Chapter X: Part IV: Wings (1)

I

One evening early in October Mary telephoned Farraday to ask if she could consult him with reference to the Byrdsnest. He walked over after dinner, to find her alone in the sitting room, companioned by a wood fire and the two sleeping lovebirds.

James had been very busy at the office for some time, and it was two or three weeks since he had seen Mary. Now, as he sat opposite her, it seemed to him that the leaping firelight showed unaccustomed shadows in her cheeks and under her eyes, and that her color was less bright than formerly. Was it merely the result of her care of her baby, he wondered, or was there something more?

“I fear we've already outstayed our time here, Mr. Farraday,” Mary was saying, “and yet I am going to ask you for an extension.”

Farraday lit a cigarette.

“My dear Mrs. Byrd, stay as long as you like.”

“But you don't know the measure of my demands,” she went on, with a hesitating smile. “They are so extensive that I'm ashamed. I love this little place, Mr. Farraday; it's the first real home I've ever had of my own. And Baby does so splendidly here--I can't bear the thought of taking him to the city. How long might I really hope to stay without inconveniencing you? I mean, of course, at a proper rent.”

“As far as I am concerned,” he smiled back at her, “I shall be overjoyed to have you stay as long as the place attracts you. If you like, I will give you a lease--a year, two, or three, as you will, so that you could feel settled, or an option to renew after the first year.”

“But, Mr. Farraday, your mother told me that you used to use the place, and in the face of that I don't know how I have the selfishness to ask you for any time at all, to say nothing of a lease!”

“Mrs. Byrd.” Farraday threw his cigarette into the fire, and, leaning forward, stared at the flames, his hands clasped between his knees. “Let me tell you a sentimental little story, which no one else knows except our friend Mac.” He smiled whimsically.

“When I was a young man I was very much in love, and looked forward to having a home of my own, and children. But I was unfortunate--I did not succeed in winning the woman I loved, and as I am slow to change, I made up my mind that my dream home would never come true. But I was very fond of my 'cottage in the air,' and some years later, when this little house became empty, I arranged it to look as nearly as I could as that other might have done. I used to sit here sometimes and pretend that my shadows were real. You will laugh at me, but I even have in my desk plans for an addition, an ell, containing a play room and nurseries.”

Mary gave a little pitiful exclamation, and touched his clasped hands. Meeting her eyes, he saw them dewy with sympathy.

“You are very gracious to a sentimental old bachelor,” he said, with his winning smile. “But these ghosts were bad for me. I was in danger of becoming absurdly self-centered, almost morbidly introspective. Mac, whose heart is the biggest I know, and who laughs away more troubles than I ever dreamed of, rallied me about it, and showed me that I ought to turn my disappointment to some use. This was about ten years ago, when his own life fell to pieces. I had been associated with magazines for some time, and knew how little that was really good found its way into the plainer people's homes. At Mac's suggestion I bought an insolvent monthly, and began to remodel it. 'You've got the home-and-children bug; well, do something for other people's'--was the way Mac put it to me. Later we started the two other magazines, always keeping before us our aim of giving the average home the best there is. To-day, though I have no children of my own, I like to think I'm a sort of uncle to thousands.”

He leant back, still staring into the fire. There was silence for a minute; a log fell with a crash and a flight of sparks--Farraday replaced it.

“Well, Mrs. Byrd,” he went on, “all this time the little ghost-house stood empty. No one used it but myself. It was made for a woman and for children, yet in my selfishness I locked its door against those who should rightfully have enjoyed it. Mac urged me to use it as a holiday house for poor mothers from the city, but, somehow, I could not bring myself to evict its dream-mistress.”

“Oh, I feel more than ever a trespasser!” exclaimed Mary.

He shook his head. “No, you have redeemed the place from futility--you are its justification.” He paused again, and continued in a lower tone, “Mrs. Byrd, you won't mind my saying this--you are so like that lady of long ago that the house seems yours by natural right. I think I was only waiting for someone who would love and understand it--some golden-haired young mother, like yourself, to give the key to. I can't tell you how happy it makes me that the little house should at last fulfil itself. Please keep it for as long as you need it--it will always need you.”

Mary was much moved: “I can't thank you, Mr. Farraday, but I feel deeply honored. Perhaps my best thanks lie just in loving the house, and I do that, with all my heart. You don't mind my foolish little name for it?”

“The Byrdsnest? I think it perfect.”

“And you don't mind either the alterations I have made?”

“My dear friend, while you keep this house I want it to be yours. Should you wish to take a long lease, and enlarge it, I shall be happy. In fact, I will sell it to you, if in the future you would care to buy. My only stipulation would be an option to repurchase should you decide to give it up.” He took her hand. “The Byrdsnest belongs to Elliston's mother; let us both understand that.”

