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The Nest Builder

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







V


In the nest morning's sun Mary's premonitions appeared absurd. Stefan
waked in high spirits, and planned a morning's work on his drawings of
the city, while Mary, off duty as a model, decided to take her story in
person to the office of one of the women's papers. As she crossed the
Square and walked up lower Fifth Avenue she had never felt more buoyant.
The sun was brilliant, and a cool breeze whipped color into her cheeks.

The office to which she was bound was on the north side of Union Square.
Crossing Broadway, she was held up half way over by the traffic. As she
waited for an opening her attention was attracted by the singular antics
of a large man, who seemed to be performing some kind of a ponderous
fling upon the curbstone opposite. A moment more and she grasped that the
dance was a signal to her, and that the man was none other than McEwan,
sprucely tailored and trimmed in the American fashion, but unmistakable
for all that. She crossed the street and shook hands with him warmly,
delighted to see any one connected with the romantic days of her voyage.
McEwan's smile seemed to buttress his whole face with teeth, but to her
amazement he greeted her without a trace of Scotch accent.

"Well," said he, pumping both her hands up and down in his enormous fist,
"here's Mrs. Byrd! That's simply great. I've been wondering where I could
locate you both. Ought to have nosed you out before now, but my job keeps
me busy. I'm with a magazine house, you know--advertising manager."

"I didn't know," answered Mary, whose head was whirling.

"Ah," he grinned at her, "you're surprised at my metamorphosis. I allow
myself a month every year of my native heath, heather-mixture, and burr
--I like to do the thing up brown. The rest of the time I'm a Gothamite,
of necessity. Some time, when I've made my pile, I shall revert for
keeps, and settle down into a kilt and a castle."

Much amused by this unsuspected histrionic gift, Mary walked on beside
McEwan. He was full of interest in her affairs, and she soon confided to
him the object of her expedition.

"You're just the man to advise me, being on a paper," she said, and added
laughing, "I should have been terrified of you if I'd known that on the
ship."

"Then I'm glad I kept it dark. You say your stuff is for children? Where
were you going to?"

She told him.

"A woman's the boss of that shop. She's O.K. and so's her paper, but her
prices aren't high." He considered. "Better come to our shop. We run two
monthlies and a weekly, one critical, one household, one entirely for
children. The boss is a great pal of mine. Name of Farraday--an American.
Come on!" And he wheeled her abruptly back the way they had come. She
followed unresistingly, intensely amused at his quick, jerky sentences
and crisp manner--the very antithesis of his former Scottish heaviness.

"Mr. McEwan, what an actor you would have made!"

She smiled up at him as she hurried at his side. He looked about with
pretended caution, then stooped to her ear.

"Hoots, lassie!" he whispered, with a solemn wink.

"Stefan will never believe this!" she said, bubbling with laughter.

At the door of a building close to the corner where they had met he
stopped, and for a moment his manner, though not his voice, assumed its
erstwhile weightiness.

"Never mind!" he held up an admonishing forefinger. "I do the talking.
What do you know about business? Nothing!" His hand swept away possible
objections. "I know your work." She gasped, but the finger was up again,
solemnly wagging. "And I say it's good. How many words?" he half snapped.

"Three thousand five hundred," she answered.

"Then I say, two hundred dollars--not a cent less--and what I say
_goes_, see?" The finger shot out at her, menacing.

"I leave it to you, Mr. McEwan," she answered meekly, and followed him to
the lift, dazed. "This," she said to herself, "simply is not happening!"
She felt like Alice in Wonderland.

They shot up many stories, and emerged into a large office furnished with
a switch-board, benches, tables, desks, pictures, and office boys. A
ceaseless stenographic click resounded from behind an eight-foot
partition; the telephone girl seemed to be engaged conjointly on a novel
and a dozen plugs; the office boys were diligent with their chewing gum;
all was activity. Mary felt at a loss, but the great McEwan, towering
over the switchboard like a Juggernaut, instantly compelled the
operator's eyes from their multiple distractions. "Good morning, Mr.
McEwan--Spring one-O-two-four," she greeted him.

"'Morning. T'see Mr. Farraday," he economized.

"M'st Farraday--M'st McEwan an' lady t'see you. Yes. M'st Farraday'll see
you right away. 'Sthis three-one hundred? Hold th' line, please," said
the operator in one breath, connecting two calls and waving McEwan
forward simultaneously. Mary followed him down a long corridor of doors
to one which he opened, throwing back a second door within it.

