A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The Nest Builder

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




That night, when she was supposed to be asleep, she felt him creep
carefully out of bed, heard him fumbling for his dressing gown, and saw a
shaft of light as the studio door was cautiously opened. A moment later a
rustling sounded through the transom, followed by the shrill whisper of
Madame Corriani. Listening, she fell asleep.

She was wakened by Stefan's arms round her.

"A happy Christmas, darling! So wonderful--the first Christmas I ever
remember celebrating."

There was a ruddy glow of firelight in the room, but to her opening eyes
it seemed unusually dark, and in a moment she saw that the great piece of
Chinese silk they used for their couch cover was stretched across the
room on cords, shutting off the window end. She jumped up hastily.

"Oh, Stefan, how thrilling!" she exclaimed, girlishly excited. As for
him, he was standing before her dressed, and obviously tingling with
impatience. She slipped into a dressing gown of white silk, and caught
her hair loosely up. Simultaneously Stefan emerged from the kitchenette
with two steaming cups of coffee, which he placed on a table before the
fire.

"Clever boy!" she exclaimed delighted, for he had never made the coffee
before. In a moment he produced rolls and butter.

"Déjeuner first," he proclaimed gleefully, "and then the surprise!" They
ate their meal as excitedly as two children. In the midst of it Mary rose
and, fetching from the bureau two little ribbon-tied parcels, placed them
in his hands.

"For me? More excitements!" he warbled. "But I shan't open them till the
curtain comes down. There, we've finished." He jumped up. "Beautiful,
allow me to present to you the Byrds' Christmas tree." With a dramatic
gesture he unhooked a cord. The curtain fell. There in the full morning
light stood a tree, different from any Mary had ever seen. There were no
candles on it, but from top to bottom it was all one glittering white.
There were no garish tinsel ornaments, but from every branch hung a white
bird, wings outstretched, and under each bird lay, on the branch below,
something white. At the foot of the tree stood a little painting framed
in pale silver. It was of a nude baby boy, sitting wonderingly upon a
hilltop at early dawn. His eyes were lifted to the sky, his hands groped.
Mary, with an exclamation of delight, stepped nearer. Then she saw what
the white things were under the spreading wings of the birds. Each was
the appurtenance of a baby. One was a tiny cap, one a cloak, others were
dresses, little jackets, vests. There were some tiny white socks, and, at
the very top of the tree, a rattle of white coral and silver.

"Oh, Stefan, my dearest--'the little white bird'!" she cried.

"Do you like it, darling?" he asked delightedly, his arms about her.
"Mrs. Elliot told me about Barrie's white bird--I hadn't known the story.
But I wanted to show you I was glad about ours," he held her close, "and
directly she spoke of the bird, I thought of this. She went with me to
get those little things--" he waved at the tree--"some of them are from
her. But the picture was quite my own idea. It's right, isn't it? What
you would feel, I mean? I tried to get inside your heart."

She nodded, her eyes shining with tears. She could find no words to tell
him how deeply she was touched. Her half-formed doubts were swept away
--he was her own dear man, kind and comprehending. She took the little
painting and sat with it on her knee, poring over it, Stefan standing by
delighted at his success. Then he remembered his own parcels. The larger
he opened first, and instantly donned one of the two knitted ties it
held, proclaiming its golden brown vastly becoming. The smaller parcel
contained a tiny jeweler's box, and in it Stefan found an old and heavy
seal ring of pure design, set with a transparent greenish stone, which
bore the intaglio of a winged head. He was enchanted.

"Mary, you wonder," he cried. "You must have created this--you couldn't
just have found it. It symbolizes what you have given me--sums up all
that you are!" and he kissed her rapturously.

"Oh, Stefan," she answered, "it is all perfect, for your gift symbolizes
what you have brought to me!"

"Yes, darling, but not all I am to you, I hope," he replied, rubbing his
cheek against hers.