Her lips trembled. “You are good to me.”

“No, it is you who are good to the dreams of a sentimentalist. And now--” he sat back smilingly--“that is settled. Tell me the news. How is my godson, how is Mr. Byrd, how fares the sable Lily?”

“Baby weighs fourteen and a half pounds,” she said proudly; “he is simply perfect. Lily is an angel.” She paused, and seemed to continue almost with an effort. “Stefan is very busy. He does not care to paint autumn landscapes, so he has begun work again in the city. He's doing a fantastic study of Miss Berber, and is very much pleased with it.”

“That's good,” said Farraday, evenly.

“But I've got more news for you,” she went on, brightening. “I've had a good deal more time lately, Stefan being so much in town, and Baby's habits so regular. Here's the result.”

She fetched from the desk a pile of manuscript, neatly penned, and laid it on her guest's knee.

“This is the second thing I wanted to consult you about. It's a book-length story for children, called 'The House in the Wood.' I've written the first third, and outlined the rest. Here's the list of chapters. It is supposed to be for children between eight and fourteen, and was first suggested to me by this house. There is a family of four children, and a regulation father and mother, nurse, governess, and grandmother. They live in the country, and the children find a little deserted cottage which they adopt to play in. The book is full of their adventures in it. My idea is--” she sat beside him, her eyes brightening with interest--“to suggest all kinds of games to the children who read the story, which seem thrilling, but are really educational. It's quite a moral little book, I'm afraid,” she laughed, “but I think story books should describe adventures which may be within the scope of the ordinary child's life, don't you? I'm afraid it isn't a work of art, but I hope--if I can work out the scheme--it may give some practical ideas to mothers who don't know how to amuse their children.... There, Mr. Editor, what is your verdict?”

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

“I think it's a good idea, Mrs. Byrd; just the sort of thing we are always on the lookout for. The subject might be trite enough, but I suspect you of having lent it charm and freshness. Of course the family is English, which is a disadvantage, but I see you've mixed in a small American visitor, and that he's beginning to teach the others a thing or two! Where did you learn such serpent wisdom, young lady?”

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

“It isn't humbug. I do think an American child could teach ours at home a lot about inventiveness, independence, and democracy--just as I think ours might teach him something about manners,” she added, smiling.

“Admitted,” said he, laying down the manuscript, “and thank you for letting me see this. I claim the first refusal. Finish it, have it typed, and send it in, and if I can run it as a serial in The Child at Home, I shall be tremendously pleased to do so. If it goes, it ought to come out in book form, illustrated.”

“You really think the idea has something in it?”

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

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

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

“Good night, dear Mrs. Byrd; give my love to Elliston, and remember that in him and your work you have two priceless treasures which, even alone, will give you happiness.”

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

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

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

“Not to-night, either,” she said to herself. Her hand wandered to the telephone in the hall, but she drew it back. “No, better not,” she thought, and, putting out the lights, walked resolutely upstairs. As, candle in hand, she passed the door of Stefan's room, she looked in. His bed was smooth; a few trifles lay in orderly array upon his dressing table; boots, from which the country dust had been wiped days ago, stood with toes turned meekly to the wall. They looked lonely, she thought.

With a sigh, she entered her own room, and passed through it to the nursery. There lay her baby, soundly sleeping, his cheek on the pillow, his little fists folded under his chin. How beautiful he looked, she thought; how sweet his little room, how fresh and peaceful all the house! It was the home of love--love lay all about her, in the kind protection of the trees, in the nests of the squirrels, in the voices and faces of her friends, and in her heart. Love was all about her, and the sweetness of young life--and she was utterly lonely. One short year ago she thought she would never know loneliness again--only a year ago.

The candle wavered in her hand; a drop of wax fell on the baby's spotless coverlet. Stooping, she blew upon it till it was cold, and carefully broke it off. She sat down in a low rocking chair, and lifting the baby, gave him his good-night nursing. He barely opened his sleep-laden eyes. She kissed him, made him tidy for the night, and laid him down, waiting while he cuddled luxuriously back to sleep.

“Little Stefan, little Stefan,” she whispered.

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

II

The following afternoon about teatime Stefan bicycled up from the station. Mary, who was in the sitting room, heard him calling from the gate, but did not go to meet him. He hurried into the room and kissed her half-turned cheek effusively.

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

“Do you know that you've been away six days, Stefan, and have only troubled to telephone me twice?” she answered, in a voice carefully controlled.

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

“Hadn't you?”

He fidgeted. “Well, dear, you know I'm frightfully keen on this new picture, and the journeys back and forth waste so much time. But as for the telephoning, I'm awfully sorry. I've been so absorbed I simply didn't remember. Why didn't you ring me up?”

