PART IV

WINGS

I

One evening early in October Mary telephoned Farraday to ask if she

could consult him with reference to the Byrdsnest. He walked over after

dinner, to find her alone in the sitting room, companioned by a wood

fire and the two sleeping lovebirds.

James had been very busy at the office for some time, and it was two

or three weeks since he had seen Mary. Now, as he sat opposite her, it

seemed to him that the leaping firelight showed unaccustomed shadows in

her cheeks and under her eyes, and that her color was less bright than

formerly. Was it merely the result of her care of her baby, he wondered,

or was there something more?

“I fear we've already outstayed our time here, Mr. Farraday,” Mary was

saying, “and yet I am going to ask you for an extension.”

Farraday lit a cigarette.

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

“But you don't know the measure of my demands,” she went on, with a

hesitating smile. “They are so extensive that I'm ashamed. I love this

little place, Mr. Farraday; it's the first real home I've ever had of

my own. And Baby does so splendidly here--I can't bear the thought of

taking him to the city. How long might I really hope to stay without

inconveniencing you? I mean, of course, at a proper rent.”

“As far as I am concerned,” he smiled back at her, “I shall be overjoyed

to have you stay as long as the place attracts you. If you like, I will

give you a lease--a year, two, or three, as you will, so that you could

feel settled, or an option to renew after the first year.”

“But, Mr. Farraday, your mother told me that you used to use the place,

and in the face of that I don't know how I have the selfishness to ask

you for any time at all, to say nothing of a lease!”

“Mrs. Byrd.” Farraday threw his cigarette into the fire, and, leaning

forward, stared at the flames, his hands clasped between his knees. “Let

me tell you a sentimental little story, which no one else knows except

our friend Mac.” He smiled whimsically.

“When I was a young man I was very much in love, and looked forward to

having a home of my own, and children. But I was unfortunate--I did not

succeed in winning the woman I loved, and as I am slow to change, I made

up my mind that my dream home would never come true. But I was very fond

of my 'cottage in the air,' and some years later, when this little house

became empty, I arranged it to look as nearly as I could as that other

might have done. I used to sit here sometimes and pretend that my

shadows were real. You will laugh at me, but I even have in my desk

plans for an addition, an ell, containing a play room and nurseries.”

Mary gave a little pitiful exclamation, and touched his clasped hands.

Meeting her eyes, he saw them dewy with sympathy.

“You are very gracious to a sentimental old bachelor,” he said, with

his winning smile. “But these ghosts were bad for me. I was in danger

of becoming absurdly self-centered, almost morbidly introspective. Mac,

whose heart is the biggest I know, and who laughs away more troubles

than I ever dreamed of, rallied me about it, and showed me that I ought

to turn my disappointment to some use. This was about ten years ago,

when his own life fell to pieces. I had been associated with magazines

for some time, and knew how little that was really good found its

way into the plainer people's homes. At Mac's suggestion I bought

an insolvent monthly, and began to remodel it. 'You've got the

home-and-children bug; well, do something for other people's'--was the

way Mac put it to me. Later we started the two other magazines, always

keeping before us our aim of giving the average home the best there is.

To-day, though I have no children of my own, I like to think I'm a sort

of uncle to thousands.”

He leant back, still staring into the fire. There was silence for

a minute; a log fell with a crash and a flight of sparks--Farraday

replaced it.

“Well, Mrs. Byrd,” he went on, “all this time the little ghost-house

stood empty. No one used it but myself. It was made for a woman and

for children, yet in my selfishness I locked its door against those who

should rightfully have enjoyed it. Mac urged me to use it as a holiday

house for poor mothers from the city, but, somehow, I could not bring

myself to evict its dream-mistress.”

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

He shook his head. “No, you have redeemed the place from futility--you

are its justification.” He paused again, and continued in a lower tone,

“Mrs. Byrd, you won't mind my saying this--you are so like that lady of

long ago that the house seems yours by natural right. I think I was only

waiting for someone who would love and understand it--some golden-haired

young mother, like yourself, to give the key to. I can't tell you how

happy it makes me that the little house should at last fulfil itself.

Please keep it for as long as you need it--it will always need you.”

Mary was much moved: “I can't thank you, Mr. Farraday, but I feel deeply

honored. Perhaps my best thanks lie just in loving the house, and I do

that, with all my heart. You don't mind my foolish little name for it?”

“The Byrdsnest? I think it perfect.”

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

“My dear friend, while you keep this house I want it to be yours. Should

you wish to take a long lease, and enlarge it, I shall be happy. In

fact, I will sell it to you, if in the future you would care to buy. My

only stipulation would be an option to repurchase should you decide

to give it up.” He took her hand. “The Byrdsnest belongs to Elliston's

mother; let us both understand that.”