They entered a sunny room, quiet, and with an air of spacious order.
Facing them was a large mahogany table, almost bare, save for a vase
which held yellow roses. Flowers grew in a window box and another vase of
white roses stood on a book shelf. Mary's eyes flew to the flowers even
before she observed the man who rose to greet them from beyond the table.
He was very tall, with the lean New England build. His long, bony face
was unhandsome save for the eyes and mouth, which held an expression of
great sweetness. He shook hands with a kindly smile, and Mary took an
instant liking to him, feeling In his presence the ease that comes of
class-fellowship. He looked, she thought, something under forty years
old.

"I am fortunate. You find me in a breathing spell," he was saying.

"He's the busiest man in New York, but he always has time," McEwan
explained, and, indeed, nothing could have been more unhurried than the
whole atmosphere of both man and room. Mary said so.

"Yes, I must have quiet or I can't work," Farraday replied. "My windows
face the back, you see, and my walls are double; I doubt if there's a
quieter office in New York."

"Nor a more charming, I should think," added Mary, looking about at the
restful tones of the room, with its landscapes, its beautifully chosen
old furniture, and its flowers.

"The owner thanks you," he acknowledged, with his kindly smile.

"Business, business," interjected McEwan, who, Mary was amused to
observe, approximated much more to the popular idea of an American than
did his friend. "I've brought you a find, Farraday. This lady writes for
children--she's printed stuff in England. I haven't read it, but I know
it's good because I've seen her telling stories to the kids by the hour
aboard ship, and you couldn't budge them. You can see," he waved his hand
at her, "that her copy would be out of the ordinary run."

This absurdity would have embarrassed Mary but that Mr. Farraday turned
on her a smile which seemed to make them allies in their joint
comprehension of McEwan's advocacy.

"She's got a story with her for you to see," went on that enthusiast.
"I've told her if it's good enough for our magazine it's two hundred
dollars good enough. There's the script." He took it from her, and
flattened it out on Farraday's table. "Look it over and write her."

"What's your address?" he shot at Mary. She produced it.

"I'll remember that," McEwan nodded; "coming round to see you. There you
are, James. We won't keep you. You have no time and I have less. Come on,
Mrs. Byrd." He made for the door, but Farraday lifted his hand.

"Too fast, Mac," he smiled. "I haven't had a chance yet. A mere American
can't keep pace with the dynamic energy you store in Scotland. Where does
it come from? Do you do nothing but sleep there?"

"Much more than that. He practises the art of being a Scotchman," laughed
Mary.

"He has no need to practise. You should have heard him when he first came
over," said Farraday.

"Well, if you two are going to discuss me, I'll leave you at it; I'm not
a highbrow editor; I'm the poor ad man--my time means money to me."
McEwan opened the door, and Mary rose to accompany him.

"Won't you sit down again, Mrs. Byrd? I'd like to ask you a few
questions," interposed Farraday, who had been turning the pages of Mary's
manuscript. "Mac, you be off. I can't focus my mind in the presence of a
human gyroscope."

"I've got to beat it," agreed the other, shaking hands warmly with Mary.
"But don't you be taken in by him; he likes to pretend he's slow, but
he's really as quick as a buzz-saw. See you soon," and with a final wave
of the hand he was gone.

"Now tell me a little about your work," said Farraday, turning on Mary
his kind but penetrating glance. She told him she had published three or
four stories, and in what magazines.

"I only began to write fiction a year ago," she explained. "Before that
I'd done nothing except scribble a little verse at home."

"What kind of verse?"

"Oh, just silly little children's rhymes."

"Have you sold any of them?"

"No, I never tried."

"I should like to see them," he said, to her surprise. "I could use them
perhaps if they were good. As for this story," he turned the pages, "I
see you have an original idea. A child bird-tamer, dumb, whose power no
one can explain. Before they talk babies can understand the birds, but as
soon as they learn to speak they forget bird language. This child is
dumb, so he remembers, but can't tell any one. Very pretty."

Mary gasped at his accurate summary of her idea. He seemed to have
photographed the pages in his mind at a glance.

"I had tried to make it a little mysterious," she said rather ruefully.
His smile reassured her.

"You have," he nodded, "but we editors learn to get impressions quickly.
Yes," he was reading as he spoke, "I think it likely I can use this. The
style is good, and individual." He touched a bell, and handed the
manuscript to an answering office boy. "Ask Miss Haviland to read this,
and report to me to-day," he ordered.