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

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

“Hang it all, Mary,” he burst out, “don't be so judicial. One must have some pleasure--I can't sit about this cottage all the time.”

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

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

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

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

“It's just coming.”

“That's good. When are you coming up to see the picture? It's going to be the best I've done. I shall get Constantine to exhibit it and that stick of a Demeter together, and then the real people and the fools will both have something to admire.”

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

“Well,” he said reflectively, lighting a cigarette, “perhaps not better than the Danaë in one sense--it hasn't as much feeling, but has more originality. Miss Berber is such an unusual type--she's quite an inspiration.”

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

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

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

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

“Well, you must rejoice, now that the prodigal has returned,” he grinned. “Mary, you haven't answered my question yet--when are you coming in to see the picture? Why not to-morrow? I'm dying to show it to you.”

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

“Well, bring him with you.”

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

“There you are!” he exclaimed, ruffling his hair. “I can't work down here, and you can't come to town--how can I help seeming to neglect you? Look here”--he had drunk his tea at a gulp, and now held out his cup for more--“if you're lonely, why not move back to the city--then you could keep your eye on me!” and he grinned again.

For some time Mary had feared this suggestion--she had not yet discussed with Stefan her desire to stay in the country. She pressed her hands together nervously.

“Stefan, do you really want me to move back?”

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

“If you really needed me there I would come. But you are always so absorbed when you're working, and I am so busy with Baby, that I don't believe we should have much more time together than now.”

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

“On the other hand,” she went on, “this place is far better for Baby, and I am devoted to it. We couldn't afford anything half as comfortable in the city, and you like it, too, in the summer.”

“Of course I do,” he answered cheerfully. “I should hate to give it up, and I'm sure it's much more economical, and all that. Still, if you stay here through the winter you mustn't be angry if I am in town part of the time--my work has got to come first, you know.”

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

“Of course I want you, Beautiful.”

He spoke easily, but she was not deceived. She knew he was glad of the arrangement, not for her sake, but for his own. She had watched him fretting for weeks past, like a caged bird, and she had the wisdom to see that her only hope of making him desire the nest again lay in giving him freedom from it. Her pride fortified this perception. As she had said long ago, Mary was no bargainer.

In spite of her comprehension, however, she warmed toward him. It was so good to see him lounging on the sofa again, his green-gold eyes bright, his brown face with its elfish smile radiant now that his point was won. She knew he had been unkind to her both in word and act, but it was impossible not to forgive him, now that she enjoyed again the comfort of his presence.

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

“Hello, Byrd,” he called, his broad shoulders blocking the sitting room door as he came in; “down among the Rubes again? Madam Mary, I accept in advance your offer of tea. Well, how goes the counterfeit presentment of our friend Twinkle-Toes?”

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

“Yes,” said McEwan, with an aggravating smile, as he devoured a slice of cake. “We're all expecting another ten-strike. Are you depicting her as a toe-shaker or a sartorial artist?”

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

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

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

“For goodness' sake, don't start him on politics, Wallace,” said Mary; “he has a contempt for every public man in America except Roosevelt and Bill Heywood.”

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

“You ought to paint their pictures arm in arm, with Taft floating on a cloud crowning them with a sombrero and a sandbag, Bryan pouring grape-juice libations, and Wilson watchfully waiting in the background. Label it 'Morituri salutamus'--I bet it would sell,” said McEwan hopefully.

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

“Solely out of consideration for the existing stars,” McEwan sighed, putting down his cup and rising. “Well, chin music hath charms, but I must toddle to the house, or I shall get in bad with Jamie. My love to Elliston, Mary. Byrd, I warn you that my well-known critical faculty needs stimulation; I mean to drop in at the studio ere long to slam the latest masterpiece. So long,” and he grinned himself out before Stefan's rising irritation had a chance to explode.

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

“Wallace is one of the kindest men alive, and I'm quite devoted to him. I admit, though, that he seems to enjoy teasing you.”

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

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

“You are a good sort, Mary,” he said, smiling in reply; “it's restful to be with you. Sing to me, won't you?” He stretched luxuriously on the sofa.

She obeyed, glad enough of the now rare opportunity of pleasing him. Farraday had brought her some Norse ballads not long before; their sad elfin cadences had charmed her. She sang these now, touching the piano lightly for fear of waking the sleeping baby overhead. Turning to Stefan at the end, she found him sound asleep, one arm drooping over the sofa, the nervous lines of his face smoothed like a tired child's. For some reason she felt strangely pitiful toward him. “He must be very tired, poor boy,” she thought.

Crossing to the kitchen, she warned Lily not to enter the sitting room, and herself slipped upstairs to the baby. Stefan slept till dinner time, and for the rest of the evening was unusually kind and quiet.

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

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

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

Together they bent over the cradle. “Why, he's looking quite human. I think he must have grown!” his father whispered, apparently surprised. “Does he make much noise at night nowadays, Mary?”

