Chapter IV: Part II: Mated (2)

“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.

“Not particularly,” said Mary, smiling at him. “She'll have to be your friend; she's too feline for me.”

“The very word, observant one,” he agreed.

At this point their summons came. Mary was very anxious that her husband should make a good impression. “I hope you'll like him, dearest,” she whispered as for the second time the editor's door opened to her.

Farraday shook hands with them pleasantly, but turned his level glance rather fixedly on her husband, Mary thought, before breaking into his kindly smile. Stefan returned the smile with interest, plainly delighted at the evidences of taste that surrounded him.

“I'm sorry you should have had to wait so long,” said Farraday. “I'm rarely so fortunately unoccupied as on your first visit, Mrs. Byrd. You've brought the verses to show me? Good! And Mr. Byrd has his drawings?” He turned to Stefan. “America owes you a debt for the new citizen you have given her, Mr. Byrd. May I offer my congratulations?”

“Thanks,” beamed Stefan, “but you couldn't, adequately, you know.”

“Obviously not,” assented the other with a glance at Mary. “Our mutual friend, McEwan, was here again yesterday, with a most glowing account of your work, Mr. Byrd; he seems to have adopted the rôle of press agent for the family.”

“He's the soul of kindness,” said Mary.

“Yes, a thoroughly good sort,” Stefan conceded. “Here are the New York sketches,” he went on, opening his portfolio on Farraday's desk. “Half a dozen of them.”

“Thank you, just a moment,” interposed the editor, who had opened Mary's manuscript. “Your wife's work takes precedence. She is an established contributor, you see,” he smiled, running his eyes over the pages.

Stefan sat down. “Of course,” he said, rather absently.

Farraday gave an exclamation of pleasure.

“Mrs. Byrd, these are good; unusually so. They have the Stevenson flavor without being imitations. A little condensation, perhaps--I'll pencil a few suggestions--but I must have them all. I would not let another magazine get them for the world! Let me see, how many are there! Eight. We might bring them out in a series, illustrated. What if I were to offer the illustrating to Mr. Byrd, eh?” He put down the sheets and glanced from wife to husband, evidently charmed with his idea. “What do you think, Mr. Byrd? Is your style suited to her work?” he asked.

Stefan looked thoroughly taken aback. He laughed shortly. “I'm a painter, Mr. Farraday, not an illustrator. I haven't time to undertake that kind of thing. Even these drawings,” he indicated the portfolio, “were done in spare moments as an amusement. My wife suggested placing them with you--I shouldn't have thought of it.”

To Mary his tone sounded needlessly ungracious, but the editor appeared not to notice it.

“I beg your pardon,” he replied suavely. “Of course, if you don't illustrate--I'm sorry. The collaboration of husband and wife would have been an attraction, even though the names were unknown here. I'll get Ledward to do them.”

Stefan sat up. “You don't mean Metcalf Ledward, the painter, do you?” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” replied Farraday quietly; “he often does things for us--our policy is to popularize the best American artists.”

Stefan was nonplused. Ledward illustrating Mary's rhymes! He felt uncomfortable.

“Don't you think he would get the right atmosphere better perhaps than anyone?” queried Farraday, who seemed courteously anxious to elicit Stefan's opinion. Mary interposed hastily.

“Mr. Farraday, he can't answer you. I'm afraid I've been stupid, but I was so pessimistic about these verses that I wouldn't show them to him. I thought I would get an outside criticism first, just to save my face,” she hurried on, anxious in reality to save her husband's.

“I pleaded, but she was obdurate,” contributed Stefan, looking at her with reproach.

Farraday smiled enlightenment. “I see. Well, I shall hope you will change your mind about the illustrations when you have read the poems--that is, if your style would adapt itself. Now may I see the sketches?” and he held out his hand for them.

Stefan rose with relief. Much as he adored Mary, he could not comprehend the seriousness with which this man was taking the rhymes which she herself had described as “just little songs for children.” He was the more baffled as he could not dismiss Farraday's critical pretensions with contempt, the editor being too obviously a man of cultivation. Now, however, that attention had been turned to his own work, Stefan was at his ease. Here, he felt, was no room for doubts.