"Foolish one," she smiled back at him.

They spent a completely happy day, rejoicing in the successful attempt of
each to penetrate the other's mind. They had never, even on their
honeymoon, felt more at one. Later, Mary asked him about the missing
sketch.

"Yes, I sold it for the bird's trappings," he answered gleefully; "wasn't
it clever of me? But don't ask me for the horrid details, and don't tell
me a word about my wonderful ring. I prefer to consider that you fetched
it from Olympus."

And Mary, whose practical conscience had given her sharp twinges over her
extravagance, was glad to let it rest at that.

During the morning a great sheaf of roses came for Mary with the card of
James Farraday, and on its heels a bush of white heather inscribed to
them both from McEwan. The postman contributed several cards, and a tiny
string of pink coral from Miss Mason. "How kind every one is!" Mary cried
happily.

In the afternoon the Corrianis were summoned. Mary had small presents for
them and a glass of wine, which Stefan poured to the accompaniment of a
song in his best Italian. This melted the somewhat sulky Corriani to
smiles, and his wife to tears. The day closed with dinner at their
beloved French hotel, and a bottle of Burgundy shared with Stefan's
favorite waiters.




XI


During Christmas week Stefan worked hard at his interior, but about the
fifth day began to show signs of restlessness. The following morning,
after only half an hour's painting, he threw down his brush.

"It's no use, Mary," he announced, "I don't think I shall ever be able to
do this kind of work; it simply doesn't inspire me."

She looked up from her sewing. "Why, I thought it promised charmingly."

"That's just it." He ruffled his hair irritably. "It does. Can you
imagine my doing anything 'charming'? No, the only hope for this interior
is for me to get depth into it, and depth won't come--it's facile." And
he stared disgustedly at the canvas.

"I think I know what you mean," Mary answered absently. She was thinking
that his work had power and height, but that depth she had never seen in
it.

Stefan shook himself. "Oh, come along, Mary, let's get out of this. We've
been mewed up in this domestic atmosphere for days. I shall explode soon.
Let's go somewhere."

"Very well," she agreed, folding up her work.

"You feel all right, don't you?" he checked himself to ask.

"Rather, don't I look it?"

"You certainly do," he replied, but without his usual praise of her. "I
have it, let's take a look at Miss Felicity Berber! I shall probably get
some new ideas from her. Happy thought! Come on, Mary, hat, coat, let's
hurry." He was all impatience to be gone.

They started to walk up the Avenue, stopping at the hotel to find in the
telephone book the number of the Berber establishment. It was entered,
"Berber, Felicity, Creator of Raiment."

"How affected!" laughed Mary.

"Yes," said Stefan, "amusing people usually are."

Though he appeared moody the crisp, sunny air of the Avenue gradually
brightened him, and Mary, who was beginning to feel her confined
mornings, breathed it in joyfully.

The house was in the thirties, a large building of white marble. A lift
carried them to the top floor, and left them facing a black door with
"Felicity Berber" painted on it in vermilion letters. Opening this, they
found themselves in a huge windowless room roofed with opaque glass. The
floor was inlaid in a mosaic of uneven tiles which appeared to be of
different shades of black. The walls, from roof to floor, were hung with
shimmering green silk of the shade of a parrot's wing. There were no
show-cases or other evidences of commercialism, but about the room were
set couches of black japanned wood, upon which rested flat mattresses
covered in the same green as the walls. On these silk cushions in black
and vermilion were piled. The only other furniture consisted of low
tables in black lacquer, one beside every couch. On each of these rested
a lacquered bowl of Chinese red, obviously for the receipt of cigarette
ashes. A similar but larger bowl on a table near the door was filled with
green orchids. One large green silk rug--innocent of pattern--invited the
entering visitor deeper into the room; otherwise the floor was bare.
There were no pictures, no decorations, merely this green and black
background, relieved by occasional splashes of vermilion, and leading up
to a great lacquered screen of the same hue which obscured a door at the
further end of the room.