"I rarely have time to read manuscripts myself," he went on, "but Miss
Haviland is my assistant for our children's magazine. If her judgment
confirms mine, as I feel sure it will, we will mail you a cheque to-night,
Mrs. Byrd--according to our friend McEwan's instructions--" and he
smiled.

Mary blushed with pleasure, and again rose to go, with an attempt at
thanks. The telephone bell had twice, with a mere thread of sound,
announced a summons. The editor took up the receiver. "Yes, in five
minutes," he answered, hanging up and turning again to Mary.

"Don't go yet, Mrs. Byrd; allow me the luxury of postponing other
business for a moment. We do not meet a new contributor and a new
citizen every day." He leant back with an air of complete leisure,
turning to her his kindly, open smile. She felt wonderfully at her ease,
as though this man and she were old acquaintances. He asked more about
her work and that of her husband.

"We like to have some personal knowledge of our authors; it helps us in
criticism and suggestion," he explained.

Mary described Stefan's success in Paris, and mentioned his sketches of
downtown New York. Farraday looked interested.

"I should like to see those," he said. "We have an illustrated review in
which we sometimes use such things. If you are bringing me your verses,
your husband might care to come too, and show me the drawings."

Again the insistent telephone purred, and this time he let Mary go,
shaking her hand and holding the door for her.

"Bring the verses whenever you like, Mrs. Byrd," was his farewell.

When she had gone, James Farraday returned to his desk, lit a cigar, and
smoked absently for a few moments, staring out of the window. Then he
pulled his chair forward, and unhooked the receiver.




VI


Mary hurried home vibrant with happiness, and ran into the studio to find
Stefan disconsolately gazing out of the window. He whirled at her
approach, and caught her in his arms.

"Wicked one! I thought, like Persephone, you had been carried off by Dis
and his wagon," he chided. "I could not work when I realized you had been
gone so long. Where have you been?" He looked quite woebegone.

"Ah, I'm so glad you missed me," she cried from his arms. Then, unable to
contain her delight, she danced to the center of the room, and, throwing
back her head, burst into song. "Praise God from whom all blessings
flow," chanted Mary full-throated, her chest expanded, pouring out her
gratitude as whole-heartedly as a lark.

"Mary, I can see your wings," interrupted Stefan excitedly. "You're
soaring!" He seized a stick of charcoal and dashed for paper, only to
throw down his tools again in mock despair. "Pouf, you're beyond
sketching at this moment--you need a cathedral organ to express you. What
has happened? Have you been sojourning with the immortals?"

But Mary had stopped singing, and dropped on the divan as if suddenly
tired. She held out her arms to Stefan, and he sat beside her, lover-
like.

"Oh, dearest," she said, her voice vibrating with tenderness, "I've
wanted so to help, and now I think I've sold a story, and I've found a
chance for your New York drawings. I'm so happy."

"Why, you mysterious creature, your eyes have tears in them--and all
because you've helped me! I've never seen your tears, Mary; they make
your eyes like stars lost in a pool." He kissed her passionately, and she
responded, but waited eagerly to hear him praise her success. After a
moment, however, he got up and wandered to his drawing board.

"You say you found a chance for these," indicating the sketches. "How
splendid of you! Tell me all about it." He was eagerly attentive, but she
might never have mentioned her story. Apparently, that part of her report
simply had not registered in his brain.

Mary's spirits suddenly dropped. She had come from an interview in which
she was treated as a serious artist, and her husband could not even hear
the account of her success. She rose and began to prepare their luncheon,
recounting her adventures meanwhile in a rather flat voice. Stefan
listened to her description of McEwan's metamorphosis only half
credulously.

"Don't tell me," he commented, "that the cloven hoof will not out. Do you
mean to say it's to him that you owe this chance?"

She nodded.

"I don't see how we can take favors from that brute," he said, running
his hands moodily into his pockets.

Mary looked at him in frank astonishment.

"I don't understand you, Stefan," she said. "Mr. McEwan was kindness
itself, and I am grateful to him, but there can be no question of
receiving favors on your part. He introduced me to Mr. Farraday as a
writer, and it was only through me that your work was mentioned at all."
She was hurt by his narrow intolerance, and he saw it.

"Very well, goddess, don't flash your lightnings at me." He laughed
gaily, and sat down to his luncheon. Throughout it Mary listened to a
detailed account of his morning's work.

