks, which she + adored, but she had practically taken the place of nurse to the children, + leaving Mary hours of freedom for her work which would otherwise have been + unattainable. + </p> + <p> + The competency of the two friends achieved the impossible in the next few + weeks, as it had done on the memorable first day of Mary's housekeeping. + Mr. Jensen, with his trained taste, was invaluable for shopping + expeditions, going back and forth to the city with catalogues, samples, + and orders. + </p> + <p> + In a little over three weeks Stefan's old studio had been transformed into + a bed-sitting-room, with every comfort that an invalid could desire, and + the further end of it had been partitioned into a bathroom and a small + bedroom for Mr. Jensen, with a separate outside entrance. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if only I had the new wing,” sighed Mary. + </p> + <p> + “This will be even quieter for him, Mrs. Byrd, and the chair can be + wheeled so quickly to the house,” replied Mr. Jensen. + </p> + <p> + The back window of Mary's sitting room had been enlarged to glass doors, + and from these a concrete path ran to the studio entrance. Mary planned to + make it a covered way after the summer. + </p> + <p> + The day the wheeled chair arrived it was hard for her to keep back the + tears. It was a beautifully made thing of springs, cushions, and rubber + tires. It could be pushed, or hand-propelled by the occupant. It could be + lowered, heightened, or tilted. It was all that a chair could be—but + how to picture Stefan in it, he of the lithe steps and quick, agile + movements, the sudden turns, and the swift, almost running walk? Her heart + trembled with pity at the thought. + </p> + <p> + They had already received an “all well” cable from Paris, and three weeks + after he had sailed, James telegraphed that they were starting. He had + waited for the American line—he would have been gone a month. + </p> + <p> + As the day of landing approached, Mary became intensely nervous. She + decided not to meet the boat, and sent James a wireless to that effect. + She could not see Stefan first among all those crowds; her instinct told + her that he, too, would not wish it. + </p> + <p> + The ship docked on Saturday. The day before, the last touches had been put + to Stefan's quarters. They were as perfect as care and taste could make + them. Early on Saturday morning Mr. Jensen started for the city, carrying + a big bunch of roses—Mary's welcome to her husband. While the + Sparrow flew about the house gilding the lily of cleanliness, Mary, with + Elliston at her skirts, picked the flowers destined for Stefan's room. + These she arranged in every available vase—the studio sang with + them. Every now and then she would think of some trifle to beautify it + further—a drawing from her sitting room—her oldest pewter + plate for another ashtray—a pine pillow from her bedroom. Elliston's + fat legs became so tired with ceaselessly trotting back and forth behind + her that he began to cry with fatigue, and was put to bed for his nap. + Rosamond waked, demanding dinner and amusement. + </p> + <p> + The endless morning began to pass, and all this while Mary had not + thought! + </p> + <p> + At lunch time James telephoned. They would be out by three o'clock. Stefan + had stood the journey well, was delighted with the roses, and to see + Jensen. He was wonderfully brave and cheerful. + </p> + <p> + Mary was trembling as she hung up the receiver. He was here, he was on the + way; and still, she had not thought! + </p> + <p> + Both children asleep, the last conceivable preparation made, Mary settled + herself on the porch at last, to face what was coming. + </p> + <p> + The Sparrow peeped out at her. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you'd as soon be left alone, my dear,” she said, tactfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please, Sparrow,” Mary replied, with a nervous smile. The little + spinster slipped away. + </p> + <p> + What did she feel for Stefan? Mary wondered. Pity, deep pity? Yes. But + that she would feel for any wounded soldier. Admiration for his courage? + That, too, any one of the war's million heroes could call forth. + Determination to do her full duty by this stricken member of her family? + Of course, she would have done that for any relative. Love? No. Mary felt + no love for Stefan. That had died, nearly a year ago, died in agony and + humiliation. She could not feel that her lover, her husband, was returning + to her. She waited only for a wounded man to whom she owed the duty of all + kindness. