PART II

MATED

I

Mary found Stefan an ideal lover. Their marriage, entered into with

such, headlong adventurousness, seemed to unfold daily into more perfect

bloom. The difficulties of his temperament, which had been thrown into

sharp relief by the crowded life of shipboard, smoothed themselves away

at the touch of happiness and peace. No woman, Mary realized, could wish

for a fuller cup of joy than Stefan offered her in these first days of

their mating. She was amazed at herself, at the suddenness with which

love had transmuted her, at the ease with which she adjusted herself to

this new world. She found it difficult to remember what kind of life she

had led before her marriage--hardly could she believe that she had ever

lived at all.

As for Stefan, he wasted no moments in backward glances. He neither

remembered the past nor questioned the future, but immersed himself

utterly in his present joy with an abandonment he had never experienced

save in painting. Questioned, he would have scoffed at the idea that

life for him could ever hold more than his work, and Mary.

Thus absorbed, Stefan would have allowed the days to slip into weeks

uncounted. But on the ninth day Mary, incapable of a wholly carefree

attitude, reminded him that they had planned only a week of holiday.

“Let's stay a month,” he replied promptly.

But Mary had been questioning her landlord about New York.

“It appears,” she explained, “that every one moves on the first of

October, and that if one hasn't found a studio by then, it is almost

impossible to get one. He says he has heard all the artists live round

about Washington Square, but that even there rents are fearfully high.

It's at the foot of Fifth Avenue, he says, which sounds very fashionable

to me, but he explains it is too far 'down town.'”

“Yes, Fifth Avenue is the great street, I understand,” said Stefan, “and

my dealer's address is on Fourth, so he's in a very good neighborhood.

I don't know that I should like Washington Square--it sounds so

patriotic.”

“Fanatic!” laughed Mary. “Well, whether we go there or not, it's evident

we must get back before October the first, and it's now September the

twenty-fourth.”

“Angel, don't let's be mathematical,” he replied, pinching the lobe of

her ear, which he had proclaimed to be entrancingly pretty. “I can't

add; tell me the day we have to leave, and on that day we will go.”

“Three days from now, then,” and she sighed.

“Oh, no! Not only three more days of heaven, Mary?”

“It will hurt dreadfully to leave,” she agreed, “but,” and she nestled

to him, “it won't be any less heaven there, will it, dearest?”

This spurred him to reassurance. “Of course not,” he responded, quickly

summoning new possibilities of delight. “Imagine it, you haven't even

seen my pictures yet.” They had left them, rolled, at Miss Mason's. “And

I want to paint you--really paint you--not just silly little sketches

and heads, but a big thing that I can only do in a studio. Oh, darling,

think of a studio with you to sit to me! How I shall work!” His

imagination was fired; instantly he was ready to pack and leave.

But they had their three days more, in the golden light of the Indian

summer. Three more swims, in which Stefan could barely join for joy of

watching her long lines cutting the water in her close English bathing

dress. Three more evening walks along the shimmering sands. Three more

nights in their moon-haunted room within sound of the slow splash of the

waves. And, poignant with the sadness of a nearing change, these days

were to Mary the most exquisite of all.

Their journey to the city, on the little, gritty, perpetually stopping

train was made jocund by the lively anticipations of Stefan, who was in

a mood of high confidence.

They had decided from the first to try their fortunes in New York that

winter; not to return to Paris till they had established a sure market

for Stefan's work. He had halcyon plans. Masterpieces were to be painted

under the inspiration of Mary's presence. His success in the Beaux Arts

would be an Open Sesame to the dealers, and they would at once become

prosperous,--for he had the exaggerated continental idea of American

prices. In the spring they would return to Paris, so that Mary should

see it first at its most beautiful. There they would have a studio,

making it their center, but they would also travel.

“Spain, Italy, Greece, Mary--we will see all the world's masterpieces

together,” he jubilated. “You shall be my wander-bride.” And he sang

her little snatches of gay song, in French and Italian, thrumming an

imaginary guitar or making castanets of his fingers.

“I will paint you on the Acropolis, Mary, a new Pallas to guard the

Parthenon.” His imagination leapt from vista to vista of the future,

each opening to new delights. Mary's followed, lured, dazzled, a little

hesitant. Her own visions, unformulated though they were, seemed of

somewhat different stuff, but she saw he could not conceive them other

than his, and yielded her doubts happily.

At the Pennsylvania Station they took a taxicab, telling the driver

they wanted a hotel near Washington Square. The amount registered on the

meter gave Mary an apprehensive chill, but Stefan paid it carelessly.

A moment later he was in raptures, for, quite unexpectedly, they found

themselves in a French hotel.

“What wonderful luck--what a good omen!” he cried. “Mary, it's almost

like Paris!” and he broke into rapid gesticulating talk with the desk

clerk. Soon they were installed in a bright little room with French

prints on the walls, a gay old-fashioned wall paper and patterned

curtains. Stefan assured her it was extraordinarily cheap for New York.

While she freshened her face and hair he dashed downstairs, ignoring

the elevator--which seemed to exist there only as an American

afterthought--in search of a packet of French cigarettes. Finding

them, he was completely in his element, and leant over the desk puffing

luxuriously, to engage the clerk in further talk. From him he obtained

advice as to the possibilities of the neighborhood in respect of

studios, and armed with this, bounded up the stairs again to Mary.

Presently, fortified by a pot of tea and delicious French rolls, they

sallied out on their quest.

That afternoon they discovered two vacant studios. One was on a

top floor on Washington Square South, a big room with bathroom and

kitchenette attached and a small bedroom opening into it. The other was

an attic just off the Square. It had water, but no bathroom, was heated

only by an open fire, and consisted of one large room with sufficient

light, and a large closet in which was a single pane of glass high up.

The studio contained an abandoned model throne, the closet a gas ring

and a sink. The rent of the first apartment was sixty dollars a month;

of the second, twenty-five. Both were approached by a dark staircase,

but in one case there was a carpet, in the other the stairs were bare,

dirty, and creaking, while from depths below was wafted an unmistakable

odor of onions and cats.

Mary, whose father's rambling sunny house in Lindum with its Elizabethan

paneling and carvings had been considered dear at ninety pounds a year,

was staggered at the price of these mean garrets, the better of which

she felt to be quite beyond their reach. Even Stefan was a little

dashed, but was confident that after his interview with Adolph's brother

sixty dollars would appear less formidable.

“You should have seen my attic in Paris, Mary--absolutely falling to

pieces--but then I didn't mind, not having a goddess to house,” and he

pressed her arm. “For you there should be something spacious and bright

enough to be a fitting background.” He glanced up a little ruefully at

the squalid house they had just left.

But she was quick to reassure him, her courage mounting to sustain

his. “We could manage perfectly well in the smaller place for a time,

dearest, and how lucky we don't have to take a lease, as we should in

England.” Her mind jumped to perceive any practical advantage. Already,

mentally, she was arranging furniture in the cheaper place, planning

for a screen, a tin tub, painting the dingy woodwork. They asked for

the refusal of both studios till the next day, and for that evening left

matters suspended.

In the morning, Stefan, retrieving his canvases from Miss Mason's

flat, sought out the dealer, Jensen. Walking from Fifth Avenue, he was

surprised at the cheap appearance of the houses on Fourth, only one

block away. He had expected to find Adolph's brother in such a great

stone building as those he had just passed, with their show windows

empty save for one piece of tapestry or sculpture, or a fine painting

brilliant against its background of dull velvet. Instead, the number on

Fourth Avenue proved a tumbledown house of two stories, with tattered

awnings flapping above its shop-window, which was almost too grimy

to disclose the wares within. These were a jumble of bric-a-brac, old

furniture of doubtful value, stained prints, and one or two blackened

oil paintings in tarnished frames. With ominous misgivings, Stefan

entered the half-opened door. The place was a confused medley of the

flotsam and jetsam of dwelling houses, and appeared to him much more

like a pawnbroker's than the business place of an art dealer. From its

dusty shadows a stooped figure emerged, gray-haired and spectacled,

which waited for Stefan to speak with an air of patient humbleness.

