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The Nest Builder

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




"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."

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.




V


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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

"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."

"Good Lord, McEwan, can't you speak English?" exclaimed Byrd, with quick
exasperation.

"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."

"A wee bit!" snorted Stefan, and "Good morning, Mr. McEwan, isn't it
beautiful up here?" interposed Miss Elliston, pleasantly.

"It's grand," replied the Scotchman, "and ye look bonnie i' the sun," he
added simply.

"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.

The Scotchman stooped, and, before Stefan could stop him, had the sketch
in his hand.

"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.

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.

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.

"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?"

His frankness was wonderfully disarming, but in any case, the Scot was
always good nature's self.

"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.

Miss Elliston, who had not looked at Stefan since his outburst, murmured
her consent, and the Scot departed.

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.

"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.

"What do you mean?" he asked, dashed.

"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."

"Well," Stefan answered uncomfortably, "I can't be polite to people like
that. I don't even try."

"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.

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.

"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.

"Good-bye," he exclaimed shortly, and strode off.

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.

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.

He took her hand and spoke rather breathlessly.

"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.

"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.

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.

"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!"

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.




VI


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.

"It's a frightful bother," she said, "but I can't get out of it. I
promised Mr. McEwan, you know."

"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."

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 _did_ make a success--by singing bad
music! Suppose she lacked art in what she did! _She_ 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.

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.

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.

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.

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, _good girl!"_ 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.

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.

"You were perfect, without flaw. I can't tell you--" he broke off,
wordless.

"I'm so glad--glad that you were pleased," she whispered.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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."

She thrilled in response to him, half fearful, yet exalted. She was his,
utterly.

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.




VII


That night Mary and Stefan spoke only of love, but the morning brought
plans. Before breakfast they were together, pacing the sun-swept deck.

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.

"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?"

She shook her head, smiling.

"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.

"Yes, but--" she demurred.

He turned on her suddenly. "You don't want to wait for trimmings
--clothes, orange blossoms, all that stuff--do you?" he expostulated.

"No, of course not, foolish one," she laughed.

"Well, then, where's the difficulty?" exultingly.

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

"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 _know_ my things are worth it five times
over."

She was rather breathless by this time. He pressed his advantage, holding
her close.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?"

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.

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.

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