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

“No, it is you who are good to the dreams of a sentimentalist. And

now--” he sat back smilingly--“that is settled. Tell me the news. How is

my godson, how is Mr. Byrd, how fares the sable Lily?”

“Baby weighs fourteen and a half pounds,” she said proudly; “he is

simply perfect. Lily is an angel.” She paused, and seemed to continue

almost with an effort. “Stefan is very busy. He does not care to paint

autumn landscapes, so he has begun work again in the city. He's doing a

fantastic study of Miss Berber, and is very much pleased with it.”

“That's good,” said Farraday, evenly.

“But I've got more news for you,” she went on, brightening. “I've had

a good deal more time lately, Stefan being so much in town, and Baby's

habits so regular. Here's the result.”

She fetched from the desk a pile of manuscript, neatly penned, and laid

it on her guest's knee.

“This is the second thing I wanted to consult you about. It's a

book-length story for children, called 'The House in the Wood.' I've

written the first third, and outlined the rest. Here's the list of

chapters. It is supposed to be for children between eight and fourteen,

and was first suggested to me by this house. There is a family of four

children, and a regulation father and mother, nurse, governess, and

grandmother. They live in the country, and the children find a little

deserted cottage which they adopt to play in. The book is full of their

adventures in it. My idea is--” she sat beside him, her eyes brightening

with interest--“to suggest all kinds of games to the children who read

the story, which seem thrilling, but are really educational. It's quite

a moral little book, I'm afraid,” she laughed, “but I think story books

should describe adventures which may be within the scope of the ordinary

child's life, don't you? I'm afraid it isn't a work of art, but I

hope--if I can work out the scheme--it may give some practical ideas

to mothers who don't know how to amuse their children.... There, Mr.

Editor, what is your verdict?”

Farraday was turning the pages in his rapid, absorbed way. He nodded and

smiled as he looked.

“I think it's a good idea, Mrs. Byrd; just the sort of thing we are

always on the lookout for. The subject might be trite enough, but I

suspect you of having lent it charm and freshness. Of course the family

is English, which is a disadvantage, but I see you've mixed in a small

American visitor, and that he's beginning to teach the others a thing or

two! Where did you learn such serpent wisdom, young lady?”

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

apprehension.

“It isn't humbug. I do think an American child could teach ours at home

a lot about inventiveness, independence, and democracy--just as I think

ours might teach him something about manners,” she added, smiling.

“Admitted,” said he, laying down the manuscript, “and thank you for

letting me see this. I claim the first refusal. Finish it, have it

typed, and send it in, and if I can run it as a serial in The Child at

Home, I shall be tremendously pleased to do so. If it goes, it ought to

come out in book form, illustrated.”

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

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

“Oh, I'm _so_ glad,” she exclaimed, looking far more cheerful than he

had seen her that evening.

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

“Good night, dear Mrs. Byrd; give my love to Elliston, and remember that

in him and your work you have two priceless treasures which, even alone,

will give you happiness.”

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

the house.”

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

door.

As she closed it, the brightness slowly faded from Mary's face. She

looked at the clock--it was past ten.

“Not to-night, either,” she said to herself. Her hand wandered to the

telephone in the hall, but she drew it back. “No, better not,” she

thought, and, putting out the lights, walked resolutely upstairs. As,

candle in hand, she passed the door of Stefan's room, she looked in.

His bed was smooth; a few trifles lay in orderly array upon his dressing

table; boots, from which the country dust had been wiped days ago, stood

with toes turned meekly to the wall. They looked lonely, she thought.

With a sigh, she entered her own room, and passed through it to the

nursery. There lay her baby, soundly sleeping, his cheek on the pillow,

his little fists folded under his chin. How beautiful he looked, she

thought; how sweet his little room, how fresh and peaceful all the

house! It was the home of love--love lay all about her, in the kind

protection of the trees, in the nests of the squirrels, in the voices

and faces of her friends, and in her heart. Love was all about her, and

the sweetness of young life--and she was utterly lonely. One short year

ago she thought she would never know loneliness again--only a year ago.

The candle wavered in her hand; a drop of wax fell on the baby's

spotless coverlet. Stooping, she blew upon it till it was cold, and

carefully broke it off. She sat down in a low rocking chair, and

lifting the baby, gave him his good-night nursing. He barely opened his

sleep-laden eyes. She kissed him, made him tidy for the night, and laid

him down, waiting while he cuddled luxuriously back to sleep.