“This isn't Mr. Jensen's, is it?” Stefan asked, feeling he had mistaken

the number.

“My name is Jensen. What can I do for you?” replied the man in a

toneless voice.

“You are Adolph's brother?” incredulously.

At the name the gray face flushed pathetically. Jensen came forward,

pressing his hands together, and peered into Stefan's face.

“Yes, I am,” he answered, “and you are Mr. Byrd that he wrote to me

about. I'd hoped you weren't coming, after all. Well,” and he waved his

hand, “you see how it is.”

Stefan was completely dismayed. “Why,” he stammered, “I thought you were

so successful--”

“I'm sorry.” Jensen dropped his eyes, picking nervously at his coat.

“You see, I am the eldest brother; a man does not like to admit

failure. I may be sold up any time now. I wanted Adolph not to guess,

so I--wrote--him--differently.” He flushed painfully again. Stefan was

silent, too taken aback for speech.

“I tell you, Mr. Byrd,” Jensen stammered on, striking his hands together

impotently, “for all its wealth, this is a city of dead hopes. It's been

a long fight, but it's over now.... Yes, you are Adolph's friend, and

I can't so much as buy a sketch from you. It's quite, quite over.” And

suddenly he sank his head in his hands, while Stefan stood, infinitely

embarrassed, clutching his roll of canvases. After a moment Jensen,

mastering himself, lifted his head. His lined, prematurely old face

showed an expression at once pleading and dignified.

“I didn't dream what I wrote would do any harm, Mr. Byrd, but now of

course you will have to explain to Adolph--?”

Stefan, moved to sympathy, held out his hand.

“Look here, Jensen, you've put me in an awful hole, worse than you

know. But why should I say anything? Let Adolph think we're both

millionaires,” and he grinned ruefully.

Jensen straightened and took the proffered hand in one that trembled.

“Thank you,” he said, and his eyes glistened. “I'm grateful. If there

were only something I could do--”

“Well, give me the names of some dealers,” said Stefan, to whom scenes

were exquisitely embarrassing, anxious to be gone.

Jensen wrote several names on a smudged half sheet of paper. “These

are the best. Try them. My introduction wouldn't help, I'm afraid,”

bitterly.

On that Stefan left him, hurrying with relief from the musty atmosphere

of failure into the busy street. Though half dazed by the sudden

subsidence of his plans, unable to face as yet the possible

consequences, he had his pictures, and the names of the real dealers;

confidence still buoyed him.

II

Three hours later Mary, anxiously waiting, heard Stefan's step approach

their bedroom door. Instantly her heart dropped like lead. She did

not need his voice to tell her what those dragging feet announced.

She sprang to the door and had her arms round his neck before he could

speak. She took the heavy roll of canvases from him and half pushed

him into the room's one comfortable arm-chair. Kneeling beside him, she

pressed her cheek to his, stroking back his heat-damped hair. “Darling,”

she said, “you are tired to death. Don't tell me about your day till

you've rested a little.”

He closed his eyes, leaning back. He looked exhausted; every line of his

face drooped. In spite of his tan, it was pale, with hollows under the

eyes. It was extraordinary that a few hours should make such a change,

she thought, and held him close, comfortingly.

He did not speak for a long time, but at last, “Mary,” he said, in a

flat voice, “I've had a complete failure. Nobody wants my things. This

is what I've let you in for.” His tone had the indifferent quality of

extreme fatigue, but Mary was not deceived. She knew that his whole

being craved reassurance, rehabilitation in its own eyes.

“Why, you old foolish darling, you're too tired to know what you're

talking about,” she cried, kissing him. “Wait till you've had something

to eat.” She rang the bell--four times for the waiter, as the card

over it instructed her. “Failure indeed!” she went on, clearing a small

table, “there's no such word! One doesn't grow rich in a day, you

know.” She moved silently and quickly about, hung up his hat, stood

the canvases in a corner, ordered coffee, rolls and eggs, and finally

unlaced Stefan's shoes in spite of his rather horrified if feeble

protest.

Not until she had watched him drink two cups of coffee and devour the

food--she guessed he had had no lunch--did she allow him to talk, first

lighting his cigarette and finding a place for herself on the arm of his

chair. By this time Stefan's extreme lassitude, and with it his despair,

had vanished. He brightened perceptibly. “You wonder,” he exclaimed,

catching her hand and kissing it, “now I can tell you about it.” With

his arm about her he described all his experiences, the fiasco of the

Jensen affair and his subsequent interviews with Fifth Avenue dealers.

“They are all Jews, Mary. Some are decent enough fellows, I suppose,

though I hate the Israelites!” (“Silly boy!” she interposed.) “Others

are horrors. None of them want the work of an American. Old masters,

or well known foreigners, they say. I explained my success at the Beaux

Arts. Two of them had seen my name in the Paris papers, but said it

would mean nothing to their clients. Hopeless Philistines, all of them!

I do believe I should have had a better chance if I'd called myself

Austrian, instead of American, and I only revived my American

citizenship because I thought it would be an asset!” He laughed,

ironically. “They advised me to have a one-man show, late in the winter,

so as to get publicity.”

“So we will then,” interposed Mary confidently.

“Good Lord, child,” he exclaimed, half irritably, “you don't suppose I

could have a gallery for nothing, do you? God knows what it would cost.

Besides, I haven't enough pictures--and think of the frames!” He sat up,

fretfully.

She saw his nerves were on edge, and quickly offered a diversion.

“Stefan,” she cried, jumping to her feet and throwing her arms back with

a gesture the grace of which did not escape him even in his impatient

mood, “I haven't even seen the pictures yet, you know, and can't wait

any longer. Let me look at them now, and then I'll tell you just how

idiotic those dealers were!” and she gave her bell-like laugh. “I'll

undo them.” Her fingers were busy at the knots.

“I hate the sight of that roll,” said Stefan, frowning. “Still--” and

he jumped up, “I do immensely want you to see them. I know _you'll_

understand them.” Suddenly he was all eagerness again. He took the

canvases from her, undid them and, casting aside the smaller ones,

spread the two largest against the wall, propping their corners adroitly

with chairs, an umbrella, and a walking stick. “Don't look yet,”

he called meanwhile. “Close your eyes.” He moved with agile speed,

instinctively finding the best light and thrusting back the furniture

to secure a clearer view. “There!” he cried. “Wait a minute--stand here.

_Now_ look!” triumphantly.

Mary opened her eyes. “Why, Stefan, they're wonderful!” she exclaimed.

But even as she spoke, and amidst her sincere admiration, her heart,

very slightly, sank. She knew enough of painting to see that here was

genius. The two fantasies, one representing the spirits of a wind-storm,

the other a mermaid fleeing a merman's grasp, were brilliant in color,

line and conception. They were things of beauty, but it was a beauty

strange, menacing, subhuman. The figures that tore through the clouds

urged on the storm with a wicked and abandoned glee. The face of the

merman almost frightened her; it was repellent in its likeness at once

to a fish and a man. The mermaid's face was less inhuman, but it was

stricken with a horrid terror. She was swimming straight out of the

picture as if to fling herself, shrieking, into the safety of the

spectator's arms. The pictures were imaginative, powerful, arresting,

but they were not pleasing. Few people, she felt, would care to live

with them. After a long scrutiny she turned to her husband, at once

glorying in the strength of his talent and troubled by its quality.

“You are a genius, Stefan,” she said.

“You really like them?” he asked eagerly.

“I think they are wonderful!” He was satisfied, for it was her heart,

not her voice, that held a reservation.

Stefan showed her the smaller canvases, some unfinished. Most were of

nymphs and winged elves, but there were three landscapes. One of these,

a stream reflecting a high spring sky between banks of young meadow

grass, showed a little faun skipping merrily in the distance. The

atmosphere was indescribably light-hearted. Mary smiled as she looked at

it. The other two were empty of figures; they were delicately graceful

and alluring, but there was something lacking in them---what, she could

not tell. She liked best a sketch of a baby boy, lost amid trees, behind

which wood-nymphs and fauns peeped at him, roguish and inquisitive. The

boy was seated on the ground, fat and solemn, with round, tear-wet

eyes. He was so lonely that Mary wanted to hug him; instead, she kissed

Stefan.