From the corner nearest the entrance a young woman advanced to meet them.
She was clad in flowing lines of opalescent green, and her black hair was
banded low across the forehead with a narrow line of emerald.

"You wish to see raiment?" was her greeting.

Mary felt rather at a loss amidst these ultra-aestheticisms, but Stefan
promptly asked to see Miss Berber.

"Madame rarely sees new clients in the morning." The green damsel was
pessimistic. Mary felt secretly amused at the ostentatious phraseology.

"Tell her we are friends of Mrs. Theodore Elliot's," replied Stefan, with
his most brilliant and ingratiating smile.

The damsel brightened somewhat. "If I may have your name I will see what
can be done," she offered, extending a small vermilion tray. Stefan
produced a card and the damsel floated with it toward the distant exit.
Her footsteps were silent on the dead tiling, and there was no sound from
the door beyond the screen.

"Isn't this a lark? Let's sit down," Stefan exclaimed, leading the way to
a couch.

"It's rather absurd, don't you think?" smiled Mary.

"No doubt, but amusing enough for mere mortals," he shrugged, a scarcely
perceptible snub in his tone. Mary was silent. They waited for several
minutes. At last instinct rather than hearing made them turn to see a
figure advancing down the room.

Both instantly recognized the celebrated Miss Berber. A small, slim
woman, obviously light-boned and supple, she seemed to move forward like
a ripple. Her naturally pale face, with its curved scarlet lips and
slanting eyes, was set on a long neck, and round her small head a heavy
swathe of black hair was held by huge scarlet pins. Her dress, cut in a
narrow V at the neck, was all of semi-transparent reds, the brilliant
happy reds of the Chinese. In fact, but for her head, she would have been
only half visible as she advanced against the background of the screen.
Mary's impression of her was blurred, but Stefan, whose artist's eye
observed everything, noticed that her narrow feet were encased in
heelless satin shoes which followed the natural shape of the feet like
gloves.

"Mr. and Mrs. Byrd! How do you do?" she murmured, and her voice was
light-breathed, a mere memory of sound. It suggested that she customarily
mislaid it, and recaptured only an echo.

"Pull that other couch a little nearer, please," she waved to Stefan,
appropriating the one from which they had just risen. Upon this she
stretched her full length, propping the cushions comfortably under her
shoulders.

"Do you smoke?" she breathed, and stretching an arm produced from a
hidden drawer in the table at her elbow cigarettes in a box of black
lacquer, and matches in one of red. Mary declined, but Stefan immediately
lighted a cigarette for himself and held a match for Miss Berber. Mary
and he settled themselves on the couch which he drew up, and which
slipped readily over the tiles.

"Now we can talk," exhaled their hostess on a spiral of smoke. "I never
see strangers in the morning, not even friends of dear Connie's, but
there was something in the name--" She seemed to be fingering a small
knob protruding from the lacquer of her couch. It must have been a bell,
for in a moment the green maiden appeared.

"Chloris, has that picture come for the sylvan fitting room?" she
murmured. "Yes? Bring it, please." Her gesture seemed to waft the damsel
over the floor. During this interlude the Byrds were silent, Stefan
hugely entertained, Mary beginning to feel a slight antagonism toward
this super-casual dressmaker.

A moment and the attendant nymph reappeared, bearing a large canvas
framed in glistening green wood.

"Against the table--toward Mr. Byrd." Miss Berber supplemented the murmur
with an indicative gesture. "You know that?" dropped from her lips as the
nymph glided away.

It was Stefan's pastoral of the dancing faun. He nodded gaily, but Mary
felt herself blushing. Her husband's work destined for a fitting room!

"I thought so," Miss Berber enunciated through a breath of smoke. "I
picked it up the other day. Quite lovely. My sylvan fitting room required
just that note. I use it for country raiment only. Atmosphere, Mr. Byrd.
I want my clients to feel young when they are preparing for the country.
I am glad to see you here."