Next day she received by the first post a cheque for two hundred dollars,
with a formal typewritten note from Farraday, expressing pleasure, and a
hope that the Household Publishing Company might receive other
manuscripts from her for its consideration. Stefan was setting his
pallette for a morning's work on the Danaë. She called to him rather
constrainedly from the door where she had opened the letter.

"Stefan, I've received a cheque for two hundred dollars for my story."

"That's splendid," he answered cheerfully. "If I sell these sketches we
shall be quite rich. We must move from this absurd place to a proper
studio flat. Mary shall have a white bathroom, and a beautiful blue and
gold bed. Also minions to set food before her. Tra-la-la," and he hummed
gaily. "I'm ready to begin, beloved," he added.

As Mary prepared for her sitting she could not subdue a slight feeling of
irritation. Apparently she might never, even for a moment, enjoy the
luxury of being a human being with ambitions like Stefan's own, but must
remain ever pedestaled as his inspiration. She was irked, too, by his
hopelessly unpractical attitude toward affairs. She would have enjoyed
the friendly status of a partner as a wholesome complement to the ardors
of marriage. She knew that her husband differed from the legendary
bohemian in having a strictly upright code in money matters, but she
wished it could be less visionary. He mentally oscillated between
pauperism and riches. Let him fail to sell a picture and he offered to
pawn his coat; but the picture sold, he aspired to hire a mansion. In a
word, she began to see that he was incapable either of foresight or
moderation. Could she alone, she wondered, supply the deficiency?

That evening when they returned from dinner, which as a rare treat they
had eaten in the café of their old hotel, they found McEwan waiting their
arrival from a seat on the stairs.

"Here you are," his hearty voice called to them as they labored up the
last flight. "I was determined not to miss you. I wanted to pay my
respects to the couple, and see how the paint-slinging was getting on."

Mary, knowing now that the Scotchman was not the slow-witted blunderer he
had appeared on board ship, looked at him with sudden suspicion. Was she
deceived, or did there lurk a teasing gleam in those blue eyes? Had
McEwan used the outrageous phrase "paint-slinging" with malice
aforethought? She could not be sure. But if his object was to get a rise
from Stefan, he was only partly successful. True, her husband snorted
with disgust, but, at a touch from her and a whispered "Be nice to him,"
restrained himself sufficiently to invite McEwan in with a frigid show of
politeness. But once inside, and the candles lighted, Stefan leant glumly
against the mantelpiece with his hands in his pockets, evidently
determined to leave their visitor entirely on Mary's hands.

McEwan was nothing loath. He helped himself to a cigarette, and proceeded
to survey the walls of the room with interest.

"Nifty work, Mrs. Byrd. You must be proud of him," and again Mary seemed
to catch a glint in his eye. "These sketches now," he approached the
table on which lay the skyscraper studies. "Very harsh--cruel, you might
say--but clever, yes, _sir_, mighty clever." Mary saw Stefan writhe
with irritation at the other's air of connoisseur. She shot him a glance
at once amused and pleading, but he ignored it with a shrug, as if to
indicate that Mary was responsible for this intrusion, and must expect no
aid from him.

McEwan now faced the easel which held the great Danaë, shrouded by a
cloth.

"Is this the latest masterpiece--can it be seen?" he asked, turning to
his host, his hand half stretched to the cover.

Mary made an exclamation of denial, and started forward to intercept the
hand. But even as she moved, dismay visible on her face, the perverse
devil which had been mounting in Stefan's brain attained the mastery. She
had asked him to be nice to this jackass--very well, he would.

"Yes, that's the best thing I've done, McEwan. As you're a friend of both
of us, you ought to see it," he exclaimed, and before Mary could utter a
protest had wheeled the easel round to the light and thrown back the
drapery. He massed the candles on the mantelpiece. "Here," he called,
"stand here where you can see properly. Mythological, you see, Danaë.
What do you think of it?" There were mischief and triumph in his tone,
and a shadow of spite.

Mary had blushed crimson and stood, incapable of speech, in the darkest
corner of the room. McEwan had not noticed her protest, it had all
happened so instantaneously. He followed Stefan's direction, and faced
the canvas expectantly. There was a long silence. Mary, watching, saw the
spruce veneer of metropolitanism fall from their guest like a discarded
mask--the grave, steady Highlander emerged. Stefan's moment of malice had
flashed and died--he stood biting his nails, already too ashamed to
glance in Mary's direction. At last McEwan turned. There was homage in
his eyes, and gravity.