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, her heart shook with fear. What if she were unable to show him + more than pity, more than kindness? What if he, stricken, helpless, should + feel her lack of warmth, and tenderness, should feel himself a stranger + here in this his only refuge? Oh, no, no! She must do better than that. + She must act a part. He must feel himself cared for, wanted. Surely he, + who had lost everything, could ask so much for old love's sake? ... But if + she could not give it? Terror assailed her, the terror of giving pain; for + she knew that of all women she was least capable of insincerity. “I don't + know how to act,” she cried to herself, pitifully. + </p> + <p> + A car honked in the lane. They were here. She jumped up and ran to the + gate, wheeling the waiting chair outside it. Farraday's big car rounded + the bend—three men sat in the tonneau. Seeing them, Mary ran + suddenly back inside the gate; her eyes fell, she dared not look. + </p> + <p> + The car had stopped. Through half-raised lids she saw James alight. The + chauffeur ran to the chair. Jensen stood up in the car, and some one was + lifted from it. The chair wheeled about and came toward her. It was + through the gate—it was only a yard away. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” said a voice. She looked up. + </p> + <p> + There was the well-known face, strangely young, the eyes large and + shadowed. There was his smile, eager, and very anxious now. There were his + hands, those finely nervous hands. They lay on a rug, beneath which were + the once swift limbs that could never move again. He was all hers now. His + wings were broken, and, broken, he was returning to the nest. + </p> + <p> + “Mary!” + </p> + <p> + She made one step forward. Stooping, she gathered his head to her breast, + that breast where, loverlike, it had lain a hundred times. Her arms held + him close, her tears ran down upon his hair. + </p> + <p> + “My boy!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + Here was no lover, no husband to be forgiven. Cradled upon her heart there + lay only her first, her most wayward, and her best loved child. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + Mary never told Stefan of those nightmare moments before his arrival. From + the instant that her deepest passion, the maternal, had answered to his + need, she knew neither doubt nor unhappiness. + </p> + <p> + She settled down to the task of creating by her labor and love a home + where her three dependents and her three faithful helpmates could find the + maximum of happiness and peace. + </p> + <p> + The life of the Byrdsnest centered about Stefan; every one thought first + of him and his needs. Next in order of consideration came Ellie and little + Rosamond. Then Lily had to be remembered. She must not be overworked; she + must take enough time off. Henrik, too, must not be over-conscientious. He + must allow Mary to relieve him often enough. As for the Sparrow, she must + not wear herself out flying in three directions at once. She must not tire + her eyes learning typewriting. But at this point Mary's commands were apt + to be met with contempt. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Mary Byrd,” the Sparrow would chirp truculently, “you 'tend to your + business, and let me 'tend to mine. Anybody would think that we were all + to save ourselves in this house but you. As for my typing, it's funny if I + can't save you something on those miserable stenographers' bills.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was wonderfully happy in these days—happier in a sense than she + had ever been, for she had found, beyond all question, the full work for + hands to do. And to her love for her children there was added not merely + her maternal tenderness for Stefan, but a deep and growing admiration. + </p> + <p> + For Stefan was changed not only in the body, but in the spirit. Everybody + remarked it. The fierce fires of war seemed to have burnt away his old + confident egotism. In giving himself to France he had found more than he + had lost; for, by a strange paradox, in the midst of death he had found + belief in life. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, my beautiful,” he said to her one day in September, as he worked at + an adjustable drawing board which swung across his knees, “did you ever + wonder why all my old pictures used to be of rapid movement, nearly all of + running or flying?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dearest, I used to try often to think out the significance of it.” + </p> + <p> + They were in the studio. Mary had just dropped her pencil after a couple + of hours' work on a new serial she was writing. She often worked now in + Stefan's room. He was busy with a series of drawings of the war. He had + tried different media—pastel, ink, pencils, and chalks—to see + which were the easiest for sedentary work. + </p> + <p> + “It's good-bye to oils,” he had said, “I couldn't paint a foot from the + canvas.” + </p> + <p> + Now he was using a mixture of chalk and charcoal, and was in the act of + finishing the sixth drawing of his series. The big doors of the barn were + opened wide to the sunny lawn, gay with a riot of multicolored