Stefan reciprocated. So far, Miss Berber had ignored Mary.

"I might consult you about my next color scheme--original artists are so
rare. I change this room every year." Her eyelids drooped.

At this point Mary ventured to draw attention to herself.

"Why is it, Miss Berber," she asked in her clear English voice, "that you
have only couches here?"

Felicity's lids trembled; she half looked up. "How seldom one hears a
beautiful voice," she uttered. "Chairs, Mrs. Byrd, destroy women's
beauty. Why sit, when one can recline? My clients may not wear corsets;
reclining encourages them to feel at ease without."

Mary found Miss Berber's affectations absurd, but this explanation
heightened her respect for her intelligence. "Method in her madness," she
quoted to herself.

"Miss Berber, I want you to create a gown for my wife. I am sure when you
look at her you will be interested in the idea." Stefan expected every
one to pay tribute to Mary's beauty.

Again Miss Berber's fingers strayed. The nymph appeared. "How long have
I, Chloris? ... Half an hour? Then send me Daphne. You notice the
silence, Mr. Byrd? It rests my clients, brings health to their nerves.
Without it, I could not do my work."

Mary smiled as she mentally contrasted these surroundings with Farraday's
office, where she had last heard that expression. Was quiet so rare a
privilege in America, she wondered?

A moment, and a second damsel emerged, brown-haired, clad in a paler
green, and carrying paper and pencil. Not until this ministrant had
seated herself at the foot of Miss Berber's couch did that lady refer to
Stefan's request. Then, propping herself on her elbow, she at last looked
full at Mary. What she saw evidently pleased her, for she allowed herself
a slight smile. "Ah," she breathed, "an evening, or a house gown?"

"Evening," interposed Stefan. Then to Mary, "You look your best
decolletée, you know."

"Englishwomen always do," murmured Miss Berber.

"Will you kindly take off your hat and coat, and stand up, Mrs. Byrd?"
Mary complied, feeling uncomfortably like a cloak model.

"Classic, pure classic. How seldom one sees it!" Miss Berber's voice
became quite audible. "Gold, of course, classic lines, gold sandals. A
fillet, but no ornaments. You wish to wear this raiment during the
ensuing months, Mrs. Byrd?" Mary nodded. "Then write Demeter type," the
designer interpolated to her satellite, who was taking notes. "Otherwise
it would of course be Artemis--or Aphrodite even?" turning for agreement
to Stefan. "Would you say Aphrodite?"

"I always do," beamed he, delighted.

At this point the first nymph, Chloris, again appeared, and at a motion
of Miss Berber's hand rapidly and silently measured Mary, the paler hued
nymph assisting her as scribe.

"Mr. Byrd," pronounced the autocrat of the establishment, when at the
conclusion of these rites the attendants had faded from the room. "I
never design for less than two hundred dollars. Such a garment as I have
in mind for your wife, queenly and abundant--" her hands waved in
illustration--"would cost three hundred. But--" her look checked Mary in
an exclamation of refusal--"we belong to the same world, the world of
art, not of finance. Yes?" She smiled. "Your painting, Mr. Byrd, is worth
three times what I gave for it, and Mrs. Byrd will wear my raiment as few
clients can. It will give me pleasure"--her lids drooped to illustrate
finality--"to make this garment for the value of the material, which will
be--" her lips smiled amusement at the bagatelle--"between seventy and
eighty-five dollars--no more." She ceased.


Mary felt uncomfortable. Why should she accept such a favor at the hands
of this poseuse? Stefan, however, saved her the necessity of decision. He
leapt to his feet, all smiles.