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

“If you don't mind, then,” said Stefan, “I think I will sleep with you to-night. I feel as if it would rest me.”

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

When they were in bed Stefan curled up childishly, and putting one arm about her, fell asleep almost instantly, his head upon her shoulder. Mary lay, too happy for sleep, listening to his quiet breathing, until her shoulder ached and throbbed under his head. She would not move for fear of waking him, and remained wide-eyed and motionless until her baby's voice called to her.

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

She had forgotten to put out her dressing gown, and would not open the closet door, because it creaked. Little Elliston was leisurely over his repast, and she was stiff with cold when at last she stole back into bed. Stefan lay upon his side. She crept close, and in her turn put an arm about him. He was here again, her man, and her child was close at hand, warm and comforted from her breast. Love was all about her, and to-night she was not mocked. Warm again from his touch, she, too, fell at last, with all the dreaming house, asleep.

III

Stefan stayed at home for several days, sleeping long hours, and seemingly unusually subdued. He would lie reading on the sofa while Mary wrote, and often she turned from her manuscript to find him dozing. They took a few walks together, during which he rarely spoke, but seemed glad of her silent company. Once he called with her on Mrs. Farraday, and actually held an enormous skein of wool for the old lady while she, busily winding, told them anecdotes of her son James, and of her long dead husband. He made no effort to talk, seeming content to sit receptive under the soothing flow of her reminiscences.

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

“I'm afraid not, ma'am,” said he, dropping quaintly into the address of his childhood. “I'm just a rudderless boat staggering under topheavy sails.”

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

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

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

On the way home Mary linked her arm in his.

“You were so sweet to her, dear,” she said.

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

She laughed and nodded, pressing his arm.

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

That evening, while they sat in the dining room over their dessert, the telephone bell rang. Stefan jumped hastily to answer it, as if he felt sure it was for him, and he proved right.

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

There was a pause; then she heard him say, “You can?” delightedly, followed by “To-morrow morning at ten? Hurrah! No more wasted time; we shall really get on now.” Another pause, then, “Oh, what does it matter about the store?” impatiently--and at last “Well, to-morrow, anyway. Yes. Good-bye.” The receiver clicked into place, and Stefan came skipping back into the room radiant, his languor of the last few days completely gone.

Mary's heart sank like a stone. It was too obvious that he had stayed at home, not to be with her, but merely because his sitter was unobtainable.

“Cheers, Mary; back to work to-morrow,” he exclaimed, attacking his dessert with vigor. “I've been slacking shamefully, but Felicity is so wrapped up in that store of hers I can't get her half the time. Now she's contrite, and is going to sit to-morrow.”

Mary, remembering his remark about McEwan, longed to say, “Why do you call that little vulgarian by her first name?” but retaliatory methods were impossible to her. She contented herself with asking if he would be home the next evening.

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

She saw that he was gone again. His return had been more in the body than the spirit, after all. If that had been wooed a little back to her it had winged away again at the first sound of the telephone. She told herself that it was only his work calling him, that he would have been equally eager over any other sitter. But she was not sure.

“Brace up, Mary,” he called across at her, “you're not being deserted. Good heavens, I must work!” His impatient frown was gathering. She collected herself, smiled cheerfully, and rose, telling Lily they would have coffee in the sitting room.

He spent the evening before the fire, smoking, and making thumbnail sketches on a piece of notepaper. She sang for some time, but without eliciting any comment from him. When they went up to bed he stopped at his own door.

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

When she came down in the morning he had already gone. Lying on the sitting room table, where it had been placed by the careful Lily, lay the scrap of notepaper he had been scribbling on the night before. It was covered with tiny heads, and figures of mermaids, dancing nymphs, and dryads. All in face or figure suggested Felicity Berber.

She laid it back on the table, dropping a heavy book over it. A little later, while she was giving Elliston his bath, it suddenly occurred to Mary that her husband had never once during his stay alluded to her manuscript, and never looked at the baby except when she had asked him to. She excused him to herself with the plea of his temperament, and his absorption in his art, but nevertheless her heart was sore.

For the next few weeks Stefan came and went fitfully, announcing at one point that Miss Berber had ceased to pose for his fantastic study of her, called “The Nixie,” but had consented to sit for a portrait.

“She's slippery--comes and goes, keeps me waiting interminably,” he complained. “I can never be sure of her, but she's a wonderful model.”

“What do you do while you're waiting for her?” asked Mary, who could not imagine Stefan enduring with equanimity such a tax upon his patience.

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

One evening he came home with a grievance.

“That fool McEwan came to the studio to-day,” he complained. “It was all I could do not to shut the door in his face. Of all the chuckleheads! What do you think he called the Nixie? 'A tricky piece of work!' Tricky!” Stefan kicked the fire disgustedly. “And it's the best thing I've done!”