“What a duck of a baby, dearest!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, he was a nice kid--belonged to my concierge,” he answered

carelessly. “The picture is sentimental, though. This is better,” and he

pointed to another mermaid study.

“Yes, it's splendid,” she answered, instinctively suppressing a sigh.

She began to realize a little what a strange being she had married. With

an impulsive need of protection she held him close, hiding her face in

his neck. The reality of his arms reassured her.

That day they decided, at Mary's urging, to take the smaller studio at

once, abandoning the extravagance of hotel life. In practical manners

she was already assuming a leadership which he was glad to follow. She

suggested that in the morning he should take his smaller canvases, and

try some of the less important dealers, while she made an expedition in

search of necessary furniture. To this he eagerly agreed.

“It seems horrible to let you do it alone, but it would be sacrilegious

to discuss the price of saucepans with a goddess,” he explained. “Are

you sure you can face the tedium?”

“Why, I shall love it!” she cried, astonished at such an expression.

He regarded her whimsically. “Genius of efficiency, then I shall leave

it to you. Such things appal me. In Paris, my garret was furnished only

with pictures. I inherited the bed from the last occupant, and I think

Adolph insisted on finding a pillow and a frying-pan. He used to come

up and cook for us both sometimes, when he thought I had been eating too

often at restaurants. He approved of economy, did Adolph.” Stefan was

lounging on the bed, with his perpetual cigarette.

“He must be a dear,” said Mary. She had begun to make a shopping list.

“Tell me, absurd creature, what you really need in the studio. There is

a model throne, you will remember.”

“Oh, I'll get my own easel and stool,” he replied quickly. “There's

nothing else, except of course a table for my paints. A good solid one,”

he added with emphasis. “I'll tell you what,” and he sat up. “I go out

early to-morrow on my dealer hunt. I force myself to stay out until late

afternoon. When I return, behold! The goddess has waved her hand,

and invisible minions--” he circled the air with his cigarette--“have

transported her temple across the square. There she sits enthroned,

waiting for her acolyte. How will that do?” He turned his radiant smile

on her.

“Splendid,” she answered, amused. “I only hope the goddess won't get

chipped in the passage.”

She thought of the dusty studio, of brooms and scrubbing brushes, but

she was already wise enough in wife-lore not to mention them. Mary

came of a race whose women had always served their men. It did not seem

strange to her, as it might have to an American, that the whole labor of

their installation should devolve on her.

With her back turned to him, she counted over their resources,

calculating what would be available when their hotel bill was paid.

Except for a dollar or two, Stefan had turned his small hoard over to

her. “It's all yours anyway, dearest,” he had said, “and I don't want to

spend a cent till I have made something.” They had spent very little so

far; she was relieved to realize that the five hundred dollars remained

almost intact. While Stefan continued to smoke luxuriously on the bed,

she jotted down figures, apportioning one hundred and fifty dollars

for six months' rent, and trying to calculate a weekly basis for their

living expenses. She knew that they were both equally ignorant of prices

in New York, and determined to call in the assistance of Miss Mason.

“Stefan,” she said, taking up the telephone, “I'm going to summon a

minion.” She explained to Miss Mason over the wire. “We are starting

housekeeping to-morrow, and I know absolutely nothing about where to

shop, or what things ought to cost. Would it be making too great demands

on your kindness if I asked you to meet me here to-morrow morning and

join me in a shopping expedition?”

The request, delivered in her civil English voice, enchanted Miss Mason,

who had to obtain all her romance vicariously. “I should just love to!”

she exclaimed, and it was arranged.

Mary then telephoned that they would take the studio--a technicality

which she knew Stefan had entirely forgotten--and notified the hotel

office that their room would be given up next morning.

“O thou above rubies and precious pearls!” chanted Stefan from the bed.

After dinner they sat in Washington Square. Their marriage moon was

waning, but still shone high and bright. Under her the trees appeared

etherealized, and her light mingled in magic contest with the white

beams of the arc lamps near the arch. Above each of these, a myriad tiny

moths fluttered their desirous wings. Under the trees Italian couples

wandered, the men with dark amorous glances, the girls laughing, their

necks gay with colored shawls. Brightly ribboned children, black-haired,

played about the benches where their mothers gossiped. There was

enchantment in the tired but cooling air.

Stefan was enthusiastic. “Look at the types, Mary! The whole place is

utterly foreign, full of ardor and color. I have cursed America without

cause--here I can feel at home.” To her it was all alien, but her heart

responded to his happiness.

On the bench next them sat a group of Italian women. From this a tiny

boy detached himself, plump and serious, and, urged by curiosity,

gradually approached Mary, his velvet eyes fixed on her face. She lifted

him, resistless, to her knee, and he sat there contentedly, sucking a

colored stick of candy.

“Look, Stefan!” she cried; “isn't he a lamb?”

Stefan cast a critical glance at the baby. “He's paintable, but horribly

sticky,” he said. “Let's move on before he begins to yell. I want to see

the effect from the roadway of these shifting groups under the trees. It

might be worth doing, don't you think?” and he stood up.

His manner slightly rebuffed Mary, who would gladly have nursed the

little boy longer. However, she gently lowered him and, rising, moved

off in silence with Stefan, who was ignorant of any offense. The rest of

their outing passed sweetly enough, as they wandered, arm in arm, about

the square.

III

The next morning Stefan started immediately after his premier déjeuner

of rolls and coffee in quest of the less important dealers, taking with

him only his smaller canvases. “I'll stay away till five o'clock, not

a minute longer,” he admonished. Mary, still seated in the dining-room

over her English bacon and eggs--she had smilingly declined to adopt his

French method of breakfasting--glowed acquiescence, and offered him a

parting suggestion.

“Be sure to show them the baby in the wood.”

“Why that one?” he questioned. “You admit it isn't the best.”

“Perhaps, but neither are they the best connoisseurs. You'll see.” She

nodded wisely at him.

“The oracle has spoken--I will obey,” he called from the door, kissing

his fingers to her. She ventured an answering gesture, knowing the room

empty save for waiters. She was almost as unselfconscious as he, but had

her nation's shrinking from any public expression of emotion.

Hardly had he gone when the faithful Miss Mason arrived, her mild

eyes almost youthful with enthusiasm. Prom a black satin reticule of

dimensions beyond all proportion to her meager self she drew a list of

names on which she discoursed volubly while Mary finished her breakfast.

“You'll get most everything at this first place,” she said. “It's pretty

near the biggest department store in the city, and only two blocks

from here--ain't that convenient? You can deal there right along for

everything in the way of dry goods.”

Mary had no conception of what either a department store or dry goods

might be, but determined not to confound her mentor by a display of such

ignorance.

“Seemed to me, though, you might get some things second hand, so I got a

list of likely places from my sister, who's lived in New York longer'n I

have. I thought mebbe--” her tone was tactful--“you didn't want to waste

your money any?”

Mary was impressed again, as she had been before her wedding, by the

natural good manners of this simple and half educated woman. “Why is

it,” she wondered to herself, “that one would not dream of knowing

people of her class at home, but rather likes them here?” She did

not realize as yet that for Miss Mason no classes existed, and that

consequently she was as much at ease with Mary, whose mother had been

“county,” as she would be with her own colored “help.”

“You guessed quite rightly, Miss Mason,” Mary smiled. “I want to spend

as little as possible, and shall depend on you to prevent my making

mistakes.”

“I reckon I know all there is t' know 'bout economy,” nodded Miss Mason,

and, as if by way of illustration, drew from her bag a pair of cotton

gloves, for which she exchanged her kid ones, rolling these carefully

away. “They get real mussed shopping,” she explained.