“They are small chalk and charcoal studies of the spirit of the city--mere impressions,” he explained, putting the drawings in Farraday's hands with a gesture which belied the carelessness of his words.

Farraday glanced at them, looked again, rose, and carried them to the window, where he examined them carefully, one by one. Mary watched him breathlessly, Stefan with unconcealed triumph. Presently he turned again and placed them in a row on the bare expanse of his desk. He stood looking silently at them for a moment more before he spoke.

“Mr. Byrd,” he said at last, “this is very remarkable work.” Mary exhaled an audible breath of relief, and turned a glowing face to Stefan. “It is the most remarkable work,” went on the editor, “that has come into this office for some time past. Frankly, however, I can't use it.”

Mary caught her breath--Stefan stared. The other went on without looking at them:

“This company publishes strictly for the household. Our policy is to send into the average American home the best that America produces, but it must be a best that the home can comprehend. These drawings interpret New York as you see it, but they do not interpret the New York in which our readers live, or one which they would be willing to admit existed.”

“They interpret the real New York, though,” interposed Stefan.

“Obviously so, to you,” replied the editor, looking at him for the first time. “For me, they do not. These drawings are an arraignment, Mr. Byrd, and--if you will pardon my saying so--a rather bitter and inhuman one. You are not very patriotic, are you?” His keen eyes probed the artist.

“Emphatically no,” Stefan rejoined. “I'm only half American by birth, and wholly French by adoption.”

“That explains it,” nodded Farraday gravely. “Well, Mr. Byrd, there are undoubtedly publications in which these drawings could find a place, and I am only sorry that mine are not amongst them. May I, however, venture to offer you a suggestion?”

Stefan was beginning to look bored, but Mary interposed with a quick “Oh, please do!” Farraday turned to her.

“Mrs. Byrd, you will bear me out in this, I think. Your husband has genius--that is beyond question--but he is unknown here as yet. Would it not be a pity for him to be introduced to the American public through these rather sinister drawings? We are not fond of the too frank critic here, you know,” he smiled, whimsically. “You may think me a Philistine, Mr. Byrd,” he continued, “but I have your welfare in mind. Win your public first with smiles, and later they may perhaps accept chastisement from you. If you have any drawings in a different vein I shall feel honored in publishing them”--his tone was courteous--“if not, I should suggest that you seek your first opening through the galleries rather than the press. Whichever way you decide, if I can assist you at all by furnishing introductions, I do hope you will call on me. Both for your wife's sake and for your own, it would be a pleasure. And now”--gathering up the drawings--“I must ask you both to excuse me, as I have a long string of appointments. Mrs. Byrd, I will write you our offer for the verses. I don't know about the illustrations; you must consult your husband.” They found themselves at the door bidding him goodbye: Mary with a sense of disappointment mingled with comprehension; Stefan not knowing whether the more to deplore what he considered Farraday's Philistinism, or to admire his critical acumen.

“His papers and his policy are piffling,” he summed up at last, as they walked down the Avenue, “but I must say I like the man himself--he is the first person of distinction I have seen since I left France.”

“Oh! Oh! The first?” queried Mary.

“Darling,” he seized her hand and pressed it, “I said the first person, not the first immortal!” He had a way of bestowing little endearments in public, which Mary found very attractive, even while her training obliged her to class them as solecisms.

“I felt sure you would like him. He seems to me charming,” she said, withdrawing the hand with a smile.

“Grundy!” he teased at this. “Yes, the man is all right, but if that is a sample of their attitude toward original work over here we have a pretty prospect of success. 'Genius, get thee behind me!' would sum it up. Imbeciles!” He strode on, his face mutinous.

Mary was thinking. She knew that Farraday's criticism of her husband's work was just. The word “sinister” had struck home to her. It could be applied, she felt, with equal truth to all his large paintings but one--the Danaë.

“Stefan,” she asked, “what did you think of his advice to win the public first by smiles?”

“Tennysonian!” pronounced Stefan, using what she knew to be his final adjective of condemnation.