“As for the portrait, he said it was 'fine and dandy,' the idiot. And the maddening thing was,” he went on, turning to Mary, and uncovering the real source of his offense, “that Felicity positively encouraged him! Why, the man must have sat there talking with her for an hour. I could not paint a stroke, and he didn't go till I had said so three times!” completed Stefan, looking positively ferocious. “What in the fiend's name, Mary, did she do it for?” He collapsed on the sofa beside her, like a child bereft of a toy. Mary could not help laughing at his tragic air.

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

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

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

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

He was Scotch to-night, as he usually was now when they were alone together. Cheerful as ever, his cheer was yet slow and solid--the comedian was not in evidence.

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

“Ye should go, bairn, they're a fine key. Clever as the devil, but naething true about them. After the Danaë-piff!” and he snapped his fingers. “Ye hae no call to worry, you're the hub, Mary--let the wheel spin a wee while!”

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

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

“No, Constance went up to their place in Vermont in June, you know. She came down purposely for Elliston's christening, the dear. She writes me she'll be back in a few days now, but says she's sick of New York, and would stay where she is if it weren't for suffrage.”

“But she would na',” said McEwan emphatically.

“No, I don't think so, either. But she sees more of Theodore while she stays away, because he feels it his duty to run up every few days and protect her against savage New England, whereas when she's in town she could drive her car into the subway excavations and he'd never know it. I'm quoting verbatim,” Mary laughed.

McEwan nodded appreciatively. “She's a grand card.”

“She pretends to be flippant about husbands,” Mary went on, “but as a matter of fact she cares much more for hers than for her sons, or anything in the world, except perhaps the Cause.”

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

“I don't know.” There was a puzzled note in Mary's voice. “I can't understand the son's taking such a distinctly second place.”

McEwan's face expanded into one of his huge smiles. “It's true, ye could not. That's the way God made ye, and I'll tell ye about that, too, some day,” he said, rising to go.

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

Before going to bed that night Mary examined her conscience. Why had she not been to town to see Stefan's work? She knew that the baby--whose feeding times now came less frequently--was no longer an adequate excuse. She had blamed Stefan in her heart for his indifference to her work--was she not becoming guilty of the same neglect? Was she not in danger of a worse fault, the mean and vulgar fault of jealousy? She felt herself flushing at the thought.

Two days later Mary put on her last year's suit, now a little shabby, kissed the baby, importuned the beaming Lily to be careful of him, and drove to the train in one of the village livery stable's inconceivably decrepit coupes.

It was about twelve o 'clock when she arrived at the studio, and, ringing the bell, mounted the well-known stairs with a heart which, in spite of herself, beat anxiously. Stefan opened the door irritably, but his frown changed to a look of astonishment, followed by an exuberant smile, as he saw who it was.

“Here comes Demeter,” he cried, calling into the room behind him. “Why, Mary, I'm honored. Has Elliston actually released his prisoner at last?” He drew her into the studio, and kissed her almost with ostentation.

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

Mary looked about her. Her old home was almost unchanged. There was the painted bureau, the divan, the big easel, the model throne where she had posed as Danaë. It was unchanged, yet how different. From the throne stepped down a small svelt figure-it rippled toward her, its gown shimmering like a fire seen through water. It was Felicity, and her dress was made from the great piece of oriental silk Stefan had bought when they were first married, and which they had used as a cover for their couch.

Mary recognized it instantly--there could be no mistake. She stared stupidly, unable to find speech, while Miss Berber's tones were wafted to her like an echo from cooing doves.

“Ah, Mrs. Byrd,” she was saying, “how lovely you look as a matron. We are having a short sitting in my luncheon hour. This studio calms me after the banal cackling of my clients. I almost think of ceasing to create raiment, I weary so of the stupidities of New York's four hundred. Corsets, heels”--her hands fluttered in repudiation. She sank full length upon the divan, lighting a cigarette from a case of mother-of-pearl. “Your husband is the only artist, Mrs. Byrd, who has succeeded in painting me as an individual instead of a beauty. It's relieving”--her voice fainted--“very”--it failed--her lids drooped, she was still.

Stefan looked bored. “Why, Felicity, what's the matter? I haven't seen you so completely lethargic for a long time. I thought you kept that manner for the store.”

Mary could not help feeling pleased by this remark, which drew no response from Felicity save a shadowy but somewhat forced smile.

“Turn round, Mary,” went on Stefan; “the Nixie is behind you.”