"Mr. Byrd," he said, and his deep voice carried somewhat of its old
Scottish burr, "I owe ye an apology. I took ye for a tricky young mon,
clever, but better pleased with yersel' than ye had a right to be. I see
ye are a great artist, and as such, ye hae the right even to the love of
that lady. Now I will congratulate her." He strode over to Mary's corner
and took her hand. "Dear leddy," he said, his native speech still more
apparent, "I confess I didna think the young mon worthy, and in me
blunderin' way, I would hae kept the two o' ye apart could I hae done it.
But I was wrong. Ye've married a genius, and ye can be proud o' the way
ye're helping him. Now I'll bid ye good night, and I hope ye'll baith
count me yer friend in all things." He offered his hand to Stefan, who
took it, touched. Gravely he picked up his hat, and opened the door,
turning for a half bow before closing it behind him.

Stefan knew that he had behaved unpardonably, that he had been betrayed
into a piece of caddishness, but McEwan had given him the cue for his
defense. He hastened to Mary and seized her hand.

"Darling, forgive me. I knew you didn't want the picture shown, but it's
got to be done some day, hasn't it? It seemed a shame for McEwan not to
see what you have inspired. I ought not to have shown it without asking
you, but his appreciation justified me, don't you think?" His tone
coaxed.

Mary was choking back her tears. Explanations, excuses, were to her
trivial, nor was she capable of them. Wounded, she was always dumb, and
to discuss a hurt seemed to her to aggravate it.

"Don't let's talk about it, Stefan," she murmured. "It seemed to me you
showed the picture because I did not wish it--that's what I don't
understand." She spoke lifelessly.

"No, no, you mustn't think that," he urged. "I was irritated, and I'm
horribly sorry, but I do think it should be shown."

But Mary was not deceived. If only for a moment, he had been disloyal to
her. The urge of her love made it easy to forgive him, but she knew she
could not so readily forget.

Though she put a good face on the incident, though Stefan was his most
charming self throughout the evening, even though she refused to
recognize the loss, one veil of illusion had been stripped from her
heart's image of him.

In his contrite mood, determined to please her, Stefan recalled the
matter of her stories, and for the first time spoke of her success with
enthusiasm. He asked her about the editor, and offered to go with her the
next morning to show Mr. Farraday his sketches.

"Have you anything else to take him?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Mary. "I am to show him some verses I wrote at home in
Lindum. Just little songs for children."

"Verses," he exclaimed; "how wonderful! I knew you were a goddess and a
song-bird, but not that you were a poet, too."

"Nor am I; they are the most trifling things."


"I expect they are delicious, like your singing. Read them to me,
beloved," he begged.

But Mary would not. He pressed her several times during the evening, but
for the first time since their marriage he found he could not move her to
compliance.

"Please don't bother about them, Stefan. They are for children; they
would not interest you."

He felt himself not wholly forgiven.




VII


A day or two later the Byrds went together to the office of the Household
Publishing Company and sent in their names to Mr. Farraday. This time
they had to wait their turn for admittance for over half an hour, sharing
the benches of the outer office with several men and women of types
ranging from the extreme of aestheticism to the obviously commercial. The
office was hung with original drawings of the covers of the firm's three
publications--The Household Review, The Household Magazine, and The Child
at Home. Stefan prowled around the room mentally demolishing the
drawings, while Mary glanced through the copies of the magazines that
covered the large central table. She was impressed by the high level of
makeup and illustration in all three periodicals, contrasting them with
the obvious and often inane contents of similar English publications. At
a glance the sheets appeared wholesome, but not narrow; dignified, but
not dull. She wondered how much of their general tone they owed to Mr.
Farraday, and determined to ask McEwan more about his friend when next
she saw him. Her speculations were interrupted by Stefan, who somewhat
excitedly pulled her sleeve, pointing to a colored drawing of a woman's
head on the wall behind her.

"Look, Mary!" he ejaculated. "Rotten bourgeois art, but an interesting
face, eh? I wonder if it's a good portrait. It says in the corner, 'Study
of Miss Felicity Berber.' An actress, I expect. Look at the eyes; subtle,
aren't they? And the heavy little mouth. I've never seen a face quite
like it." He was visibly intrigued.

Mary thought the face provocative, but somewhat unpleasant.

"It's certainly interesting--the predatory type, I should think," she
replied. "I'll bet it's true to life--the artist is too much of a fool
to have created that expression," Stefan went on. "Jove, I should like to
meet her, shouldn't you?" he asked naïvely.

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