“A little Victorian, perhaps,” she admitted, smiling at this succinct repudiation. “Nevertheless, I'm inclined to think he was right. There is a sort of Pan-inspired terror in your work, you know.”

He appeared struck. “Mary, I believe you've hit it!” he exclaimed, suddenly standing still. “I've never thought of it like that before--the thing that makes my work unique, I mean. Like the music of Pan, it's outside humanity, because I am.”

“Don't say that, dear,” she interrupted, shocked.

“Yes, I am. I hate my kind--all except a handful. I love beauty. It is not my fault that humanity is ugly.”

Mary was deeply disturbed. Led on by a chance phrase of hers, he was actually boasting of just that lack which was becoming her secret fear for him. She touched his arm, pleadingly.

“Stefan, don't speak like that; it hurts me dreadfully. It is awful for any one to build up a barrier between himself and the world. It means much unhappiness, both for himself and others.”

He laughed affectionately at her. “Why, sweet, what do we care? I love you enough to make the balance true. You are on my side of the barrier, shutting me in with beauty.”

“Is that your only reason for loving me?” she asked, still distressed.

“I love you because you have a beautiful body and a beautiful mind--because you are like a winged goddess of inspiration. Could there be a more perfect reason?”

Mary was silent. Again the burden of his ideal oppressed her. There was no comfort in it. It might be above humanity, she felt, but it was not of it. Again her mind returned to the pictures and Farraday's criticism. “Sinister!” So he would have summed up all the others, except the Danaë. To that at least the word could not apply. Her heart lifted at the realization of how truly she had helped Stefan. In his tribute to her there was only beauty. She knew now that her gift must be without reservation.

Home again, she stood long before the picture, searching its strange face. Was she wrong, or did there linger even here the sinister, half-human note?

“Stefan,” she said, calling him to her, “I was wrong to ask you not to make the face like me. It was stupid--'Tennysonian,' I'm afraid.” She smiled bravely. “It _is_ me--your ideal of me, at least--and I want you to make the face, too, express me as I seem to you.” She leant against him. “Then I want you to exhibit it. I want you to be known first by our gift to each other, this--which is our love's triumph.” She was trembling; her face quivered--he had never seen her so moved. She fired him.

“How glorious of you, darling!” he exclaimed, “and oh, how beautiful you look! You have never been so wonderful. If I could paint that rapt face! Quick, I believe I can get it. Stand there, on the throne.” He seized his pallette and brushes and worked furiously while Mary stood, still flaming with her renunciation. In a few minutes it was done. He ran to her and covered her face with kisses. “Come and look!” he cried exultingly, holding her before the canvas.

The strange face with its too-wide eyes and exotic mouth was gone. Instead, she saw her own purely cut features, but fired by such exultant adoration as lifted them to the likeness of a deity. The picture now was incredibly pure and passionate--the very flaming essence of love. Tears started to her eyes and dropped unheeded. She turned to him worshiping.

“Beloved,” she cried, “you are great, great. I adore you,” and she kissed him passionately.

He had painted love's apotheosis, and his genius had raised her love to its level. At that moment Mary's actually was the soul of flame he had depicted it.

That day, illumined by the inspiration each had given each, was destined to mark a turning point in their common life. The next morning the understanding which Mary had for long instinctively feared, and against which she had raised a barrier of silence, came at last.

She was standing for some final work on the Danaë, but she had awakened feeling rather unwell, and her pose was listless. Stefan noticed it, and she braced herself by an effort, only to droop again. To his surprise, she had to ask for her rest much sooner than usual; he had hitherto found her tireless. But hardly had she again taken the pose than she felt herself turning giddy. She tottered, and sat down limply on the throne. He ran to her, all concern.

“Why, darling, what's the matter, aren't you well?” She shook her head. “What can be wrong?” She looked at him speechless.

“What is it, dearest, has anything upset you?” he went on with--it seemed to her--incredible blindness.

“I can't stand in that pose any longer, Stefan; this must be the last time,” she said at length, slowly.

He looked at her as she sat, pale-faced, drooping on the edge of the throne. Suddenly, in a flash, realization came to him. He strode across the room, looked again, and came back to her.