Within half an hour, Mary realized that she would have been lost indeed

without her guide. First they inspected the studio. Mary had had a

vague idea of cleaning it herself, but Miss Mason demanded to see the

janitress, and ascended, after a ten minutes' emersion in the noisome

gloom of the basement, in high satisfaction. “She's a dago,” she

reported, “but not so dirty as some, and looks a husky worker. It's her

business to clean the flats for new tenants, but I promised her fifty

cents to get the place done by noon, windows and all. She seemed real

pleased. She says her husband will carry your coal up from the cellar

for a quarter a week; I guess it will be worth it to you. You don't

want to give the money to him though,” she admonished, “the woman runs

everything. I shouldn't calc'late,” she sniffed, “he does more'n a

couple of real days' work a month. They mostly don't.”

So the first problem was solved, and it was the same with all the rest.

Many dollars did Miss Mason save the Byrds that day. Mary would have

bought a bedstead and screened it, but her companion pointed out the

extravagance and inconvenience of such a course, and initiated her

forthwith into the main secret of New York's apartment life.

“You'll want your divan new,” she said, and led her in the great

department store to a hideous object of gilded iron which opened into

a double bed, and closed into a divan. At first Mary rejected this

Janus-faced machine unequivocally, but became a convert when Miss Mason

showed her how cretonne (she pronounced it “_cree_ton”) or rugs would

soften its nakedness to dignity, and how bed-clothes and pillows were

swallowed in its maw by day to be released when the studio became a

sleeping room at night.

These trappings they purchased at first hand, and obliging salesmen

promised Miss Mason with their lips, but Mary with their eyes, that they

should go out on the noon delivery. For other things, however, the two

searched the second-hand stores which stand in that district like logs

in a stream, staying abandoned particles of the city's ever moving

current. Here they bought a high, roomy chest of drawers of painted

pine, a Morris chair, three single chairs, and a sturdy folding table

in cherry, quite old, which Mary felt to be a “find,” and which she

destined for Stefan's paints. Miss Mason recommended a “rocker,” and

Mary, who had had visions of stuffed English easy chairs, acquiesced on

finding in the rocker and Morris types the only available combinations

of cheapness and comfort. A second smaller table of good design, two

brass candlesticks, and a little looking-glass in faded greenish gilt,

rejoiced Mary's heart, without unreasonably lightening her pocket.

During these purchases Miss Mason's authority paled, but she reasserted

herself on the question of iceboxes. One dealer's showroom was half full

of them, and Miss Mason pounced on a small one, little used, marked six

dollars. “That's real cheap--you couldn't do better--it's a good make,

too.” Mary had never seen an ice-box in her life, and said so, striking

Miss Mason almost dumb.

“I'm sure we shouldn't need such a thing,” she demurred.

Recovering speech, Miss Mason launched into the creed of the

ice-box--its ubiquity, values and economies. Mary understood she was

receiving her second initiation into flat life, and mentally bracketed

this new cult with that of the divan.

“All right, Miss Mason. In Rome, et cetera,” she capitulated, and paid

for the ice-box.

Thanks to her friend, their shopping had been so expeditious that the

day was still young. Mary was fired by the determination to have some

sort of nest for her tired and probably disheartened husband to return

to that evening, and Miss Mason entered whole-heartedly into the scheme.

The transportation of their scattered purchases was the main difficulty,

but it yielded to the little spinster's inspiration. A list of

their performances between noon and five o'clock would read like the

description of a Presidential candidate's day. They dashed back to the

studio and reassured themselves as to the labors of the janitress. Miss

Mason unearthed the lurking husband, and demanded of him a friend and a

hand-cart. These she galvanized him into producing on the spot, and sent

the pair off armed with a list of goods to be retrieved. In the midst

of this maneuver the department store's great van faithfully disgorged

their bed and bedding. Hardly waiting to see these deposited, the two

hurried out in quest of sandwiches and milk.

“I guess we're the lightning home-makers, all right,” was Miss Mason's

comment as they lunched.

Returning to the department store they bought and brought away with them

a kettle, a china teapot (“Fifteen cents in the basement,” Miss Mason

instructed), three cups and saucers, six plates, a tin of floor-polish

and a few knives, forks, and spoons. Meanwhile they had telephoned the

hotel to send over the baggage. When the street car dropped them

near the studio they found the two Italians seated on the steps, the

furniture and baggage in the room, and Mrs. Corriani wiping her last

window pane. “I shall want your husband again for this floor,” commanded

the indefatigable Miss Mason, opening her tin of polish, “and his friend

for errands.” They fell upon their task.

An hour later the spinster dropped into the rocking chair. “Well, we've

done it,” she said, “and I don't mind telling you I'm tuckered out.”

Mary's voice answered from the sink, where she was sluicing her face and

arms.

“You've been a marvel--the whole thing has been Napoleonic--and I simply

don't know how to thank you.” She appeared at the door of the closet,

which was to serve as kitchenette and bathroom, drying her hands.

“My, your face is like a rose! _You_ don't look tired any!” exclaimed

the spinster. “As for thanks, why, it's been a treat to me. I've felt

like I was a girl again. But we're through now, and I've got to go.” She

rose. “I guess I'll enjoy my sleep to-night.”

“Oh, don't go, Miss Mason, stay for tea and let my husband thank you

too.”

But the little New Englander again showed her simple tact. “No, no,

my dear, it's time I went, and you and Mr. Byrd will want to be alone

together your first evening,” and she pulled on her cotton gloves.

At the door Mary impulsively put her arms round Miss Mason and kissed

her.

“You have been good to me--I shall never forget it,” she whispered,

almost loath to let this first woman friend of her new life go.

Alone, Mary turned to survey the room.

The floor, of wide uneven planks, was bare, but it carried a dark stain,

and this had been waxed until it shone. The walls, painted gray, had

yielded a clean surface to the mop. The grate was blackened. On either

side of it stood the two large chairs, and Mary had thrown a strip of

bright stuff over the cushions of the Morris. Beside this chair stood

the smaller table, polished, and upon it blue and white tea things. Near

the large window stood the other table, with Stefan's palette, paint

tubes, and brushes in orderly array, and a plain chair beside it, while

centered at that end was the model-throne. Opposite the fireplace the

divan fronted the wall, obscured by Mary's steamer rug and green deck

cushion. At the end of the room the heavy chest of drawers, with its

dark walnut paint, faced the window, bearing the gilded mirror and a

strip of embroidery. On the mantlepiece stood Mary's traveling clock and

the two brass candlesticks, and above it Stefan's pastoral of the stream

and the dancing faun was tacked upon the wall. She could hear the kettle

singing from the closet, through the open door of which a shaft of

sunlight fell from the tiny window to the floor.

Suddenly Mary opened her arms. “Home,” she whispered, “home.” Tears

started to her eyes. With a caressing movement she leant her face

against the wall, as to the cheek of her lover.

But emotion lay deep in Mary--she was ashamed that it should rise to

facile tears. “Silly girl,” she thought, and drying her eyes proceeded

more calmly to her final task, which was to change her dress for one

fitted to honor Stefan's homecoming.

Hardly was she ready when she heard his feet upon the stair. Her heart

leapt with a double joy, for he was springing up two steps at a time,

triumph in every bound. The door burst open; she was enveloped in a

whirlwind embrace. “Mary,” he gasped between kisses, “I've sold the

boy--sold him for a hundred! At the very last place--just as I'd given

up. You beloved oracle!”

Then he held her away from him, devouring with his eyes her glowing

face, her hair, and her soft blue dress. “Oh, you beauty! The day has

been a thousand years long without you!” He caught her to him again.

Mary's heart was almost bursting with happiness as she clung to him.

Here, in the home she had prepared, he had brought her his success,

and their love glorified both. Her emotion left her wordless. Another

moment, and his eyes swept the room.

“Why, Mary!” It was a shout of joy. “You magician, you miracle-worker!

It's beautiful! Don't tell me how you did it--” hastily--“I couldn't

understand. It's enough that you waved your hand and beauty sprang up!

Look at my little faun dancing--we must dance too!” He lilted a swaying

air, and whirled her round the room with gipsy glee. His face looked

like the faun's, elfin, mischievous, happy as the springtime.

At last he dropped into a chair. Then Mary fetched her teakettle. They

quenched their thirst, she shared his cigarette, they prattled like

children. It was late before they remembered to go out in search

of dinner, hours later before they dropped asleep upon the gilded

Janus-faced couch that had become for Mary the altar of a sacrament.