Mary faced the canvas, another of his favorite underwater pictures. The Nixie sat on a rock, in the green light of a river-bed. Green river-weed swayed and clung about her, and her hair, green too, streamed out to mingle with it. In the ooze at her feet lay a drowned girl, holding a tiny baby to her breast. This part of the picture was unfinished, but the Nixie stood out clearly, looking down at the dead woman with an expression compounded of wonder and sly scorn. “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” she might have been saying.

The face was not a portrait--it was Felicity only in its potentialities, but it was she, unmistakably. The picture was brilliant, fantastic, and unpleasant. Mary said so.

“Of course it is unpleasant,” he answered, “and so is life. Isn't it unpleasant that girls should kill themselves because of some fool man? And wouldn't sub-humans have a right to ribald laughter at a system which fosters such things!”

“He has painted me as a sub-human, Mrs. Byrd,” drawled Felicity through her smoke, “but when I hear his opinion of humans I feel complimented.”

“It seems to me,” said Mary, “that she's not laughing at humans in general, but at this particular girl, for having cared. That's what makes it unpleasant to me.”

“I dare say she is,” said Stefan carelessly. “In any case, I'm glad you find it unpleasant--in popular criticism the word is only a synonym for true.”

To Mary the picture was theatrical rather than true, but she did not care to argue the point. She turned to the portrait, a clever study in lights keyed to the opalescent tones of the silk dress, and showing Felicity poised for the first step of a dance. The face was still in charcoal--Stefan always blocked in his whole color scheme before beginning a head--but even so, it was alluring.

Mary said with truth that it would be a fine portrait.

“Yes, I like it. Full of movement. Nothing architectural about that,” he said, glancing by way of contrast at the great Demeter drowsing from the furthest wall. “The silk is interesting, isn't it?”

Mary's throat ached painfully. He was utterly unconscious of any hurt to her in the transfer of this first extravagance of theirs. If he had done it consciously, with intent to wound, she thought it might have hurt her less.

“It's very pretty,” she said conventionally.

“Bare, perhaps, rather than pretty,” murmured Miss Berber behind her veil of smoke.

Mary flushed. This woman had a trick of always making her appear gauche. She looked at her watch, not sorry to see that it was already time to leave.

“I must go, Stefan, I have to catch the one o'clock,” she said, holding out her hand.

“What a shame. Can't you even stay to lunch?” he asked dutifully. She shook her head, the ache in her throat making speech difficult. She seemed very stiff and matter-of-fact, he thought, and her clothes were uninteresting. He kissed her, however, and held the door while she shook hands with Felicity, who half rose. The transom was open, and through it Mary, who had paused on the landing to button her glove, overheard Miss Berber's valedictory pronouncement.

“The English are a remarkable race--remarkable. Character in them is fixed--in us, fluid.”

Mary sped down the first flight, in terror of hearing Stefan's reply.

All that evening she held the baby in her arms--she could hardly bring herself to put him down when it was time to go to bed.

IV

On November the 1st Mary received their joint bank book. The figures appalled her. She had drawn nothing except for the household bills, but Stefan had apparently been drawing cash, in sums of fifty or twenty-five dollars, every few days for weeks past. Save for his meals and a little new clothing she did not know on what he could have spent it; but as they had made nothing since the sale of his drawings in the spring, their once stout balance had dwindled alarmingly. One check, even while she felt its extravagance, touched her to sympathy. It was drawn to Henrik Jensen for two hundred dollars. Stefan must have been helping Adolph's brother to his feet again; perhaps that was where more of the money had gone.

Stefan came home that afternoon, and Mary very unwillingly tackled the subject. He looked surprised.

“I'd no idea I'd been drawing so much! Why didn't you tell me sooner?” he exclaimed. “Yes, I've given poor old Henrik a bit from time to time; I thought I'd mentioned it to you.”

“You did in the summer, now I come to think of it, but I thought you meant a few dollars, ten or twenty.”

“Much good that would have done him. The poor old chap was stranded. He's all right now, has a new business. I've been meaning to tell you about it. He supplies furniture on order to go with Felicity's gowns--backgrounds for personalities, and all that stuff. I put it up to her to help find him a job, and she thought of this right off.” He grinned appreciatively. “Smart, eh? We both gave him a hand to start it.”

“You might have told me, I should have been so interested,” said Mary, trying not to sound hurt.

“I meant to, but it's only just been arranged, and I've had no chance to talk to you for ages.”

“Not my doing, Stefan,” she said softly.

“Oh, yes, the baby and all that.” He waved his arm vaguely, and began to fidget. She steered away from the rocks.

“Anyhow, I'm glad you've helped him,” she said sincerely.

“I knew you would be. Look here, Mary, can we go on at the present rate--barring Jensen--till I finish the Nixie? I don't want Constantine to have the Demeter alone, it isn't good enough.”

“I think it is as good as the Nixie,” she said, on a sudden impulse. He swung round, staring at her almost insolently.