“Why, Mary, are you going to have a baby?” he asked, quite baldly, with a surprised and almost rueful expression.

Mary flushed crimson, tears of emotion in her eyes. “Oh, Stefan, yes. I've known it for weeks; haven't you guessed?” Her arms reached to him blindly.

He stood rooted for a minute, looking as dumfounded as if an earthquake had rolled under him. Then with a quick turn he picked up her wrap, folded it round her, and took her into his arms. But it was a moment too late. He had hesitated, had not been there at the instant of her greatest need. Her midnight fears were fulfilled, just as her instinct had foretold. He was not glad. There in his arms her heart turned cold.

He soon rallied; kissed her, comforted her, told her what a fool he had been; but all he said only confirmed her knowledge. “He is not glad. He is not glad,” her heart beat out over and over, as he talked.

“Why did you not tell me sooner, darling? Why did you let me tire you like this?” he asked.

Impossible to reply. “Why didn't you know?” her heart cried out, and, “I wasn't tired until to-day,” her lips answered.

“But why didn't you tell me?” he urged. “I never even guessed. It was idiotic of me, but I was so absorbed in our love and my work that this never came to my mind.”

“But at first, Stefan?” she questioned, probing for the answer she already knew, but still clinging to the hope of being wrong. “I never talked about it because you didn't seem to care. But in the beginning, when you proposed to me--the day we were married--at Shadeham--did you never think of it then?” Her tone craved reassurance.

“Why, no,” he half laughed. “You'll think me childish, but I never did. I suppose I vaguely faced the possibility, but I put it from me. We had each other and our love--that seemed enough.”

She raised her head and gazed at him in wide-eyed pain. “But, Stefan, what's marriage _for?_” she exclaimed.

He puckered his brows, puzzled. “Why, my dear, it's for love--companionship--inspiration. Nothing more so far as I am concerned.” They stared nakedly at each other. For the first time the veils were stripped away. They had felt themselves one, and behold! here was a barrier, impenetrable as marble, dividing each from the comprehension of the other. To Stefan it was inconceivable that a marriage should be based on anything but mutual desire. To Mary the thought of marriage apart from children was an impossibility. They had come to their first spiritual deadlock.

VIII

Love, feeling its fusion threatened, ever makes a supreme effort for reunity. In the days that followed, Stefan enthusiastically sought to rebuild his image of Mary round the central fact of her maternity. He became inspired with the idea of painting her as a Madonna, and recalled all the famous artists of the past who had so glorified their hearts' mistresses.

“You are named for the greatest of all mothers, dearest, and my picture shall be worthy of the name,” he would cry. Or he would call her Aphrodite, the mother of Love. “How beautiful our son will be--another Eros,” he exclaimed.

Mary rejoiced in his new enthusiasm, and persuaded herself that his indifference to children was merely the result of his lonely bachelorhood, and would disappear forever at the sight of his own child. Now that her great secret was shared she became happier, and openly commenced those preparations which she had long been cherishing in thought. Miss Mason was sent for, and the great news confided to her. They undertook several shopping expeditions, as a result of which Mary would sit with a pile of sewing on her knee while Stefan worked to complete his picture. Miss Mason took to dropping in occasionally with a pattern or some trifle of wool or silk. Mary was always glad to see her, and even Stefan found himself laughing sometimes at her shrewd New England wit. For the most part, however, he ignored her, while he painted away in silence behind the great canvas.

Mary had received twelve dollars for each of her verses--ninety-six dollars in all. Before Christmas Stefan sold his pastoral of the dancing faun for one hundred and twenty-five, and Mary felt that financially they were in smooth water, and ventured to discuss the possibility of larger quarters. For these they were both eager, having begun to feel the confinement of their single room; but Mary urged that they postpone moving until spring.

“We are warm and snug here for the winter, and by spring we shall have saved something substantial, and really be able to spread out,” she argued.

“Very well, wise one, we will hold in our wings a little longer,” he agreed, “but when we do fly, it must be high.” His brush soared in illustration.

She had discussed with him the matter of the illustrations for her verses as soon as she received her cheque from Farraday. They had agreed that it would be a pity for him to take time for them from his masterpiece.