IV

Mary's original furnishings had cost her less than a hundred dollars.

In the first days of their housekeeping she made several additions, and

Stefan contributed a large second-hand easel, a stool, and a piece of

strangely colored drapery for the divan. This he discovered during a

walk with Mary, in the window of an old furniture dealer, and instantly

fell a victim to. He was so delighted with it that Mary had not the

heart to veto its purchase, though it was a sad extravagance, costing

them more than a week's living expenses. The stuff was of oriental silk,

shot with a changing sheen, of colors like a fire burning over water,

which made it seem a living thing in their hands. The night they took it

home Stefan lit six candles in its honor.

In spite of these expenses Mary banked four hundred dollars, leaving

herself enough in hand for a fortnight to come, for she found that they

could live on twenty-five dollars a week. She calculated that they must

make, as an absolute minimum, to be safe, one hundred dollars a month,

for she was determined, if possible, not to draw further upon their

hoard. This was destined for a future use, the hope of which trembled

constantly in her heart. All her plans centered about this hope, but

she still forebore to speak of it to Stefan, even as she had done before

their marriage. Perhaps she instinctively feared a possible lack of

response in him. Meanwhile, she must safeguard her nest.

In spite of Stefan's initial success, Mary wondered if his art would at

first yield the necessary monthly income, and cast about for some means

by which she could increase his earnings. She had come to America

to attain independence, and there was nothing in her code to make

dependence a necessary element of marriage.

“Stefan,” she said one morning, as she sat covering a cushion, while

he worked at one of the unfinished pastorals, “you know I sold several

short stories for children when I was in London. I think I ought to try

my luck here, don't you?”

“You don't need to, sweetheart,” he replied. “Wait till I've finished

this little thing. You see if the man I sold the boy to won't jump at it

for another hundred.” And he whistled cheerily.

“I'm sure he will,” she smiled. “Still, I should like to help.”

“Do it if you want to, Beautiful, only I can't associate you with pens

and typewriters. I'm sure if you were just to open your mouth, and sing,

out there in the square--” he waved a brush--“people would come running

from all over the city and throw yellow and green bills at you like

leaves, till you had to be dug out with long shovels by those funny

street-cleaners who go about looking dirty in white clothes. You would

be a nymph in a shower of gold--only the gold would be paper! How like

America!” He whistled again absently, touching the canvas with delicate

strokes.

“You are quite the most ridiculous person in the world,” she laughed at

him. “You know perfectly well that my voice is much too small to be of

practical value.”

“But I'm not being practical, and you mustn't be literal,

darling--goddesses never should.”

“Be practical just for a moment then,” she urged, “and think about my

chances of selling stories.”

“I couldn't,” he said absently, holding his brush suspended. “Wait a

minute, I've got an idea! That about the shower of gold--I know--Danaë!”

he shouted suddenly, throwing down his palette. “That's how I'll paint

you. I've been puzzling over it for days. Darling, it will be my chef

d'oeuvre!” He seized her hands. “Think of it! You standing under a great

shaft of sun, nude, exalted, your hands and eyes lifted. About you

gold, pouring down in cataracts, indistinguishable from the sunlight--a

background of prismatic fire--and your hair lifting into it like wings!”

He was irradiated.

She had blushed to the eyes. “You want me to sit to you--like that!” Her

voice trembled.

He gazed at her in frank amazement. “Should you mind?” he asked, amazed.

“Why, you rose, you're blushing. I believe you're shy!” He put his arms

around her, smiling into her face. “You wouldn't mind, darling, for me!”

he urged, his cheek to hers. “You are so glorious. I've always wanted to

paint your glory since the first day I saw you. You _can't_ mind!”

He saw she still hesitated, and his tone became not only surprised but

hurt. He could not conceive of shame in connection with beauty. Seeing

this she mastered her shrinking. He was right, she felt--she had given

him her beauty, and a denial of it in the service of his art would

rebuff the God in him--the creator. She yielded, but she could not

express the deeper reason for her emotion. As he was so oblivious, she

could not bring herself to tell him why in particular she shrank from

sitting as Danaë. He had not thought of the meaning of the myth in

connection with her all-absorbing hope.

“Promise me one thing,” she pleaded. “Don't make the face too like

me--just a little different, dearest, please!”

This a trifle fretted him.

“I don't really see why; your face is just the right type,” he puzzled.

“I shan't sell the picture, you know. It will be for us--our marriage

present to each other.”

“Nevertheless, I ask it, dearest.” With that he had to be content.

Stefan obtained that afternoon a full-length canvas, and the sittings

began next morning. He was at his most inspiring, laughed away Mary's

stage fright, posed her with a delight which, inspired her, too, so

that she stood readily as he suggested, and made half a dozen

lightning sketches to determine the most perfect position, exclaiming

enthusiastically meanwhile.

When absorbed, Stefan was a sure and rapid worker. Mary posed for him

every morning, and at the end of a week the picture had advanced to a

thing of wonderful promise and beauty. Mary would stand before it almost

awed. Was this she, she pondered, this aspiring woman of flame?

It troubled her a little that his ideal of her should rise to such

splendor; this apotheosis left no place for the pitying tenderness of

love, only for its glory. The color of this picture was like the sound

of silver trumpets; the heart-throb of the strings was missing. Mary was

neither morbid nor introspective, but at this time her whole being was

keyed to more than normal comprehension. Watching the picture, seeing

that it was a portrayal not of her but of his love for her, she wondered

if any woman could long endure the arduousness of such deification, or

if a man who had visioned a goddess could long content himself with a

mortal.

The face, too, vaguely troubled her. True to his promise, Stefan had

not made it a portrait, but its unlikeness lay rather in the meaning and

expression than in the features. These differed only in detail from her

own. A slight lengthening of the corners of the eyes, a fuller and wider

mouth were the only changes. But the expression amidst its exaltation

held a quality she did not understand. Translated into music, it was

the call of the wood-wind, something wild and unhuman flowing across the

silver triumph of the horns.

Of these half questionings, however, Mary said nothing, telling Stefan

only what she was sure of, that the picture would be a masterpiece.

The days were shortening. Stefan found the light poor in the afternoons,

and had to take part of the mornings for work on his pastoral. This he

would have neglected in his enthusiasm for the Danaë, but for

Mary's urgings. He obeyed her mandates on practical issues with the

unquestioning acceptance of a child. His attitude suggested that he was

willing to be worldly from time to time if his Mary--not too often--told

him to.

The weather had turned cool, and Mr. Corriani brought them up their

first scuttle of coal. They were glad to drink their morning coffee and

eat their lunch before the fire, and Mary's little sable neck-piece,

relic of former opulence, appeared in the evenings when they sought

their dinner. This they took in restaurants near by--quaint basements,

or back parlors of once fine houses, where they were served nutritious

meals on bare boards, in china half an inch thick. Autumn, New York's

most beautiful season, was in the air with its heart-lightening tang;

energy seemed to flow into them as they breathed. They took long walks

in the afternoons to the Park, which Stefan voted hopelessly banal; to

the Metropolitan Museum, where they paid homage to the Sorollas and the

Rodins; to the Battery, the docks, and the whole downtown district. This

they found oppressive at first, till they saw it after dark from a ferry

boat, when Stefan became fired by the towerlike skyscrapers sketched in

patterns of light against the void.

Immediately he developed a cult for these buildings. “America's one

creation,” he called them, “monstrous, rooted repellently in the earth's

bowels, growing rank like weeds, but art for all that.” He made several

sketches of them, in which the buildings seemed to sway in a drunken

abandonment of power. “Wicked things,” he named them, and saw them

menacing but fascinating, titanic engines that would overwhelm their

makers. He and Mary had quite an argument about this, for she thought

the skyscrapers beautiful.

“They reach sunward, Stefan, they do not menace, they aspire,” she

objected.

“The aspiration is yours, Goddess. They are only fit symbols of a

super-materialism. Their strength is evil, but it lures.”

He was delighted with his drawings. Mary, who was beginning to develop

civic pride, told him they were goblinesque.

“Clever girl, that's why I like them,” he replied.