“Little Stefan, little Stefan,” she whispered.

Then, leaving the nursery door ajar, she undressed noiselessly, and lay

down on the cool, empty bed.

II

The following afternoon about teatime Stefan bicycled up from the

station. Mary, who was in the sitting room, heard him calling from the

gate, but did not go to meet him. He hurried into the room and kissed

her half-turned cheek effusively.

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

“Do you know that you've been away six days, Stefan, and have only

troubled to telephone me twice?” she answered, in a voice carefully

controlled.

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

“Hadn't you?”

He fidgeted. “Well, dear, you know I'm frightfully keen on this new

picture, and the journeys back and forth waste so much time. But as

for the telephoning, I'm awfully sorry. I've been so absorbed I simply

didn't remember. Why didn't you ring me up?”

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

you were out.”

“Yes; I've been trying to amuse myself a little.” He was rocking from

one foot to the other like a detected schoolboy.

“Hang it all, Mary,” he burst out, “don't be so judicial. One must have

some pleasure--I can't sit about this cottage all the time.”

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

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

She was chilled to silence, having no heart to reason him out of so

unreasonable a defense.

“Well, anyway,” he said, flinging himself on the sofa, “here I am, so

let's make the best of it. Tea ready?”

“It's just coming.”

“That's good. When are you coming up to see the picture? It's going to

be the best I've done. I shall get Constantine to exhibit it and that

stick of a Demeter together, and then the real people and the fools will

both have something to admire.”

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

stabbed.

“Well,” he said reflectively, lighting a cigarette, “perhaps not better

than the Danaë in one sense--it hasn't as much feeling, but has more

originality. Miss Berber is such an unusual type--she's quite an

inspiration.”

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

“Don't be so literal, my dear; of course you are, but not for this sort

of picture.” The assurance sounded perfunctory.

“Thank goodness, here comes the tea,” he exclaimed as Lily entered with

the tray. “Hullo, Lily; how goes it?”

“Fine, Mr. Byrd, but we've shorely missed you,” she answered, with

something less than her usual wholehearted smile.

“Well, you must rejoice, now that the prodigal has returned,” he

grinned. “Mary, you haven't answered my question yet--when are you

coming in to see the picture? Why not to-morrow? I'm dying to show it to

you.”

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

long.”

“Well, bring him with you.”

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

upset him.”

“There you are!” he exclaimed, ruffling his hair. “I can't work down

here, and you can't come to town--how can I help seeming to neglect you?

Look here”--he had drunk his tea at a gulp, and now held out his cup for

more--“if you're lonely, why not move back to the city--then you could

keep your eye on me!” and he grinned again.

For some time Mary had feared this suggestion--she had not yet discussed

with Stefan her desire to stay in the country. She pressed her hands

together nervously.

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

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

“If you really needed me there I would come. But you are always so

absorbed when you're working, and I am so busy with Baby, that I don't

believe we should have much more time together than now.”

“Neither do I,” he agreed, in a tone suspiciously like relief, which she

was quick to catch.

“On the other hand,” she went on, “this place is far better for Baby,

and I am devoted to it. We couldn't afford anything half as comfortable

in the city, and you like it, too, in the summer.”

“Of course I do,” he answered cheerfully. “I should hate to give it up,

and I'm sure it's much more economical, and all that. Still, if you stay

here through the winter you mustn't be angry if I am in town part of the

time--my work has got to come first, you know.”

“Yes, of course, dear,” said Mary, wistfully, “and I think it would be a

mistake for me to come unless you really wanted me.”

“Of course I want you, Beautiful.”

He spoke easily, but she was not deceived. She knew he was glad of the

arrangement, not for her sake, but for his own. She had watched him

fretting for weeks past, like a caged bird, and she had the wisdom to

see that her only hope of making him desire the nest again lay in giving

him freedom from it. Her pride fortified this perception. As she had

said long ago, Mary was no bargainer.

In spite of her comprehension, however, she warmed toward him. It was so

good to see him lounging on the sofa again, his green-gold eyes bright,

his brown face with its elfish smile radiant now that his point was

won. She knew he had been unkind to her both in word and act, but it was

impossible not to forgive him, now that she enjoyed again the comfort of

his presence.

Smiling, she poured out his third cup of tea, and was just passing it

when there was a knock, and McEwan entered the hall.

“Hello, Byrd,” he called, his broad shoulders blocking the sitting room

door as he came in; “down among the Rubes again? Madam Mary, I accept in

advance your offer of tea. Well, how goes the counterfeit presentment of

our friend Twinkle-Toes?”