“Besides, sweetheart,” he had said, “I honestly think Ledward will do them better. His stuff is very graceful, without being sentimental, and he understands children, which I'm afraid I don't.” He shrugged regretfully. “Didn't you paint that adorable lost baby?” she reminded him. “I've always grieved that we had to sell it.”

“I'll buy it back for you, or paint you another better one,” he offered promptly.

So the verses went to Ledward, and the first three appeared in the Christmas number of The Child at Home, illustrated--as even Stefan had to admit--with great beauty.

Mary would have given infinitely much for his collaboration, but she had not urged it, feeling he was right in his refusal.

As Christmas approached they began to make acquaintances among the polyglot population of the neighborhood. Their old hotel, the culinary aristocrat of the district, possessed a cafe in which, with true French hospitality, patrons were permitted to occupy tables indefinitely on the strength of the slenderest orders. Here for the sake of the French atmosphere Stefan would have dined nightly had Mary's frugality permitted. As it was, they began to eat there two or three nights a week, and dropped in after dinner on many other nights. They would sit at a bare round table smoking their cigarettes, Mary with a cup of coffee, Stefan with the liqueur he could never induce her to share, and watching the groups that dotted the other tables. Or they would linger at the cheapest of their restaurants and listen to the conversation of the young people, aggressively revolutionary, who formed its clientele. These last were always noisy, and assumed as a pose manners even worse than those they naturally possessed. Every one talked to every one else, regardless of introductions, and Stefan had to summon his most crushing manner to prevent Mary from being monopolized by various very youthful and visionary men who openly admired her. He was inclined to abandon the place, but Mary was amused by it for a time, bohemianism being a completely unknown quantity to her.

“Don't think this is the real thing,” he explained; “I've had seven years of that in Paris. This is merely a very crass imitation.”

“Imitation or not, it's most delightfully absurd and amusing,” said she, watching the group nearest her. This consisted of a very short and rotund man with hair a la Paderewski and a frilled evening shirt, a thin man of incredible stature and lank black locks, and a pretty young girl in a tunic, a tam o' shanter, enormous green hairpins, and tiny patent-leather shoes decorated with three inch heels. To her the lank man, who wore a red velvet shirt and a khaki-colored suit reminiscent of Mr. Bernard Shaw, was explaining the difference between syndicalism and trade-unionism in the same conversational tone which men in Lindum had used in describing to Mary the varying excellences of the two local hunts. “I.W.W.” and “A.F. of L.” fell from his lips as “M.F.H.” and “J.P.” used to from theirs. The contrast between the two worlds entertained her not a little. She thought all these young people looked clever, though singularly vulgar, and that her old friends would have appeared by comparison refreshingly clean and cultivated, but quite stupid.

“Why, Stefan, are dull, correct people always so clean, and clever and original ones usually so unwashed?” she wondered.

“Oh, the unwashed stage is like the measles,” he replied; “you are bound to catch it in early life.”

“I suppose that's true. I know even at Oxford the Freshmen go through an utterly ragged and disreputable phase, in which they like to pretend they have no laundry bill.”

“Yes, it advertises their emancipation. I went through it in Paris, but mine was a light case.”

“And brief, I should think,” smiled Mary, to whom Stefan's feline perfection of neatness was one of his charms.

At the hotel, on the other hand, the groups, though equally individual, lacked this harum-scarum quality, and, if occasionally noisy, were clean and orderly.

“Is it because they can afford to dress better?” Mary asked on their next evening there, noting the contrast.

“No,” said Stefan. “That velvet shirt cost as much probably as half a dozen cotton ones. These people have more, certainly, or they wouldn't be here--but the real reason is that they are a little older. The other crowd is raw with youth. These have begun to find themselves; they don't need to advertise their opinions on their persons.” He was looking about him with quite a friendly eye.

“You don't seem to hate humanity this evening, Stefan,” Mary commented.

“No,” he grinned. “I confess these people are less objectionable than most.” He spoke in rapid French to the waiter, ordering another drink.