Late in October Stefan sold his pastoral, though only for seventy-five

dollars. This disappointed him greatly. He was anxious to repay his

debt to Adolph, but would not accept the loan of it from his wife. Mary

renewed her determination to be helpful, and sent one of her old stories

to a magazine, but without success. She had no one to advise her as

to likely markets, and posted her manuscript to two more unsuitable

publications, receiving it back with a printed rejection slip.

Her fourth attempt, however, was rewarded by a note from the editor

which gave her much encouragement. Children's stories, he explained,

were outside the scope of his magazine, but he thought highly of Mrs.

Byrd's manuscript, and advised her to submit it to one of the women's

papers--he named several--where it might be acceptable. Mary was

delighted by this note, and read it to Stefan.

“Splendid!” he cried, “I had no idea you had brought any stories over

with you. Guarded oracle!” he added, teasingly.

“Oracles don't tell secrets unless they are asked,” she rejoined.

“True. And now I do ask. Give me the whole secret--read me the story,”

he exclaimed, promptly putting away his brushes, lighting a cigarette,

and throwing himself, eagerly attentive, into the Morris chair.

Mary prepared to comply, gladly, if a little nervously. She had been

somewhat hurt at his complete lack of interest in her writing; now she

was anxious for his approbation. Seated in the rocking chair she read

aloud the little story in her clear low voice. When she had finished she

found Stefan regarding her with an expression affectionate but somewhat

quizzical.

“Mary, you have almost a maternal air, sitting there reading so lovingly

about a baby. It's a new aspect--the rocker helps. I've never quite

liked that chair--it reminds me of Michigan.”

Mary had flushed painfully, but he did not notice it in the half light

of the fire. It had grown dark as she read.

“But the story, Stefan?” she asked, her tone obviously hurt. He jumped

up and kissed her, all contrition.

“Darling, it sounded beautiful in your voice, and I'm sure it is. In

fact I know it is. But I simply don't understand that type of fiction;

I have no key to it. So my mind wandered a little. I listened to the

lovely sounds your voice made, and watched the firelight on your hair.

You were like a Dutch interior--quite a new aspect, as I said--and I got

interested in that.”

Mary was abashed and disappointed. For the first time she questioned

Stefan's generosity, contrasting his indifference with her own absorbed

interest in his work. She knew her muse trivial by comparison with his,

but she loved it, and ached for the stimulus his praise would bring.

Beneath the wound to her craftsmanship lay another, in which the knife

was turning, but she would not face its implication. Nevertheless it

oppressed her throughout the evening, so that Stefan commented on her

silence. That night as she lay awake listening to his easy breathing,

for the first time since her marriage her pillow was dampened by tears.

V

In the nest morning's sun Mary's premonitions appeared absurd. Stefan

waked in high spirits, and planned a morning's work on his drawings of

the city, while Mary, off duty as a model, decided to take her story in

person to the office of one of the women's papers. As she crossed the

Square and walked up lower Fifth Avenue she had never felt more buoyant.

The sun was brilliant, and a cool breeze whipped color into her cheeks.

The office to which she was bound was on the north side of Union Square.

Crossing Broadway, she was held up half way over by the traffic. As she

waited for an opening her attention was attracted by the singular antics

of a large man, who seemed to be performing some kind of a ponderous

fling upon the curbstone opposite. A moment more and she grasped that

the dance was a signal to her, and that the man was none other than

McEwan, sprucely tailored and trimmed in the American fashion, but

unmistakable for all that. She crossed the street and shook hands with

him warmly, delighted to see any one connected with the romantic days of

her voyage. McEwan's smile seemed to buttress his whole face with teeth,

but to her amazement he greeted her without a trace of Scotch accent.

“Well,” said he, pumping both her hands up and down in his enormous

fist, “here's Mrs. Byrd! That's simply great. I've been wondering where

I could locate you both. Ought to have nosed you out before now, but

my job keeps me busy. I'm with a magazine house, you know--advertising

manager.”

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

“Ah,” he grinned at her, “you're surprised at my metamorphosis. I allow

myself a month every year of my native heath, heather-mixture, and

burr--I like to do the thing up brown. The rest of the time I'm a

Gothamite, of necessity. Some time, when I've made my pile, I shall

revert for keeps, and settle down into a kilt and a castle.”

Much amused by this unsuspected histrionic gift, Mary walked on beside

McEwan. He was full of interest in her affairs, and she soon confided to

him the object of her expedition.

“You're just the man to advise me, being on a paper,” she said, and

added laughing, “I should have been terrified of you if I'd known that

on the ship.”

“Then I'm glad I kept it dark. You say your stuff is for children? Where

were you going to?”

She told him.

“A woman's the boss of that shop. She's O.K. and so's her paper, but her

prices aren't high.” He considered. “Better come to our shop. We run two

monthlies and a weekly, one critical, one household, one entirely

for children. The boss is a great pal of mine. Name of Farraday--an

American. Come on!” And he wheeled her abruptly back the way they had

come. She followed unresistingly, intensely amused at his quick, jerky

sentences and crisp manner--the very antithesis of his former Scottish

heaviness.

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

She smiled up at him as she hurried at his side. He looked about with

pretended caution, then stooped to her ear.

“Hoots, lassie!” he whispered, with a solemn wink.

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

At the door of a building close to the corner where they had met he

stopped, and for a moment his manner, though not his voice, assumed its

erstwhile weightiness.

“Never mind!” he held up an admonishing forefinger. “I do the talking.

What do you know about business? Nothing!” His hand swept away possible

objections. “I know your work.” She gasped, but the finger was up

again, solemnly wagging. “And I say it's good. How many words?” he half

snapped.

“Three thousand five hundred,” she answered.

“Then I say, two hundred dollars--not a cent less--and what I say

_goes_, see?” The finger shot out at her, menacing.

“I leave it to you, Mr. McEwan,” she answered meekly, and followed

him to the lift, dazed. “This,” she said to herself, “simply is not

happening!” She felt like Alice in Wonderland.

They shot up many stories, and emerged into a large office furnished

with a switch-board, benches, tables, desks, pictures, and office boys.

A ceaseless stenographic click resounded from behind an eight-foot

partition; the telephone girl seemed to be engaged conjointly on a novel

and a dozen plugs; the office boys were diligent with their chewing gum;

all was activity. Mary felt at a loss, but the great McEwan, towering

over the switchboard like a Juggernaut, instantly compelled the

operator's eyes from their multiple distractions. “Good morning, Mr.

McEwan--Spring one-O-two-four,” she greeted him.

“'Morning. T'see Mr. Farraday,” he economized.

“M'st Farraday--M'st McEwan an' lady t'see you. Yes. M'st Farraday'll

see you right away. 'Sthis three-one hundred? Hold th' line, please,”

said the operator in one breath, connecting two calls and waving McEwan

forward simultaneously. Mary followed him down a long corridor of doors

to one which he opened, throwing back a second door within it.

They entered a sunny room, quiet, and with an air of spacious order.

Facing them was a large mahogany table, almost bare, save for a vase

which held yellow roses. Flowers grew in a window box and another vase

of white roses stood on a book shelf. Mary's eyes flew to the flowers

even before she observed the man who rose to greet them from beyond the

table. He was very tall, with the lean New England build. His long,

bony face was unhandsome save for the eyes and mouth, which held an

expression of great sweetness. He shook hands with a kindly smile, and

Mary took an instant liking to him, feeling In his presence the ease

that comes of class-fellowship. He looked, she thought, something under

forty years old.

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

“He's the busiest man in New York, but he always has time,” McEwan

explained, and, indeed, nothing could have been more unhurried than the

whole atmosphere of both man and room. Mary said so.

“Yes, I must have quiet or I can't work,” Farraday replied. “My windows

face the back, you see, and my walls are double; I doubt if there's a

quieter office in New York.”

“Nor a more charming, I should think,” added Mary, looking about at the

restful tones of the room, with its landscapes, its beautifully chosen

old furniture, and its flowers.