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

“Yes,” said McEwan, with an aggravating smile, as he devoured a slice of

cake. “We're all expecting another ten-strike. Are you depicting her as

a toe-shaker or a sartorial artist?”

“Really, Wallace,” protested Mary, who had grown quite intimate with

McEwan, “you are utterly incorrigible in your Yankee vein--you respect

no one.”

“I respect the President of these United States,” said he solemnly,

raising an imaginary hat.

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

“For goodness' sake, don't start him on politics, Wallace,” said Mary;

“he has a contempt for every public man in America except Roosevelt and

Bill Heywood.”

“So I have,” replied Stefan; “they are the only two with a spark of the

picturesque, or one iota of originality.”

“You ought to paint their pictures arm in arm, with Taft floating on

a cloud crowning them with a sombrero and a sandbag, Bryan pouring

grape-juice libations, and Wilson watchfully waiting in the background.

Label it 'Morituri salutamus'--I bet it would sell,” said McEwan

hopefully.

Mary laughed heartily, but Stefan did not conceal his boredom. “Why

don't you go into vaudeville, McEwan?” he frowned.

“Solely out of consideration for the existing stars,” McEwan sighed,

putting down his cup and rising. “Well, chin music hath charms, but I

must toddle to the house, or I shall get in bad with Jamie. My love to

Elliston, Mary. Byrd, I warn you that my well-known critical faculty

needs stimulation; I mean to drop in at the studio ere long to slam the

latest masterpiece. So long,” and he grinned himself out before Stefan's

rising irritation had a chance to explode.

“Why do you let that great tomfool call you by your first name, Mary?”

he demanded, almost before the front door was shut.

“Wallace is one of the kindest men alive, and I'm quite devoted to him.

I admit, though, that he seems to enjoy teasing you.”

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

obliterates me.”

“Well, don't be an old crosspatch,” she smiled, determined now they were

alone again to make the most of him.

“You are a good sort, Mary,” he said, smiling in reply; “it's restful

to be with you. Sing to me, won't you?” He stretched luxuriously on the

sofa.

She obeyed, glad enough of the now rare opportunity of pleasing him.

Farraday had brought her some Norse ballads not long before; their sad

elfin cadences had charmed her. She sang these now, touching the piano

lightly for fear of waking the sleeping baby overhead. Turning to Stefan

at the end, she found him sound asleep, one arm drooping over the sofa,

the nervous lines of his face smoothed like a tired child's. For some

reason she felt strangely pitiful toward him. “He must be very tired,

poor boy,” she thought.

Crossing to the kitchen, she warned Lily not to enter the sitting room,

and herself slipped upstairs to the baby. Stefan slept till dinner time,

and for the rest of the evening was unusually kind and quiet.

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

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

time.”

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

Together they bent over the cradle. “Why, he's looking quite human. I

think he must have grown!” his father whispered, apparently surprised.

“Does he make much noise at night nowadays, Mary?”

“No, hardly any. He just whimpers at about two o'clock, and I get up and

nurse him. Then he sleeps till after six.”

“If you don't mind, then,” said Stefan, “I think I will sleep with you

to-night. I feel as if it would rest me.”

“Of course, dearest.” She felt herself blushing. Was she really going to

be loved again? She smiled happily at him.

When they were in bed Stefan curled up childishly, and putting one arm

about her, fell asleep almost instantly, his head upon her shoulder.

Mary lay, too happy for sleep, listening to his quiet breathing, until

her shoulder ached and throbbed under his head. She would not move for

fear of waking him, and remained wide-eyed and motionless until her

baby's voice called to her.

Then, with infinite care, she slipped away, her arm and shoulder numb,

but her heart lighter than it had been for many weeks.

She had forgotten to put out her dressing gown, and would not open the

closet door, because it creaked. Little Elliston was leisurely over his

repast, and she was stiff with cold when at last she stole back into

bed. Stefan lay upon his side. She crept close, and in her turn put an

arm about him. He was here again, her man, and her child was close at

hand, warm and comforted from her breast. Love was all about her, and

to-night she was not mocked. Warm again from his touch, she, too, fell

at last, with all the dreaming house, asleep.

III

Stefan stayed at home for several days, sleeping long hours, and

seemingly unusually subdued. He would lie reading on the sofa while Mary

wrote, and often she turned from her manuscript to find him dozing. They

took a few walks together, during which he rarely spoke, but seemed glad

of her silent company. Once he called with her on Mrs. Farraday, and

actually held an enormous skein of wool for the old lady while she,

busily winding, told them anecdotes of her son James, and of her

long dead husband. He made no effort to talk, seeming content to sit

receptive under the soothing flow of her reminiscences.

