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The Nest Builder

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




"No, I fancied I might go there to relax for a week after the fête."

"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?"

Constance gasped, her mind racing. "But Mary's baby?" she exclaimed,
clutching at the central difficulty.

"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."

Constance's eyes narrowed to slits, she fingered her beads, and nodded
once, twice.

"More trouble," she said, "but it's a go. Second week in January."

He grasped her hand. "Votes for Women," he beamed.

She looked at her watch. "Five minutes exactly. Three inches, Mr.
McEwan!"

"Three inches!" he called from the door.




VI


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.

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.

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?

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.

Walking home through the dark woods he stopped suddenly, and drew her to
him.

"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.

The next morning Constance drove over.

"Children," she said, hurrying in from the cold air, "what a delicious
scene! I invite myself to lunch."

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.

"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."

Both the Byrds were looking interested, Stefan unreservedly, Mary with a
pucker of doubt.

"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?"

"Emphatically," beamed he, seizing her hand and kissing it. "A glorious
idea! Away with domesticity! A real breath of freedom, eh, Mary?"

Constance again forestalled difficulties.

"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 _can't_ disappoint me!" she
concluded triumphantly.

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.

"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.

"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?"

"Glorious!" said Stefan, boyishly aglow; and "I don't believe two and two
do make four, after all," thought Constance.

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.

"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."

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.




VII


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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

Under cover of the general chatter McEwan raised his glass to Constance.

"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!"

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.

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.

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.

"What fun, Beautiful, what a lovely place, what air, what snow!" She
laughed with him, her own heart bounding with unwonted excitement.

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.

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 _was_, 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.

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.

"This sleigh comes from my country, Mrs. Byrd; I wish I could drive you
there in it."

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.

"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.

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.

"Good heavens! you might have been killed," fussed Mr. Elliot. Farraday
looked pale, the women laughed excitedly.

"Mary," cried Stefan, his face flashing with eagerness, "you weren't
frightened, were you?"

She shook her head, still breathless.

"It was glorious, you were like storm gods. I've never seen anything so
inspiring." And he embraced her before them all.

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."

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."

"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."

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.

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.

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.

"You are more beautiful than ever, Mary," he exclaimed; "there is an
added life and strength in you; you are triumphant."

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

"Aye, aye," he chuckled, nodding his ponderous head, and again "Aye,
aye," in tones of fat content, as the two Byrds swung lightly by.

"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."

"Aye, aye," beamed McEwan, more broadly than before, extending a huge
hand; "that'll be grand."

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.

They all left for the train with lamentations, and arrived in New York
the next morning in a cheerless storm of wet snow.

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.

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