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

“Business, business,” interjected McEwan, who, Mary was amused to

observe, approximated much more to the popular idea of an American than

did his friend. “I've brought you a find, Farraday. This lady writes for

children--she's printed stuff in England. I haven't read it, but I know

it's good because I've seen her telling stories to the kids by the hour

aboard ship, and you couldn't budge them. You can see,” he waved his

hand at her, “that her copy would be out of the ordinary run.”

This absurdity would have embarrassed Mary but that Mr. Farraday

turned on her a smile which seemed to make them allies in their joint

comprehension of McEwan's advocacy.

“She's got a story with her for you to see,” went on that enthusiast.

“I've told her if it's good enough for our magazine it's two hundred

dollars good enough. There's the script.” He took it from her, and

flattened it out on Farraday's table. “Look it over and write her.”

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

“I'll remember that,” McEwan nodded; “coming round to see you. There you

are, James. We won't keep you. You have no time and I have less. Come

on, Mrs. Byrd.” He made for the door, but Farraday lifted his hand.

“Too fast, Mac,” he smiled. “I haven't had a chance yet. A mere American

can't keep pace with the dynamic energy you store in Scotland. Where

does it come from? Do you do nothing but sleep there?”

“Much more than that. He practises the art of being a Scotchman,”

laughed Mary.

“He has no need to practise. You should have heard him when he first

came over,” said Farraday.

“Well, if you two are going to discuss me, I'll leave you at it; I'm

not a highbrow editor; I'm the poor ad man--my time means money to me.”

McEwan opened the door, and Mary rose to accompany him.

“Won't you sit down again, Mrs. Byrd? I'd like to ask you a few

questions,” interposed Farraday, who had been turning the pages of

Mary's manuscript. “Mac, you be off. I can't focus my mind in the

presence of a human gyroscope.”

“I've got to beat it,” agreed the other, shaking hands warmly with Mary.

“But don't you be taken in by him; he likes to pretend he's slow, but

he's really as quick as a buzz-saw. See you soon,” and with a final wave

of the hand he was gone.

“Now tell me a little about your work,” said Farraday, turning on Mary

his kind but penetrating glance. She told him she had published three or

four stories, and in what magazines.

“I only began to write fiction a year ago,” she explained. “Before that

I'd done nothing except scribble a little verse at home.”

“What kind of verse?”

“Oh, just silly little children's rhymes.”

“Have you sold any of them?”

“No, I never tried.”

“I should like to see them,” he said, to her surprise. “I could use them

perhaps if they were good. As for this story,” he turned the pages, “I

see you have an original idea. A child bird-tamer, dumb, whose power no

one can explain. Before they talk babies can understand the birds, but

as soon as they learn to speak they forget bird language. This child is

dumb, so he remembers, but can't tell any one. Very pretty.”

Mary gasped at his accurate summary of her idea. He seemed to have

photographed the pages in his mind at a glance.

“I had tried to make it a little mysterious,” she said rather ruefully.

His smile reassured her.

“You have,” he nodded, “but we editors learn to get impressions quickly.

Yes,” he was reading as he spoke, “I think it likely I can use this.

The style is good, and individual.” He touched a bell, and handed the

manuscript to an answering office boy. “Ask Miss Haviland to read this,

and report to me to-day,” he ordered.

“I rarely have time to read manuscripts myself,” he went on, “but Miss

Haviland is my assistant for our children's magazine. If her judgment

confirms mine, as I feel sure it will, we will mail you a cheque

to-night, Mrs. Byrd--according to our friend McEwan's instructions--”

and he smiled.

Mary blushed with pleasure, and again rose to go, with an attempt at

thanks. The telephone bell had twice, with a mere thread of sound,

announced a summons. The editor took up the receiver. “Yes, in five

minutes,” he answered, hanging up and turning again to Mary.

“Don't go yet, Mrs. Byrd; allow me the luxury of postponing other

business for a moment. We do not meet a new contributor and a new

citizen every day.” He leant back with an air of complete leisure,

turning to her his kindly, open smile. She felt wonderfully at her ease,

as though this man and she were old acquaintances. He asked more about

her work and that of her husband.

“We like to have some personal knowledge of our authors; it helps us in

criticism and suggestion,” he explained.

Mary described Stefan's success in Paris, and mentioned his sketches of

downtown New York. Farraday looked interested.

“I should like to see those,” he said. “We have an illustrated review in

which we sometimes use such things. If you are bringing me your verses,

your husband might care to come too, and show me the drawings.”

Again the insistent telephone purred, and this time he let Mary go,

shaking her hand and holding the door for her.

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

When she had gone, James Farraday returned to his desk, lit a cigar, and

smoked absently for a few moments, staring out of the window. Then he

pulled his chair forward, and unhooked the receiver.

VI

Mary hurried home vibrant with happiness, and ran into the studio to

find Stefan disconsolately gazing out of the window. He whirled at her

approach, and caught her in his arms.

“Wicked one! I thought, like Persephone, you had been carried off by

Dis and his wagon,” he chided. “I could not work when I realized you had

been gone so long. Where have you been?” He looked quite woebegone.

“Ah, I'm so glad you missed me,” she cried from his arms. Then, unable

to contain her delight, she danced to the center of the room, and,

throwing back her head, burst into song. “Praise God from whom all

blessings flow,” chanted Mary full-throated, her chest expanded, pouring

out her gratitude as whole-heartedly as a lark.

“Mary, I can see your wings,” interrupted Stefan excitedly. “You're

soaring!” He seized a stick of charcoal and dashed for paper, only

to throw down his tools again in mock despair. “Pouf, you're beyond

sketching at this moment--you need a cathedral organ to express you.

What has happened? Have you been sojourning with the immortals?”

But Mary had stopped singing, and dropped on the divan as if suddenly

tired. She held out her arms to Stefan, and he sat beside her,

lover-like.

“Oh, dearest,” she said, her voice vibrating with tenderness, “I've

wanted so to help, and now I think I've sold a story, and I've found a

chance for your New York drawings. I'm so happy.”

“Why, you mysterious creature, your eyes have tears in them--and all

because you've helped me! I've never seen your tears, Mary; they make

your eyes like stars lost in a pool.” He kissed her passionately, and

she responded, but waited eagerly to hear him praise her success. After

a moment, however, he got up and wandered to his drawing board.

“You say you found a chance for these,” indicating the sketches. “How

splendid of you! Tell me all about it.” He was eagerly attentive, but

she might never have mentioned her story. Apparently, that part of her

report simply had not registered in his brain.

Mary's spirits suddenly dropped. She had come from an interview in which

she was treated as a serious artist, and her husband could not even

hear the account of her success. She rose and began to prepare their

luncheon, recounting her adventures meanwhile in a rather flat voice.

Stefan listened to her description of McEwan's metamorphosis only half

credulously.

“Don't tell me,” he commented, “that the cloven hoof will not out. Do

you mean to say it's to him that you owe this chance?”

She nodded.

“I don't see how we can take favors from that brute,” he said, running

his hands moodily into his pockets.

Mary looked at him in frank astonishment.

“I don't understand you, Stefan,” she said. “Mr. McEwan was kindness

itself, and I am grateful to him, but there can be no question of

receiving favors on your part. He introduced me to Mr. Farraday as a

writer, and it was only through me that your work was mentioned at all.”

She was hurt by his narrow intolerance, and he saw it.

“Very well, goddess, don't flash your lightnings at me.” He laughed

gaily, and sat down to his luncheon. Throughout it Mary listened to a

detailed account of his morning's work.

Next day she received by the first post a cheque for two hundred

dollars, with a formal typewritten note from Farraday, expressing

pleasure, and a hope that the Household Publishing Company might receive

other manuscripts from her for its consideration. Stefan was setting

his pallette for a morning's work on the Danaë. She called to him rather

constrainedly from the door where she had opened the letter.

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

“That's splendid,” he answered cheerfully. “If I sell these sketches

we shall be quite rich. We must move from this absurd place to a proper

studio flat. Mary shall have a white bathroom, and a beautiful blue and

gold bed. Also minions to set food before her. Tra-la-la,” and he hummed

gaily. “I'm ready to begin, beloved,” he added.