"Miss Berber," he cried, "you honor us, and Mary will glorify your
design. It is probable," he beamed, "that we cannot afford a dress at
all, but I disregard that utterly." He shrugged, and snapped a finger.
"You have given me an inspiration. As soon as the dress arrives, I shall
paint Mary as Demeter. Mille remerciements!" Bending, he kissed Miss
Berber's hand in the continental manner. Mary, watching, felt a tiny
prick of jealousy. "He never kissed my hand," she thought, and instantly
scorned herself for the idea.

The designer smiled languidly up at Stefan. "I am happy," she murmured.
"No fittings, Mrs. Byrd. We rarely fit, except the model gowns. You will
have the garment in a week. Au revoir." Her eyes closed. They turned to
find a high-busted woman entering the room, accompanied by two young
girls. As they departed a breath-like echo floated after them, "Oh,
really, Mrs. Van Sittart--still those corsets? I can do nothing for you,
you know." Tones of shrill excuse penetrated to the lift door. At the
curb below stood a dyspeptically stuffed limousine, guarded by two men in
puce liveries.

The Byrds swung southward in silence, but suddenly Stefan heaved a great
breath. "Nom d'un nom d'un nom d'un vieux bonhomme!" he exploded, voicing
in that cumulative expletive his extreme satisfaction with the morning.




XII


Constance Elliot had not boasted her stage-management in vain. On the
first Saturday in January all proceeded according to schedule. The Danaë,
beautifully framed, stood at the farther end of Constance's double
drawing-room, from which all other mural impedimenta, together with most
of the furniture, had been removed. Expertly lighted, the picture glowed
in the otherwise obscure room like a thing of flame.

Two hundred ticket holders came, saw, and were conquered. Farraday, in
his most correct cutaway, personally conducted a tour of three eminent
critics to the Village. Sir Micah, the English curator of the
Metropolitan, reflectively tapping an eye-glass upon an uplifted finger
tip, pronounced the painting a turning-point in American art. Four
reporters--whose presence in his immediate vicinity Constance had
insured--transferred this utterance to their note books. Artists gazed,
and well-dressed women did not forbear to gush. Tea, punch, and yellow
suffrage cakes were consumed in the dining room. There was much noise and
excessive heat. In short, the occasion was a success.

Toward the end, when few people remained except the genial Sir Micah,
whom Constance was judiciously holding with tea, smiles, and a good
cigar, the all-important Constantine arrived. Prompted, Sir Micah was
induced to repeat his verdict. But the picture spoke for itself, and the
famous dealer was visibly impressed. Constance was able to eat her dinner
at last with a comfortable sense of accomplishment. She was only sorry
that the Byrds had not been there to appreciate her strategy. Stefan,
indeed, did appear for half an hour, but Mary's courage had failed her
entirely. She had succumbed to an attack of stage fright and shut herself
up at home.

As for Stefan, he had developed one of his most contrary moods. Refusing
conventional attire, he clad himself in the baggy trousers and flowing
tie of his student days, under the illusion that he was thus defying the
prejudices of Philistia. He was unaware that the Philistines, as
represented by the gentlemen of the press, considered his costume
quintessentially correct for an artist just returned from Paris, and
would have been grieved had he appeared otherwise. Unconsciously playing
to the gallery, Stefan on arrival squared himself against a doorway and
eyed the crowds with a frown of disapprobation. He had not forgotten his
early snubs from the dealers, and saw in every innocent male visitor one
of the fraternity.

Constance, in her bid for publicity, had sold most of her tickets to the
socially prominent, so that Stefan was soon surrounded by voluble ladies
unduly furred, corseted, and jeweled. He found these unbeautiful, and his
misanthropy, which had been quiescent of late, rose rampant.

Presently he was introduced to a stout matron, whose costume centered in
an enormous costal cascade of gray pearls.

"Mr. Byrd," she gushed, "I dote on art. I've made a study of it, and I
can say that your picture is a triumph."

"Madam," he fairly scowled, "it is as easy for the rich to enter the
kingdom of Art as for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle."
Leaving her pink with offense, he turned his back and, shaking off other
would-be admirers, sought his hostess.