“Thee is a good boy,” said the little lady, patting his hand kindly as

the last shred of wool was wound.

“I'm afraid not, ma'am,” said he, dropping quaintly into the address

of his childhood. “I'm just a rudderless boat staggering under topheavy

sails.”

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

Mary.

He seemed about to say more, but checked himself. Instead he rose and

kissed the little lady's hand.

“You are one of those who never lose their harbor, Mrs. Farraday. We're

all glad to lower sail in yours.”

On the way home Mary linked her arm in his.

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

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

She laughed and nodded, pressing his arm.

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

That evening, while they sat in the dining room over their dessert, the

telephone bell rang. Stefan jumped hastily to answer it, as if he felt

sure it was for him, and he proved right.

“Yes, this is I,” he replied, after his first “hello,” in what seemed to

Mary an artificial voice.

There was a pause; then she heard him say, “You can?” delightedly,

followed by “To-morrow morning at ten? Hurrah! No more wasted time; we

shall really get on now.” Another pause, then, “Oh, what does it matter

about the store?” impatiently--and at last “Well, to-morrow, anyway.

Yes. Good-bye.” The receiver clicked into place, and Stefan came

skipping back into the room radiant, his languor of the last few days

completely gone.

Mary's heart sank like a stone. It was too obvious that he had stayed

at home, not to be with her, but merely because his sitter was

unobtainable.

“Cheers, Mary; back to work to-morrow,” he exclaimed, attacking his

dessert with vigor. “I've been slacking shamefully, but Felicity is

so wrapped up in that store of hers I can't get her half the time. Now

she's contrite, and is going to sit to-morrow.”

Mary, remembering his remark about McEwan, longed to say, “Why do you

call that little vulgarian by her first name?” but retaliatory methods

were impossible to her. She contented herself with asking if he would be

home the next evening.

“Why, yes, I expect so,” he answered, looking vague, “but don't

absolutely count on me, Mary. I've been very good this week.”

She saw that he was gone again. His return had been more in the body

than the spirit, after all. If that had been wooed a little back to her

it had winged away again at the first sound of the telephone. She told

herself that it was only his work calling him, that he would have been

equally eager over any other sitter. But she was not sure.

“Brace up, Mary,” he called across at her, “you're not being deserted.

Good heavens, I must work!” His impatient frown was gathering. She

collected herself, smiled cheerfully, and rose, telling Lily they would

have coffee in the sitting room.

He spent the evening before the fire, smoking, and making thumbnail

sketches on a piece of notepaper. She sang for some time, but without

eliciting any comment from him. When they went up to bed he stopped at

his own door.

“I think I'll sleep alone to-night, dear. I want to be fresh to-morrow.

Good night,” and he kissed her cheek.

When she came down in the morning he had already gone. Lying on the

sitting room table, where it had been placed by the careful Lily, lay

the scrap of notepaper he had been scribbling on the night before. It

was covered with tiny heads, and figures of mermaids, dancing nymphs,

and dryads. All in face or figure suggested Felicity Berber.

She laid it back on the table, dropping a heavy book over it. A little

later, while she was giving Elliston his bath, it suddenly occurred

to Mary that her husband had never once during his stay alluded to her

manuscript, and never looked at the baby except when she had asked him

to. She excused him to herself with the plea of his temperament, and his

absorption in his art, but nevertheless her heart was sore.

For the next few weeks Stefan came and went fitfully, announcing at one

point that Miss Berber had ceased to pose for his fantastic study of

her, called “The Nixie,” but had consented to sit for a portrait.

“She's slippery--comes and goes, keeps me waiting interminably,” he

complained. “I can never be sure of her, but she's a wonderful model.”

“What do you do while you're waiting for her?” asked Mary, who could not

imagine Stefan enduring with equanimity such a tax upon his patience.

“Oh, there's tremendous work to be done on the Nixie still,” he

answered. “It's only her part in it that is finished.”

One evening he came home with a grievance.

“That fool McEwan came to the studio to-day,” he complained. “It was all

I could do not to shut the door in his face. Of all the chuckleheads!

What do you think he called the Nixie? 'A tricky piece of work!'

Tricky!” Stefan kicked the fire disgustedly. “And it's the best thing

I've done!”

“As for the portrait, he said it was 'fine and dandy,' the idiot. And

the maddening thing was,” he went on, turning to Mary, and uncovering

the real source of his offense, “that Felicity positively encouraged

him! Why, the man must have sat there talking with her for an hour.