“My dear girl, what do you know about it?” His voice was cold.

The blood rushed to her heart. He had never spoken to her in that tone before. As always, her hurt silenced her.

He prowled for a minute, then repeated his question about their expenses.

“I don't want to have to think in cents again unless I must,” he added.

Mary considered, remembering the now almost finished manuscript in her desk.

“Yes, I think we can manage, dear.”

“That's a blessing; then we won't talk about it any more,” he exclaimed, pinching her ear in token of satisfaction.

The next day Mary sent her manuscript to be typed. In a week it had gone to Farraday at his office, complete all but three chapters, of which she enclosed an outline. With it she sent a purely formal note, asking, in the event of the book being accepted, what terms the Company could offer her, and whether she could be paid partly in advance. She put the request tentatively, knowing nothing of the method of paying for serials. In another week she had a typewritten reply from Farraday, saying that the serial had been most favorably reported, that the Company would buy it for fifteen hundred dollars, with a guarantee to begin serialization within the year, on receipt of the final chapters, that they enclosed a contract, and were hers faithfully, etc. With this was a personal note from her friend, congratulating her, and explaining that his estimate of her book had been more than borne out by his readers.

“I don't want you to think others less appreciative than I,” was his tactful way of intimating that her work had been accepted on its merits alone.

The letters took Mary's breath away. She had no idea that her work could fetch such a price. This stroke of fortune completely lifted her financial anxieties, but her spirits did not rise correspondingly. Six months ago she would have been girlishly triumphant at such a success, but now she felt at most a dull satisfaction. She hastened, however, to write the final chapters, and deposited the check when it came in her own bank, drawing the next month's housekeeping money half from that and half from Stefan's rapidly dwindling account. That she was able to do this gave her a feeling of relief, no more.

Mary had now nursed her baby for over four months, and began to feel a nervous lassitude which she attributed--quite wrongly--to this fact. As Elliston still gained weight steadily, however, she gave her own condition no thought. But the last leaves had fallen from the trees, sea and woods looked friendless, and the evenings were long and lonely. The neighbors had nearly all gone back to the city. Farraday only came down at week-ends, Jamie was busy with his lessons, and Constance still lingered in Vermont. As for Stefan, he came home late and left early; often he did not come at all. She began to question seriously if she had been right to remain in the cottage. Her heart told her no, but her pride said yes, and her pride was strong; also, it was backed by reason. Her steady brain, which was capable of quite impersonal thinking, told her that Stefan would be actively discontented just now in company with his family, and that this discontent would eat into his remaining love for her.

But her heart repudiated this mental cautioning, crying out to her to go to him, to pour out her love and need, to capture him safely in her arms. More than once she nerved herself for such an effort, only to become incapable of the least expression at his approach. Emotionally inarticulate even in happiness, Mary was quite dumb in grief. Her conversation became trite, her sore heart drew a mantle of the commonplace over its wound; Stefan found her more than ever “English.”

So lonely was she at this time that she would have asked little Miss Mason to stay with her, but for the lack of a spare bedroom. Of all her friends, only Mrs. Farraday remained at hand. Mary spent many hours at the old lady's house, and rejoiced each time the pony chaise brought her to the Byrdsnest. Mrs. Farraday loved to drive up in the morning and watch the small Elliston in his bath, comparing his feats with her memories of her own baby. She liked, too, to call at the cottage for mother and child, and take them for long rambling drives behind her ruminant pony.

But the little Quakeress usually had her house full of guests--quaint, elderly folk from Delaware or from the Quaker regions of Pennsylvania--and could not give more than occasional time to these excursions. She had become devoted to Mary, whom she secretly regarded as her ideal of the woman her James should marry. That her son had not yet met such a woman was, after the loss of her husband, the little lady's greatest grief.

In the midst of this dead period of graying days, Constance Elliot burst one morning--a God from the Machine--tearing down the lane in her diminutive car with the great figure of Gunther, like some Norse divinity, beside her. She fell out of her auto, and into an explanation, in one breath, embracing Mary warmly between sentences.

“You lovely creature, here I am at last! Theodore hadn't been up for a week, so I came down, to find Mr. Gunther thundering like Odin because I had promised to help him arrange sittings with you, and had forgotten it. I had to bring him at once. He says his group is all done but the two heads, and he must have yours and the baby's. But he'll tell you all about it. Where is he? Elliston, I mean. I've brought him some short frocks. Where are they, Mr. Gunther? If he's put them in his pockets, he'll never find them--they are feet long--the pockets, I mean. Bless you, Mary Byrd, how good it is to see you! Come into the house, every one, and let me rest.”

Mary was bubbling with laughter.

“Constance, you human dynamo, we'll go in by all means, and hold our breaths listening to your 'resting'!”