“And the language,” he continued. “If you knew what it means to me to hear French!”

Mary nodded rather ruefully. Her French was of the British school-girl variety, grammatically precise, but with a hopeless, insular accent. After a few attempts Stefan had ceased trying to speak it with her. “Darling,” he had begged, “don't let us--it is the only ugly sound you make.”

One by one they came to know the habitués of these places. In the restaurant Stefan was detested, but tolerated for the sake of his wife. “Beauty and the Beast” they were dubbed. But in the hotel café he made himself more agreeable, and was liked for his charming appearance, his fluent French, and his quick mentality. The “Villagers,” as these people called themselves, owing to their proximity to New York's old Greenwich Village, admired Mary with ardor, and liked her, but for a time were baffled by her innate English reserve. Mentally they stood round her like a litter of yearling pups about a stranger, sniffing and wagging friendly but uncertain tails, doubtful whether to advance with affectionate fawnings or to withdraw to safety. This was particularly true of the men--the women, finding Mary a stanch Feminist, and feeling for her the sympathy a bride always commands from her sex, took to her at once. The revolutionary group on the other hand would have broken through her pleasant aloofness with the force--and twice the speed--of a McEwan, had Stefan not, with them, adopted the role of snarling watchdog.

One of Mary's first after dinner friendships was made at the hotel with a certain Mrs. Elliott, who turned out to be the President of the local Suffrage Club. Scenting a new recruit, this lady early engaged the Byrds in conversation and, finding Mary a believer, at once enveloped her in the camaraderie which has been this cause's gift to women all the world over. They exchanged calls, and soon became firm friends.

Mrs. Elliot was an attractive woman in middle life, of slim, graceful figure and vivacious manner. She had one son out in the world, and one in college, and lived in a charming house just off the Avenue, with an adored but generally invisible husband, who was engaged in business downtown. As a girl Constance Elliot had been on the stage, and had played smaller Shakespearean parts in the old Daly Company, but, bowing to the code of her generation, had abandoned her profession at marriage. Now, in middle life, too old to take up her calling again with any hope of success, yet with her mental activity unimpaired, she found in the Suffrage movement her one serious vocation.

“I am nearly fifty, Mrs. Byrd,” she said to Mary, “and have twenty good years before me. I like my friends, and am interested in philanthropy, but I am not a Jack-of-all-trades by temperament. I need work--a real job such as I had when the boys were little, or when I was a girl. We are all working hard enough to win the vote, but what we shall fill the hole in our time with when we have it, I don't know. It will be easy for the younger ones--but I suppose women like myself will simply have to pay the price of having been born of our generation. Some will find solace as grandmothers--I hope I shall. But my elder son, who married a pretty society girl, is childless, and my younger such a light-hearted young rascal that I doubt if he marries for years to come.”

Mary was much interested in this problem, which seemed more salient here than in her own class in England, in which social life was a vocation for both sexes.

At Mrs. Elliot's house she met many of the neighborhood's more conventional women, and began to have a great liking for these gently bred but broad-minded and democratic Americans. She also met a mixed collection of artists, actresses, writers, reformers and followers of various “isms”; for as president of a suffrage club it was Mrs. Elliot's policy to make her drawing rooms a center for the whole neighborhood. She was a charming hostess, combining discrimination with breadth of view; her Fridays were rallying days for the followers of many more cults than she would ever embrace, but for none toward which she could not feel tolerance.

At first Stefan, who, man-like, professed contempt for social functions, refused to accompany Mary to these at-homes. But after Mrs. Elliot's visit to the studio he conceived a great liking for her, and to Mary's delight volunteered to accompany her on the following Friday. Few misanthropes are proof against an atmosphere of adulation, and in this Mrs. Elliot enveloped Stefan from the moment of first seeing his Danaë. She introduced him as a genius--America's coming great painter, and he frankly enjoyed the novel sensation of being lionized by a group of clever and attractive women.

Mrs. Elliot affected house gowns of unusual texture and design, which flowed in adroitly veiling lines about her too slim form. These immediately attracted the attention of Stefan, who coveted something equally original for Mary. He remarked on them to his hostess on his second visit.