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The Nest Builder

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"Subdue yourself with this," laughed Mary, holding out the desired glass
of milk. "Miss Berber, can I get anything for you?"

Felicity by this time was unwrapped, and had disposed herself upon a
window-seat, her back to the light.

"Wine or water, Mrs. Byrd; I do not drink milk," she breathed, lighting a
cigarette.

"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.

"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."

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.

Mary tried not to find her manner irritating, but could not wholly dispel
the impression that Miss Berber habitually patronized her.

She laughed pleasantly.

"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."

"Mary decorates with her heart, Felicity, you with your head," said
Constance, setting down her empty tumbler.

"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.

"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.

"Felicity," exclaimed Constance, "don't adopt your professional manner;
you can't take us in. You know you are an outrageous humbug."

"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."

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.

Felicity rose. "May we not see your garden, Mrs. Byrd?"

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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."

She felt a trifle uncomfortable, almost as if she had put herself in the
wrong.

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

"In pastoral mood again," she commented, with what might have been the
faintest note of sarcasm. Stefan's eyebrows twitched nervously.

"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.

"Mr. Byrd ought never to wear tweed, do you think? It makes him look
heavy," remarked Felicity.

Again Mary had to suppress a feeling of irritation. "I rather like it,"
she said. "It's so comfy and English."

"Yes?" breathed Felicity vaguely, walking on.

Suddenly she appeared to have a return of animation.

She floated forward quickly for a few steps, turned with a swaying
movement, and waited for Mary with hands and feet poised.

"The grass under one's feet, Mrs. Byrd, it makes them glad. One could
almost dance!"

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.

"Connie," she was saying as Mary came up, "why does one not more often
dance in the open?"

Though her lids still drooped she was half smiling as she swayed.

"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."

"Good for you, Felicity! That _will_ be fun," Constance exclaimed
delightedly. "You don't dance half often enough, bad girl. Come along,
people, let's sit on the porch steps."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Surely not getting into mischief, are you, Felicity?" she mentally
questioned, and instantly began to east about for two and two to put
together.

"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.

"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.

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.

They had had a rare and lovely entertainment, and yet no one appeared
wholly pleased except the dancer herself. It was very odd.

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."

Mary demurred, with a word as to Lily's capacities, but Constance was
firm.

"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.

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.

"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."

"How glad I shall be--" Stefan turned to Mary, half irritably--"when
this baby is born, and you can be active again."

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.

"Where have you been, dearest?" she asked. "I've been quite anxious about
you."

"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.

"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.




VI


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Stefan stared at her as flabbergasted as if this emergency had not been
hourly expected. "Do you mean," he gasped, "that Mary is ill?"

"She is not ill, Mr. Byrd, but the baby will probably be born before
morning."

"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.

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."

He drank, then looked up, haggard.

"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."

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.

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.

She looked round, and called joyfully to him.

"Oh, darling, there you are. I'm getting everything ready. It's coming,
Stefan dearest. I'm so happy!" Her face was excited, radiant.

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.

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.

"You are not in pain, darling? You're all right? What were you writing
when I came in?" he stammered, anxiously.

"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.

Stefan stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, then burst into half-
hysterical laughter.

"Oh, you marvel," he gasped, "goddess of efficiency, unshakable Olympian!
Bills! And I thought you were writing me a farewell message."

"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 _have_ written
you something--it's there--" her fingers touched an elastic bound pile of
papers. "I'm perfectly well, but if anything _should_ 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."

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.

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."

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.

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.

"I'm glad you came, though I think I know the turning," said Dr. Hillyard
cheerfully.

"How long will it be, doctor?" he asked nervously.

"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."

"Before _morning_!" he groaned. "Doctor, you won't let her suffer
--you will give her something?"

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

"It's Byrd, Farraday," said Stefan. "No--" quickly--"everything's
perfectly all right, perfectly, but it's going on. Could you come over?"

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.

"It was awfully good of you to come," he said.

"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.

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.

"It's all right," the doctor said rapidly. "Expulsive stage. She isn't
suffering."

"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.

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