I could not paint a stroke, and he didn't go till I had said so three

times!” completed Stefan, looking positively ferocious. “What in the

fiend's name, Mary, did she do it for?” He collapsed on the sofa beside

her, like a child bereft of a toy. Mary could not help laughing at his

tragic air.

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

suggested.

“How I loathe fooling and play-acting!” he exclaimed disgustedly. “Thank

God, Mary, you are sincere. One knows where one is with you!”

He seemed thoroughly upset. Miss Berber's pin-prick must have been

severe, Mary thought, if it resulted in a compliment for her.

The next evening, Mary being alone, Wallace dropped in. For some time

they talked of Jamie and Elliston, and of Mary's book.

He was Scotch to-night, as he usually was now when they were alone

together. Cheerful as ever, his cheer was yet slow and solid--the

comedian was not in evidence.

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

shook her head.

“Ye should go, bairn, they're a fine key. Clever as the devil, but

naething true about them. After the Danaë-piff!” and he snapped his

fingers. “Ye hae no call to worry, you're the hub, Mary--let the wheel

spin a wee while!”

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

“The Scottish Sherlock, eh?” he grinned. “Weel, it's as I tell ye--tak

my word for't. Hae ye seen Mrs. Elliot lately?”

“No, Constance went up to their place in Vermont in June, you know. She

came down purposely for Elliston's christening, the dear. She writes me

she'll be back in a few days now, but says she's sick of New York, and

would stay where she is if it weren't for suffrage.”

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

“No, I don't think so, either. But she sees more of Theodore while she

stays away, because he feels it his duty to run up every few days and

protect her against savage New England, whereas when she's in town she

could drive her car into the subway excavations and he'd never know it.

I'm quoting verbatim,” Mary laughed.

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

“She pretends to be flippant about husbands,” Mary went on, “but as

a matter of fact she cares much more for hers than for her sons, or

anything in the world, except perhaps the Cause.”

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

“I don't know.” There was a puzzled note in Mary's voice. “I can't

understand the son's taking such a distinctly second place.”

McEwan's face expanded into one of his huge smiles. “It's true, ye could

not. That's the way God made ye, and I'll tell ye about that, too, some

day,” he said, rising to go.

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

Before going to bed that night Mary examined her conscience. Why had

she not been to town to see Stefan's work? She knew that the baby--whose

feeding times now came less frequently--was no longer an adequate

excuse. She had blamed Stefan in her heart for his indifference to her

work--was she not becoming guilty of the same neglect? Was she not in

danger of a worse fault, the mean and vulgar fault of jealousy? She felt

herself flushing at the thought.

Two days later Mary put on her last year's suit, now a little shabby,

kissed the baby, importuned the beaming Lily to be careful of him, and

drove to the train in one of the village livery stable's inconceivably

decrepit coupes.

It was about twelve o 'clock when she arrived at the studio, and,

ringing the bell, mounted the well-known stairs with a heart which, in

spite of herself, beat anxiously. Stefan opened the door irritably, but

his frown changed to a look of astonishment, followed by an exuberant

smile, as he saw who it was.

“Here comes Demeter,” he cried, calling into the room behind him. “Why,

Mary, I'm honored. Has Elliston actually released his prisoner at last?”

He drew her into the studio, and kissed her almost with ostentation.

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

Mary looked about her. Her old home was almost unchanged. There was the

painted bureau, the divan, the big easel, the model throne where she

had posed as Danaë. It was unchanged, yet how different. From the

throne stepped down a small svelt figure-it rippled toward her, its

gown shimmering like a fire seen through water. It was Felicity, and her

dress was made from the great piece of oriental silk Stefan had bought

when they were first married, and which they had used as a cover for

their couch.

Mary recognized it instantly--there could be no mistake. She stared

stupidly, unable to find speech, while Miss Berber's tones were wafted

to her like an echo from cooing doves.

“Ah, Mrs. Byrd,” she was saying, “how lovely you look as a matron. We

are having a short sitting in my luncheon hour. This studio calms me

after the banal cackling of my clients. I almost think of ceasing

to create raiment, I weary so of the stupidities of New York's four

hundred. Corsets, heels”--her hands fluttered in repudiation. She

sank full length upon the divan, lighting a cigarette from a case of

mother-of-pearl. “Your husband is the only artist, Mrs. Byrd, who has

succeeded in painting me as an individual instead of a beauty. It's

relieving”--her voice fainted--“very”--it failed--her lids drooped, she

was still.

Stefan looked bored. “Why, Felicity, what's the matter? I haven't seen

you so completely lethargic for a long time. I thought you kept that

manner for the store.”

Mary could not help feeling pleased by this remark, which drew no

response from Felicity save a shadowy but somewhat forced smile.