dahlias. + </p> + <p> + “It's odd,” said Stefan, pushing away his board and turning the wheels of + his chair so that he faced the brilliant stillness of the garden, “but I + seem never to have understood my work till now. I used always to paint + flight partly because it was beautiful in itself but also, I think, with + some hazy notion that swift creatures could always escape from the + ugliness of life.” + </p> + <p> + Mary came and sat by him, taking his hand. + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me,” he went on, “that I spent my life flying from what I + thought was ugly. I always refused to face realities, Mary, unless they + were pleasant. I fled even from the great reality of our marriage because + it meant responsibilities and monotony, and they seemed ugly things to me. + And now, Mary,” he smiled, “now that I can never shoulder responsibilities + again, and am condemned to lifelong monotony”—she pressed his hand—“neither + seems ugly any more. The truth is, I thought I fled to get away from + things, and it was really to get away from myself. Now that I've seen such + horrors, such awful suffering, and such unbelievable sacrifice, I have + something to think about so much more real than my vain, egotistical self. + I know what my work is now, something much better than just creating + beauty. I gave my body to France—that was nothing. But now I have to + give her my soul—I have to try and make it a voice to tell the world + a little of what she has done. Am I too vain, dearest, in thinking that + these really say something big?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded toward his first five drawings, which hung in a row on the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stefan, you know what I think of them,” she said, her eyes shining. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind pinning up the new one, Mary, so that we can see them all + together?” + </p> + <p> + She rose and, unfastening the drawing from its board, pinned it beside the + others. Then she turned his chair to face them, and they both looked + silently at the pictures. + </p> + <p> + They were drawings of the French lines, and the peasant life behind them. + Dead soldiers, old women by a grave, young mothers following the plow—men + tense, just before action. The subjects were already familiar enough + through the work of war correspondents and photographers, but the + treatment was that of a great artist. The soul of a nation was there—which + is always so much greater than the soul of an individual. The drawings + were not of men and women, but of one of the world's greatest races at the + moment of its transfiguration. + </p> + <p> + For the twentieth time Mary's eyes moistened as she looked at them. + </p> + <p> + The shadows began to lengthen. Shouts came from the slope, and presently + Ellie's sturdy form appeared through the trees, followed by the somewhat + disheveled Sparrow carrying Rosamond, who was smiting her shoulder and + crowing loudly. + </p> + <p> + “I'll come and help you in a few minutes, Sparrow,” Mary called, as the + procession crossed the lawn, her face beaming love upon it. + </p> + <p> + “Can you spare the few minutes, dear?” Stefan asked, watching her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, they won't need me yet.” + </p> + <p> + The light was quite golden now; the dahlias seemed on fire under it. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” said Stefan, “I've been thinking a lot about you lately.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I never tried to understand you in the old days. I had never met + your sort of woman before, and didn't trouble to think about you except as + a beautiful being to love. I was too busy thinking about myself,” he + smiled. “I wondered, without understanding it, where you got your + strength, why everything you touched seemed to turn to order and + helpfulness under your hands. I think now it is because you are always so + true to life—to the things life really means. Every one always + approves and upholds you, because in you the race itself is expressed, not + merely one of its sports, as with me.” + </p> + <p> + She looked a little puzzled. “Do you mean, dearest, because I have + children?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Beautiful, any one can do that. I mean because you have in perfect + balance and control all the qualities that should be passed on to + children, if the race is to be happy. You are so divinely normal, Mary, + that's what it is, and yet you are not dull.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm afraid I am,” smiled Mary, “rather a bromide, in fact.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, with his old brilliant smile. + </p> + <p> + “No, dearest, nobody as beautiful and as vital as you can be dull to any + one who is not out of tune with life. I used to be that, so I'm afraid I + thought you so, now and then.