"My God, I can't stand any more of this--I'm off," he confided to her.
Constance was beginning to know her man. She gave him a quick scrutiny.
"Yes, I think you'd better be," she agreed, "before you spoil any of my
good work. An absent lion is better than a snarling one. Run home to
Mary." She dismissed him laughingly, and Stefan catapulted himself out of
the house, thereby missing the attractive Miss Berber by a few minutes.
Dashing home across the Square, he flung himself on the divan with every
appearance of exhaustion. "Sing to me, Mary," he implored.

"Why, Stefan," she asked, startled, "wasn't it a success? What's the
matter?"

"Success!" he scoffed. "Oh, yes. They all gushed and gurgled and squeaked
and squalled. Horrible! Sing, dearest; I must hear something beautiful."

Failing to extract more from him, she complied.

The next day brought a full account of his success from Constance, and
glowing tributes from the papers. The head-lines ranged from
"Suffragettes Unearth New Genius" to "Distinguished Exhibit at Home of
Theodore M. Elliot." The verdict was unanimous. A new star had risen in
the artistic firmament. One look at the headings, and Stefan dropped the
papers in disgust, but Mary pored over them all, and found him quite
willing to listen while she read eulogistic extracts aloud.

Thus started, the fuse of publicity burnt brightly. Constance's carefully
planned follow-up articles appeared, and reporters besieged the Byrds'
studio. Unfortunately for Mary, these gentry soon discovered that she was
the Danaë's original, which fact created a mild succès de scandale.
Personal paragraphs appeared about her and her writing, and, greatly
embarrassed, she disconnected the door-bell for over a week. But the
picture was all the more talked about. In a week Constantine had it on
exhibition; in three, he had sold it for five thousand dollars to a
tobacco millionaire.

"Mary," groaned Stefan when he heard the news, "we have given in to
Mammon. We are capitalists."

"Oh, dear, think of our beautiful picture going to some odious nouveau
riche!" Mary sighed. But she was immeasurably relieved that Stefan's name
was made, and that they were permanently lifted from the ranks of the
needy.

That very day, as if to illustrate their change of status, Mrs. Corriani
puffed up the stairs with the news that the flat immediately below them
had been abandoned over night. The tenants, a dark couple of questionable
habits and nationality, had omitted the formality of paying their rent--
the flat was on the market. The outcome was that Stefan and Mary, keeping
their studio as a workshop, overflowed into the flat beneath, and found
themselves in possession of a bed and bathroom, a kitchen and maid's
room, and a sitting room. These they determined to furnish gradually, and
Mary looked forward to blissful mornings at antique stores and auctions.
She had been brought up amidst the Chippendale, old oak, and brasses of a
cathedral close, and new furniture was anathema to her. A telephone and a
colored maid-servant were installed. Their picnicking days were over.




XIII


True to her word, Constance arranged a reception in the Byrds' honor, at
which they were to meet Felicity Berber. The promise of this encounter
reconciled Stefan to the affair, and he was moreover enthusiastically
looking forward to Mary's appearance in her new gown. This had arrived,
and lay swathed in tissue paper in its box. In view of their change of
fortune they had, in paying the account of seventy-five dollars,
concocted a little note to Miss Berber, hoping she would now reconsider
her offer, and render them a bill for her design. This note, written and
signed by Mary in her upright English hand, brought forth a
characteristic reply. On black paper and in vermilion ink arrived two
lines of what Mary at first took to be Egyptian hieroglyphics. Studied
from different angles, these yielded at last a single sentence: "A gift
is a gift, and repays itself." This was followed by a signature traveling
perpendicularly down the page in Chinese fashion. It was outlined in an
oblong of red ink, but was itself written in green, the capitals being
supplied with tap-roots extending to the base of each name. Mary tossed
the letter over to Stefan with a smile. He looked at it judicially.

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.