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The Nest Builder

B >> Beatrice Forbes Robertson Hale >> The Nest Builder




"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?"

Farraday was turning the pages in his rapid, absorbed way. He nodded and
smiled as he looked.

"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?"

She laughed, amazed as she had been a year ago at his lightning-like
apprehension.

"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.

"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."

"You really think the idea has something in it?"

"I certainly do, and you know how much I believe in your work."

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad," she exclaimed, looking far more cheerful than
he had seen her that evening.

He rose to go, and held her hand a moment in his friendly grasp.

"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."

"Oh, I know," she said, her eyes shining; "good night, and thank you for
the house."

"Good night, and in the house's name, thank you," he answered from the
door.

As she closed it, the brightness slowly faded from Mary's face. She
looked at the clock--it was past ten.

"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.

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.

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.

"Little Stefan, little Stefan," she whispered.

Then, leaving the nursery door ajar, she undressed noiselessly, and lay
down on the cool, empty bed.




II


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.

"Well, dear, aren't you glad to see me?" he asked rather nervously.

"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.

"You don't mean it!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so long."

"Hadn't you?"

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?"

"I didn't wish to interrupt a sitting. I rang twice in the evenings, but
you were out."

"Yes; I've been trying to amuse myself a little." He was rocking from one
foot to the other like a detected schoolboy.

"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."

"I don't think I've asked you to do that."

"You haven't, but you seem to be implying the request now."

She was chilled to silence, having no heart to reason him out of so
unreasonable a defense.

"Well, anyway," he said, flinging himself on the sofa, "here I am, so
let's make the best of it. Tea ready?"

"It's just coming."

"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."

"You say this will be your best?" asked Mary, whom the phrase had
stabbed.

"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."

"And I'm not, any more," Mary could not help adding in a muffled voice.

"Don't be so literal, my dear; of course you are, but not for this sort
of picture." The assurance sounded perfunctory.

"Thank goodness, here comes the tea," he exclaimed as Lily entered with
the tray. "Hullo, Lily; how goes it?"

"Fine, Mr. Byrd, but we've shorely missed you," she answered, with
something less than her usual wholehearted smile.

"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."

She flushed. "I can't come, Stefan; it's impossible to leave Baby so
long."

"Well, bring him with you."

"That wouldn't be possible, either; it would disturb his sleep, and upset
him."

"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.

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.

"Stefan, do you really want me to move back?"

"I want you to do whatever will make you happier," he temporized.

"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."

"Neither do I," he agreed, in a tone suspiciously like relief, which she
was quick to catch.

"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."

"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."

"Yes, of course, dear," said Mary, wistfully, "and I think it would be a
mistake for me to come unless you really wanted me."

"Of course I want you, Beautiful."

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.

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.

Smiling, she poured out his third cup of tea, and was just passing it
when there was a knock, and McEwan entered the hall.

"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?"

Stefan's eyebrows went up. "Do you mean Miss Berber?"

"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?"

"Really, Wallace," protested Mary, who had grown quite intimate with
McEwan, "you are utterly incorrigible in your Yankee vein--you respect no
one."

"I respect the President of these United States," said he solemnly,
raising an imaginary hat.

"That's more than I do," snorted Stefan; "a pompous Puritan!"

"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."

"So I have," replied Stefan; "they are the only two with a spark of the
picturesque, or one iota of originality."

"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.

Mary laughed heartily, but Stefan did not conceal his boredom. "Why don't
you go into vaudeville, McEwan?" he frowned.

"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.

"Why do you let that great tomfool call you by your first name, Mary?" he
demanded, almost before the front door was shut.

"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."

"Teasing me!" Stefan scoffed; "it's like an elephant teasing a fly. He
obliterates me."

"Well, don't be an old crosspatch," she smiled, determined now they were
alone again to make the most of him.

"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.

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.

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.

As they went up to bed Mary turned wistfully to him.

"Wouldn't you like to look at Elliston? You haven't seen him for a long
time."

"Bless me, I suppose I haven't--let's take a peep at him."

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?"

"No, hardly any. He just whimpers at about two o'clock, and I get up and
nurse him. Then he sleeps till after six."

"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."

"Of course, dearest." She felt herself blushing. Was she really going to
be loved again? She smiled happily at him.

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.

Then, with infinite care, she slipped away, her arm and shoulder numb,
but her heart lighter than it had been for many weeks.

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.




III


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.

"Thee is a good boy," said the little lady, patting his hand kindly as
the last shred of wool was wound.

"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."

"Thee has a sure harbor, son," she answered, turning her gentle eyes on
Mary.

He seemed about to say more, but checked himself. Instead he rose and
kissed the little lady's hand.

"You are one of those who never lose their harbor, Mrs. Farraday. We're
all glad to lower sail in yours."

On the way home Mary linked her arm in his.

"You were so sweet to her, dear," she said.

"You're wondering why I can't always be like that, eh, Mary!"

She laughed and nodded, pressing his arm.

"Well, I can't, worse luck," he answered, frowning.

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.

"Yes, this is I," he replied, after his first "hello," in what seemed to
Mary an artificial voice.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"Why, yes, I expect so," he answered, looking vague, "but don't
absolutely count on me, Mary. I've been very good this week."

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.

"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.

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.

"I think I'll sleep alone to-night, dear. I want to be fresh to-morrow.
Good night," and he kissed her cheek.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

"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.

"Oh, there's tremendous work to be done on the Nixie still," he answered.
"It's only her part in it that is finished."

One evening he came home with a grievance.

"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!"

"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.

"I suppose she did it to annoy, because she knew it teased," she
suggested.

"How I loathe fooling and play-acting!" he exclaimed disgustedly. "Thank
God, Mary, you are sincere. One knows where one is with you!"

He seemed thoroughly upset. Miss Berber's pin-prick must have been
severe, Mary thought, if it resulted in a compliment for her.

The next evening, Mary being alone, Wallace dropped in. For some time
they talked of Jamie and Elliston, and of Mary's book.

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.

"Hae ye been up yet to see the new pictures?" he asked presently. She
shook her head.

"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!"

She blushed. "Wallace, I believe you're a wizard--or a detective."

"The Scottish Sherlock, eh?" he grinned. "Weel, it's as I tell ye--tak my
word for't. Hae ye seen Mrs. Elliot lately?"

"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."

"But she would na'," said McEwan emphatically.

"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.

McEwan nodded appreciatively. "She's a grand card."

"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."

"That's as it should be," the other nodded.

"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."

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.

"Good-bye, Mr. Holmes," she smiled, as she saw him out.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"Let's suspend the sitting, Felicity," he cried, "and show our work."

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.

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