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

Mary faced the canvas, another of his favorite underwater pictures. The

Nixie sat on a rock, in the green light of a river-bed. Green river-weed

swayed and clung about her, and her hair, green too, streamed out to

mingle with it. In the ooze at her feet lay a drowned girl, holding a

tiny baby to her breast. This part of the picture was unfinished, but

the Nixie stood out clearly, looking down at the dead woman with an

expression compounded of wonder and sly scorn. “Lord, what fools these

mortals be,” she might have been saying.

The face was not a portrait--it was Felicity only in its potentialities,

but it was she, unmistakably. The picture was brilliant, fantastic, and

unpleasant. Mary said so.

“Of course it is unpleasant,” he answered, “and so is life. Isn't it

unpleasant that girls should kill themselves because of some fool man?

And wouldn't sub-humans have a right to ribald laughter at a system

which fosters such things!”

“He has painted me as a sub-human, Mrs. Byrd,” drawled Felicity through

her smoke, “but when I hear his opinion of humans I feel complimented.”

“It seems to me,” said Mary, “that she's not laughing at humans in

general, but at this particular girl, for having cared. That's what

makes it unpleasant to me.”

“I dare say she is,” said Stefan carelessly. “In any case, I'm glad you

find it unpleasant--in popular criticism the word is only a synonym for

true.”

To Mary the picture was theatrical rather than true, but she did not

care to argue the point. She turned to the portrait, a clever study

in lights keyed to the opalescent tones of the silk dress, and showing

Felicity poised for the first step of a dance. The face was still

in charcoal--Stefan always blocked in his whole color scheme before

beginning a head--but even so, it was alluring.

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

“Yes, I like it. Full of movement. Nothing architectural about that,” he

said, glancing by way of contrast at the great Demeter drowsing from the

furthest wall. “The silk is interesting, isn't it?”

Mary's throat ached painfully. He was utterly unconscious of any hurt to

her in the transfer of this first extravagance of theirs. If he had done

it consciously, with intent to wound, she thought it might have hurt her

less.

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

“Bare, perhaps, rather than pretty,” murmured Miss Berber behind her

veil of smoke.

Mary flushed. This woman had a trick of always making her appear gauche.

She looked at her watch, not sorry to see that it was already time to

leave.

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

out her hand.

“What a shame. Can't you even stay to lunch?” he asked dutifully. She

shook her head, the ache in her throat making speech difficult. She

seemed very stiff and matter-of-fact, he thought, and her clothes were

uninteresting. He kissed her, however, and held the door while she shook

hands with Felicity, who half rose. The transom was open, and through it

Mary, who had paused on the landing to button her glove, overheard Miss

Berber's valedictory pronouncement.

“The English are a remarkable race--remarkable. Character in them is

fixed--in us, fluid.”

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

All that evening she held the baby in her arms--she could hardly bring

herself to put him down when it was time to go to bed.

IV

On November the 1st Mary received their joint bank book. The figures

appalled her. She had drawn nothing except for the household bills, but

Stefan had apparently been drawing cash, in sums of fifty or twenty-five

dollars, every few days for weeks past. Save for his meals and a little

new clothing she did not know on what he could have spent it; but as

they had made nothing since the sale of his drawings in the spring,

their once stout balance had dwindled alarmingly. One check, even while

she felt its extravagance, touched her to sympathy. It was drawn to

Henrik Jensen for two hundred dollars. Stefan must have been helping

Adolph's brother to his feet again; perhaps that was where more of the

money had gone.

Stefan came home that afternoon, and Mary very unwillingly tackled the

subject. He looked surprised.

“I'd no idea I'd been drawing so much! Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

he exclaimed. “Yes, I've given poor old Henrik a bit from time to time;

I thought I'd mentioned it to you.”

“You did in the summer, now I come to think of it, but I thought you

meant a few dollars, ten or twenty.”

“Much good that would have done him. The poor old chap was stranded.

He's all right now, has a new business. I've been meaning to tell

you about it. He supplies furniture on order to go with Felicity's

gowns--backgrounds for personalities, and all that stuff. I put it up

to her to help find him a job, and she thought of this right off.” He

grinned appreciatively. “Smart, eh? We both gave him a hand to start

it.”

“You might have told me, I should have been so interested,” said Mary,

trying not to sound hurt.

“I meant to, but it's only just been arranged, and I've had no chance to

talk to you for ages.”

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

“Oh, yes, the baby and all that.” He waved his arm vaguely, and began to

fidget. She steered away from the rocks.