As Mary prepared for her sitting she could not subdue a slight feeling

of irritation. Apparently she might never, even for a moment, enjoy the

luxury of being a human being with ambitions like Stefan's own, but must

remain ever pedestaled as his inspiration. She was irked, too, by his

hopelessly unpractical attitude toward affairs. She would have enjoyed

the friendly status of a partner as a wholesome complement to the ardors

of marriage. She knew that her husband differed from the legendary

bohemian in having a strictly upright code in money matters, but she

wished it could be less visionary. He mentally oscillated between

pauperism and riches. Let him fail to sell a picture and he offered to

pawn his coat; but the picture sold, he aspired to hire a mansion. In

a word, she began to see that he was incapable either of foresight or

moderation. Could she alone, she wondered, supply the deficiency?

That evening when they returned from dinner, which as a rare treat they

had eaten in the café of their old hotel, they found McEwan waiting

their arrival from a seat on the stairs.

“Here you are,” his hearty voice called to them as they labored up

the last flight. “I was determined not to miss you. I wanted to pay my

respects to the couple, and see how the paint-slinging was getting on.”

Mary, knowing now that the Scotchman was not the slow-witted blunderer

he had appeared on board ship, looked at him with sudden suspicion. Was

she deceived, or did there lurk a teasing gleam in those blue eyes?

Had McEwan used the outrageous phrase “paint-slinging” with malice

aforethought? She could not be sure. But if his object was to get a rise

from Stefan, he was only partly successful. True, her husband snorted

with disgust, but, at a touch from her and a whispered “Be nice to him,”

restrained himself sufficiently to invite McEwan in with a frigid show

of politeness. But once inside, and the candles lighted, Stefan leant

glumly against the mantelpiece with his hands in his pockets, evidently

determined to leave their visitor entirely on Mary's hands.

McEwan was nothing loath. He helped himself to a cigarette, and

proceeded to survey the walls of the room with interest.

“Nifty work, Mrs. Byrd. You must be proud of him,” and again Mary seemed

to catch a glint in his eye. “These sketches now,” he approached the

table on which lay the skyscraper studies. “Very harsh--cruel, you might

say--but clever, yes, _sir_, mighty clever.” Mary saw Stefan writhe with

irritation at the other's air of connoisseur. She shot him a glance

at once amused and pleading, but he ignored it with a shrug, as if to

indicate that Mary was responsible for this intrusion, and must expect

no aid from him.

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

cloth.

“Is this the latest masterpiece--can it be seen?” he asked, turning to

his host, his hand half stretched to the cover.

Mary made an exclamation of denial, and started forward to intercept the

hand. But even as she moved, dismay visible on her face, the perverse

devil which had been mounting in Stefan's brain attained the mastery.

She had asked him to be nice to this jackass--very well, he would.

“Yes, that's the best thing I've done, McEwan. As you're a friend of

both of us, you ought to see it,” he exclaimed, and before Mary could

utter a protest had wheeled the easel round to the light and thrown

back the drapery. He massed the candles on the mantelpiece. “Here,” he

called, “stand here where you can see properly. Mythological, you see,

Danaë. What do you think of it?” There were mischief and triumph in his

tone, and a shadow of spite.

Mary had blushed crimson and stood, incapable of speech, in the darkest

corner of the room. McEwan had not noticed her protest, it had all

happened so instantaneously. He followed Stefan's direction, and faced

the canvas expectantly. There was a long silence. Mary, watching,

saw the spruce veneer of metropolitanism fall from their guest like a

discarded mask--the grave, steady Highlander emerged. Stefan's moment

of malice had flashed and died--he stood biting his nails, already too

ashamed to glance in Mary's direction. At last McEwan turned. There was

homage in his eyes, and gravity.

“Mr. Byrd,” he said, and his deep voice carried somewhat of its old

Scottish burr, “I owe ye an apology. I took ye for a tricky young mon,

clever, but better pleased with yersel' than ye had a right to be. I see

ye are a great artist, and as such, ye hae the right even to the love of

that lady. Now I will congratulate her.” He strode over to Mary's corner

and took her hand. “Dear leddy,” he said, his native speech still more

apparent, “I confess I didna think the young mon worthy, and in me

blunderin' way, I would hae kept the two o' ye apart could I hae done

it. But I was wrong. Ye've married a genius, and ye can be proud o'

the way ye're helping him. Now I'll bid ye good night, and I hope ye'll

baith count me yer friend in all things.” He offered his hand to Stefan,

who took it, touched. Gravely he picked up his hat, and opened the door,

turning for a half bow before closing it behind him.

Stefan knew that he had behaved unpardonably, that he had been betrayed

into a piece of caddishness, but McEwan had given him the cue for his

defense. He hastened to Mary and seized her hand.

“Darling, forgive me. I knew you didn't want the picture shown, but it's

got to be done some day, hasn't it? It seemed a shame for McEwan not to

see what you have inspired. I ought not to have shown it without asking

you, but his appreciation justified me, don't you think?” His tone

coaxed.

Mary was choking back her tears. Explanations, excuses, were to her

trivial, nor was she capable of them. Wounded, she was always dumb, and

to discuss a hurt seemed to her to aggravate it.

“Don't let's talk about it, Stefan,” she murmured. “It seemed to me

you showed the picture because I did not wish it--that's what I don't

understand.” She spoke lifelessly.

“No, no, you mustn't think that,” he urged. “I was irritated, and I'm

horribly sorry, but I do think it should be shown.”

But Mary was not deceived. If only for a moment, he had been disloyal to

her. The urge of her love made it easy to forgive him, but she knew she

could not so readily forget.

Though she put a good face on the incident, though Stefan was his

most charming self throughout the evening, even though she refused to

recognize the loss, one veil of illusion had been stripped from her

heart's image of him.

In his contrite mood, determined to please her, Stefan recalled the

matter of her stories, and for the first time spoke of her success with

enthusiasm. He asked her about the editor, and offered to go with her

the next morning to show Mr. Farraday his sketches.

“Have you anything else to take him?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Mary. “I am to show him some verses I wrote at home in

Lindum. Just little songs for children.”

“Verses,” he exclaimed; “how wonderful! I knew you were a goddess and a

song-bird, but not that you were a poet, too.”

“Nor am I; they are the most trifling things.”

“I expect they are delicious, like your singing. Read them to me,

beloved,” he begged.

But Mary would not. He pressed her several times during the evening, but

for the first time since their marriage he found he could not move her

to compliance.

“Please don't bother about them, Stefan. They are for children; they

would not interest you.”

He felt himself not wholly forgiven.

VII

A day or two later the Byrds went together to the office of the

Household Publishing Company and sent in their names to Mr. Farraday.

This time they had to wait their turn for admittance for over half an

hour, sharing the benches of the outer office with several men and

women of types ranging from the extreme of aestheticism to the obviously

commercial. The office was hung with original drawings of the covers

of the firm's three publications--The Household Review, The Household

Magazine, and The Child at Home. Stefan prowled around the room mentally

demolishing the drawings, while Mary glanced through the copies of the

magazines that covered the large central table. She was impressed by

the high level of makeup and illustration in all three periodicals,

contrasting them with the obvious and often inane contents of similar

English publications. At a glance the sheets appeared wholesome, but not

narrow; dignified, but not dull. She wondered how much of their general

tone they owed to Mr. Farraday, and determined to ask McEwan more about

his friend when next she saw him. Her speculations were interrupted by

Stefan, who somewhat excitedly pulled her sleeve, pointing to a colored

drawing of a woman's head on the wall behind her.

“Look, Mary!” he ejaculated. “Rotten bourgeois art, but an interesting

face, eh? I wonder if it's a good portrait. It says in the corner,

'Study of Miss Felicity Berber.' An actress, I expect. Look at the eyes;

subtle, aren't they? And the heavy little mouth. I've never seen a face

quite like it.” He was visibly intrigued.

Mary thought the face provocative, but somewhat unpleasant.

“It's certainly interesting--the predatory type, I should think,” she

replied. “I'll bet it's true to life--the artist is too much of a fool

to have created that expression,” Stefan went on. “Jove, I should like

to meet her, shouldn't you?” he asked naïvely.

“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.