“Don't sass your elders, naughty girl. Oh, my heavens, I've been five months in New England, and have behaved like a perfect gentlewoman all the time! Now I'm due for an attack of New Yorkitis!” Constance rushed into the sitting room, pulled off her hat and patted her hair into shape, ran to the kitchen door to say hello to Lily, and was back in her chair by the time the others had found theirs. Her quick glance traveled from one to the other.

“Now I shall listen,” she said. “Mary, tell your news. Mr. Gunther, explain your ideas.”

Mary laughed again. “Visitors first,” she nodded to the Norwegian who, as always, was staring at her with a perfectly civil fixity.

He placed a great hand on either knee and prepared to state his case. With his red-gold beard and piercing eyes, he was, Mary thought, quite the handsomest, and, after Stefan, the most attractive man she had ever seen.

“Mrs. Byrd,” he began, “I am doing, among other things, a large group called 'Pioneers' for the Frisco exhibition. It is finished in the clay--as Mrs. Elliot said--all but two heads, and is already roughly blocked in marble. I want your head, with your son's--I must have them. Six sittings will be enough. If you cannot, as I imagine, come to the city, I will bring my clay here, and we will work in your husband's studio. These figures, of whom the man is modeled from myself, do not represent pioneers in the ordinary sense. They embody my idea of those who will lead the race to future greatness. That is why I feel it essential to have you as a model.”

He spoke quite simply, without a trace of flattery, as if he were merely putting into words a self-evident truth. A compliment of such staggering dimensions, however, left Mary abashed.

“You may wonder,” he went on, seeing her silent, “why I so regard you. It is not merely your beauty, Mrs. Byrd, of which as an artist I can speak without offense, it is because to my mind you combine strong mentality and morale with simplicity of temperament. You are an Apollonian, rather than a Dionysian. Of such, in my judgment, will the super-race be made.” Gunther folded his arms and leaned back.

He was sufficiently distinguished to be able to carry off a pronouncement which in a lesser man would have been an impertinence, and he knew it.

Constance threw up her hands. “There, Mary, your niche is carved. I don't quite know what Mr. Gunther means, but he sounds right.”

Mary found her voice. “Mr. Gunther honors me very much, and, although of course I do not deserve his praise, I shall certainly not refuse his request.”

Gunther bowed gravely from the hips in the Continental manner, without rising.

“When may I come,” he asked; “to-morrow? Good! I will bring the clay out by auto.”

“You lucky woman,” exclaimed Constance. “To think of being immortalized by two great artists in one year!”

“Her type is very rare,” said Gunther in explanation. “When does one see the classic face with expression added? Almost always, it is dull.”

“Now, Mary, produce the infant!” Constance did not intend the whole morning to be devoted to the Olympian discourse of the sculptor.

The baby was brought down, and the rest of the visit pivoted about him. Mary glowed at the praises he received; she looked immeasurably brighter, Constance thought, than when they arrived.

On the way home Gunther unbosomed himself of a final pronouncement. “She does not look too happy, but her beauty is richer and its meaning deeper than before. She is what the mothers of men should be. I am sorry,” he concluded simply, “that I did not meet her more than a year ago.”

Constance almost gasped. What an advantage, she thought, great physical gifts bring. Even without this man's distinction in his art, it was obvious that he had some right to assume his ability to mate with whomever he might choose.

Early the next morning the sculptor drove up to the barn, his tonneau loaded with impedimenta. Mary was ready for him, and watched with interest while he lifted out first a great wooden box of clay, then a small model throne, then two turntables, and finally, two tin buckets. These baffled her, till, having installed the clay-box, which she doubted if an ordinary man could lift, he made for the garden pump and watered his clay with the contents of the buckets.

He set up his three-legged turntables, each of which bore an angle-iron supporting a twisted length of lead pipe, stood a bucket of water beneath one, and explained that in a few minutes he would be ready to begin. Donning a linen blouse, he attacked the mass of damp clay powerfully, throwing great pieces onto the skeleton lead-pipe, which he explained had been bent to the exact angle of the head in his group.

“The woman's figure I modeled from ideal proportions, Mrs. Byrd, and this head will be set upon its shoulders. My statue will then be a living thing instead of a mere symbol.”

When Mary was posed she became absorbed in watching Gunther's work grow. He modeled with extraordinary speed, yet his movements had none of the lightning swoops and darts of Stefan's method. Each motion of his powerful hands might have been preordained; they seemed to move with a deliberate and effortless precision, so that she would hardly have realized their speed had the head and face not leaped under them into being. He was a silent worker, yet she felt companioned; the man's presence seemed to fill the little building.

“After to-day I shall ask you to hold the child, for as long as it will not disturb him. I shall then have the expression on your face which I desire, and I will work at a study of the boy's head at those moments when he is awake.”