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you did,” she laughed, “and I thought you fearfully erratic.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed back. They had both passed the stage in which the truth has + power to hurt. + </p> + <p> + “I remember Mr. Gunther talking to me a little as you have been doing,” + she recalled, “when he came to model me. I don't quite understand either + of you. I think you're just foolishly prejudiced in my favor because you + admire me.” + </p> + <p> + “What about the Farradays, and Constance, and the Sparrow and Lily and + Henrik and McEwan and the Havens and Madame Corriani and—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, stop!” she laughed, covering his mouth with her hand. + </p> + <p> + “And even in Paris,” he concluded, holding the hand, “Adolph, and—yes, + and Felicity Berber. Are they all 'prejudiced in your favor'?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you include the last named?” she asked, rather low. It was the + first time Felicity had been spoken of between them. + </p> + <p> + “She threw me over, Mary, the hour she discovered how it was with you,” he + said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “That was rather decent of her. I'm glad you told me that,” she answered + after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “All this brings me to what I really want to say,” he continued, still + holding her hand in his. “You are so alive, you <i>are</i> life; and yet + you're chained to a half-dead man.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't, dearest,” she whispered, deeply distressed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, let me finish. I shan't last very long, my dear—two or three + years, perhaps—long enough to say what I must about France. I want + you to go on living to the full. I want you to marry again, Mary, and have + more beautiful, strong children.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, don't! Don't speak of such things,” she begged, her lips + trembling. + </p> + <p> + “I've finished, Beautiful. That's all I wanted to say. Just for you to + remember,” he smiled. + </p> + <p> + Her arms went round him. “You're bad,” she whispered, “I shan't remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Here comes Henrik,” he replied. “Run in to your babies.” + </p> + <p> + He watched her swinging steps as, after a farewell kiss, she sped down the + little path. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + Stefan's moods were not always calm. He had his hours of fierce rebellion, + when he felt he could not endure another moment with his deadened carcass; + when, without life, it seemed so much better to die. He had days of + passionate longing for the world, for love, for everything he had lost. + Mary fell into the habit of borrowing the Farradays' car when she saw such + a mood approaching, and sending Stefan for long drives alone. The rushing + flight seldom failed to carry him beyond the reach of his black mood. + Returning, he would plunge into work, and the next day would find him calm + and smiling once again. He suffered much pain from his back, but this he + bore with admirable patience. + </p> + <p> + “It's nothing,” he would say, “compared to the black devils.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan's courage was enormously fortified by the success of his drawings, + which created little less than a sensation. Reproductions of them appeared + for some weeks in The Household Review, and were recopied everywhere. The + originals were exhibited by Constantine in November. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here,” wrote one of the most distinguished critics in New + York, himself a painter of repute, “we have work which outranks + even Mr. Byrd's celebrated Danaë, and in my judgment + far surpasses any of the artist's other achievements. I have + watched the development of this young American genius with + the keenest interest. I placed him in the first rank as a technichian, + but his work—with the exception of the Danaë—appeared + to me to lack substance and insight. It was brilliant, + but too spectacular. Even his Danaë, though on a surprising + inspirational plane, had a quality high rather than profound, + I doubted if Mr. Byrd had the stuff of which great art is made, + but after seeing his war drawings, I confess myself mistaken. + If I were to sum up my impression of them I should say that + on the battlefield Mr. Byrd has discovered the one thing his + work lacked—soul.” + </pre> + <p> + Stefan read this eulogy with a humorous grin. + </p> + <p> + “I expect the fellow's right,” he said. “I don't think my soul was as + strong on wings in the old days as my brush was. Without joking, though,” + he went on, suddenly grave, “I don't know if there is such a thing as a + soul, but if there is, such splendid ones were being spilled out there + that I think, perhaps, Mary, I may have picked a bit of one up.” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest,” said Mary, with a kiss of comprehension, “I'm so proud of you. + You are great, a great artist, and a great spirit.” And she kissed him + again, her eyes shining. + </p> + <p> + If the Byrdsnest was proud in November of its distinguished head, it + positively bristled with importance in December, when Constantine + telephoned that the trustees of the Metropolitan were negotiating for + Stefan's whole series. This possibility had already been spoken of in the + press, though the family had not dared hope too much from the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + The Museum bought the drawings, and Stefan took his place as one of + America's great artists. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, I'm so glad I can be useful again, as well as ornamental,” he + grinned, presenting to her with a flourish a delightfully substantial + cheque. + </p> + <p> + His courage, and his happiness in his success, were an increasing joy to + Mary. She blossomed in her pride of him, and the old glowing look came + back to her face. + </p> + <p> + Only one thing—besides her anxiety for his health—troubled + her. With all his tenderness to her, and his renewed love, he still + remained a stranger to his children. He seemed proud of their healthy + beauty, and glad of Mary's happiness in them; but their nearness bored and + tired him, and they, quick to perceive this, became hopelessly + unresponsive in his presence. Ellie would back solemnly away from the + approaching chair, and Rosamond would hang mute upon her mother's + shoulder. “It's strange,” Mary said to the Sparrow, who was quick to + notice any failure to appreciate her adored charges; “they're his own, and + yet he hasn't the key to them. I suppose it's because he's a genius, and + too far apart from ordinary people to understand just little human + babies.” + </p> + <p> + The thought stirred faintly the memory of her old wound. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + That Christmas, for the first time in its history, the Byrdsnest held high + festival. House and studio were decorated, and in the afternoon there was + a Christmas-tree party for all the old friends and their children. + </p> + <p> + The dining-room had been closed since the night before in order to + facilitate Santa Clans' midnight spiritings. + </p> + <p> + When all the guests had arrived, and Stefan had been wheeled in from the + studio, the mysterious door was at last thrown open, revealing the tree in + all its glory, rooted in a floor of glittering snow, with its topmost star + scraping the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + With shouts the older children surrounded it; Ellie followed more slowly, + awed by such splendor; and Rosamond crept after, drawn irresistibly by a + hundred glittering lures. + </p> + <p> + Crawling from guest to guest, her tiny hands clutching toys as big as + herself, her dark eyes brilliant, her small red mouth emitting coos of + rapture, she enchanted the men, and drew positive tears of delight from + Constance. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Walter!” she cried, shaking her son with viciousness, “how could you + have been so monotonous as to be born a boy?” + </p> + <p> + After a time Mary noticed that Stefan was being tired by the hubbub, and + signaled an adjournment to the studio for tea and calm. The elders trooped + out; the children fell upon the viands; and Miss Mason caught Rosamond by + the petticoat as she endeavored to creep out after Gunther, whose great + size seemed to fascinate her. + </p> + <p> + The sculptor had given Mary a bronze miniature of his now famous + “Pioneers” group. It was a beautiful thing, and Constance and James were + anxious to know if other copies were to be obtained. + </p> + <p> + “No,” Gunther answered them laconically, “I have only had three cast. One + the President wished to have, the second is for myself, and Mrs. Byrd, as + the original of the woman, naturally has the third.” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't you cast one or two more?” Constance pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he replied, “I should not care to do so.” + </p> + <p> + Stefan examined the bronze with interest, his keen eyes traveling from the + man's figure to the woman's. + </p> + <p> + “It's very good of you both,” he said, looking from Gunther to Mary, with + a trace of his old teasing smile. Mary blushed slightly. For some reason + which she did not analyze she was a trifle embarrassed at seeing herself + perpetuated in bronze as the companion of the sculptor. + </p> + <p> + When the guests began to leave, Mary urged the Farradays to remain a + little longer. “It's only five o'clock,” she reminded them. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Farraday settled herself comfortably, and drew out her khaki-colored + knitting. James lit his pipe, and Stefan wheeled forward to the glow of + the fire, fitting a cigarette into his new amber holder. + </p> + <p> + “I have a letter from Wallace,” said James, “that I've been waiting to + read you. Shall I do so now?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do!” exclaimed Mary, “we shall love to hear it. Wait a moment, + though, while I fetch Rosamond—the Sparrow can't attend to them both + at once <i>and</i> help Lily.” + </p> + <p> + She returned in a moment with the sleepy baby. + </p> + <p> + “I'll have to put her to bed soon,” she said, settling into a low rocking + chair, “but it isn't quite time yet. I suppose Jamie has heard his + father's letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” said James, “and has dozens of his own, too.” + </p> + <p> + “He's such a dear boy,” Mary continued, “he's playing like an angel with + Ellie in there, while the Sparrow flits.” + </p> + <p> + James unfolded Mac's closely written sheets, and read his latest accounts + of the officers' training corps with which he had been for the last six + months, the gossip that filtered to them from the front, and his + expectation of being soon gazetted to a Highland Regiment. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The waiting is hard, but when once I get with our own + lads in the trenches I'll be the happiest man alive,” wrote Mac. + “Meanwhile, I think a lot of all you dear people. I'm more + than happy in what you tell me of Byrd's success and of the + bairns' and Mary's well being. Give them all my love and + congratulations.” + </pre> + <p> + James turned the last page, and paused. “I think that's about all,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + But it was not all. While the others sat silent for a minute, their + thoughts on the great struggle, Farraday's eyes ran again down that last + page. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Poor Byrd,” Mac wrote, “so you say he'll not last many + years. Well, life would have broken him anyway, and it's + grand he's found himself before the end. He's not the lasting + kind, there's too much in him, and too little. She wins, after + all, James; life won't cheat her as it has him. She is here just + to be true to her instincts—to choose the finest mate for her + nest-building. She'll marry again, though the dear woman + doesn't know it, and would be horrified at the thought. But + she will, and it won't be either of us—we are too much her kind. + It will be some other brilliant egoist who will thrill her, grind + her heart, and give her wonderful children. She is an instrument. + As I think I once heard poor Byrd say, she is not merely + an expression of life, she is life.” + </pre> + <p> + James folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Come, son, we must be going,” murmured Mrs. Farraday, putting up her + knitting. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamond is almost asleep,” smiled Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Don't rise, my dear,” said the little lady, “we'll find our own way.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Farraday,” said Stefan, “and thank you for everything.” + </p> + <p> + Mary held out her hand to them both, and they slipped quietly out. + </p> + <p> + “What a good day it has been, dearest. I hope you aren't too tired,” she + said, as she rocked the drowsy baby. + </p> + <p> + “No, Beautiful, only a little.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped his burnt-out cigarette into the ash-tray at his side. The + rocker creaked rhythmically. + </p> + <p> + “Mary, I want to draw Rosamond,” said Stefan thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do you, dearest? That <i>will</i> be nice!” she exclaimed, her face + breaking into a smile of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Do you know, I was watching the little thing this afternoon, when + Gunther and all the others were playing with her. It's very strange—I + never noticed it before—but it came to me quite suddenly. She's + exactly like my mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she really?” Mary murmured, touched. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's very wonderful. I felt suddenly, watching her eyes and smile, + that my mother is not dead after all. Will you—” he seemed a little + embarrassed—“could you, do you think, without disturbing her, let me + hold the baby for a little while?” + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Nest Builder, by Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEST BUILDER *** + +***** This file should be named 7837-h.htm or 7837-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/8/3/7837/ + + +Text file produced by Tiffany Vergon, Charles Franks, Juliet +Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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