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

“I knew you would be. Look here, Mary, can we go on at the present

rate--barring Jensen--till I finish the Nixie? I don't want Constantine

to have the Demeter alone, it isn't good enough.”

“I think it is as good as the Nixie,” she said, on a sudden impulse. He

swung round, staring at her almost insolently.

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

The blood rushed to her heart. He had never spoken to her in that tone

before. As always, her hurt silenced her.

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

expenses.

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

Mary considered, remembering the now almost finished manuscript in her

desk.

“Yes, I think we can manage, dear.”

“That's a blessing; then we won't talk about it any more,” he exclaimed,

pinching her ear in token of satisfaction.

The next day Mary sent her manuscript to be typed. In a week it had gone

to Farraday at his office, complete all but three chapters, of which she

enclosed an outline. With it she sent a purely formal note, asking, in

the event of the book being accepted, what terms the Company could

offer her, and whether she could be paid partly in advance. She put

the request tentatively, knowing nothing of the method of paying for

serials. In another week she had a typewritten reply from Farraday,

saying that the serial had been most favorably reported, that the

Company would buy it for fifteen hundred dollars, with a guarantee to

begin serialization within the year, on receipt of the final chapters,

that they enclosed a contract, and were hers faithfully, etc. With this

was a personal note from her friend, congratulating her, and explaining

that his estimate of her book had been more than borne out by his

readers.

“I don't want you to think others less appreciative than I,” was his

tactful way of intimating that her work had been accepted on its merits

alone.

The letters took Mary's breath away. She had no idea that her work

could fetch such a price. This stroke of fortune completely lifted her

financial anxieties, but her spirits did not rise correspondingly. Six

months ago she would have been girlishly triumphant at such a success,

but now she felt at most a dull satisfaction. She hastened, however, to

write the final chapters, and deposited the check when it came in her

own bank, drawing the next month's housekeeping money half from that and

half from Stefan's rapidly dwindling account. That she was able to do

this gave her a feeling of relief, no more.

Mary had now nursed her baby for over four months, and began to feel a

nervous lassitude which she attributed--quite wrongly--to this fact.

As Elliston still gained weight steadily, however, she gave her own

condition no thought. But the last leaves had fallen from the trees, sea

and woods looked friendless, and the evenings were long and lonely. The

neighbors had nearly all gone back to the city. Farraday only came

down at week-ends, Jamie was busy with his lessons, and Constance still

lingered in Vermont. As for Stefan, he came home late and left early;

often he did not come at all. She began to question seriously if she

had been right to remain in the cottage. Her heart told her no, but her

pride said yes, and her pride was strong; also, it was backed by reason.

Her steady brain, which was capable of quite impersonal thinking, told

her that Stefan would be actively discontented just now in company with

his family, and that this discontent would eat into his remaining love

for her.

But her heart repudiated this mental cautioning, crying out to her to

go to him, to pour out her love and need, to capture him safely in her

arms. More than once she nerved herself for such an effort, only to

become incapable of the least expression at his approach. Emotionally

inarticulate even in happiness, Mary was quite dumb in grief. Her

conversation became trite, her sore heart drew a mantle of the

commonplace over its wound; Stefan found her more than ever “English.”

So lonely was she at this time that she would have asked little Miss

Mason to stay with her, but for the lack of a spare bedroom. Of all her

friends, only Mrs. Farraday remained at hand. Mary spent many hours at

the old lady's house, and rejoiced each time the pony chaise brought

her to the Byrdsnest. Mrs. Farraday loved to drive up in the morning

and watch the small Elliston in his bath, comparing his feats with her

memories of her own baby. She liked, too, to call at the cottage for

mother and child, and take them for long rambling drives behind her

ruminant pony.

But the little Quakeress usually had her house full of guests--quaint,

elderly folk from Delaware or from the Quaker regions of

Pennsylvania--and could not give more than occasional time to these

excursions. She had become devoted to Mary, whom she secretly regarded

as her ideal of the woman her James should marry. That her son had not

yet met such a woman was, after the loss of her husband, the little

lady's greatest grief.

In the midst of this dead period of graying days, Constance Elliot

burst one morning--a God from the Machine--tearing down the lane in

her diminutive car with the great figure of Gunther, like some Norse

divinity, beside her. She fell out of her auto, and into an explanation,

in one breath, embracing Mary warmly between sentences.

“You lovely creature, here I am at last! Theodore hadn't been up for a

week, so I came down, to find Mr. Gunther thundering like Odin because

I had promised to help him arrange sittings with you, and had forgotten

it. I had to bring him at once. He says his group is all done but the

two heads, and he must have yours and the baby's. But he'll tell you

all about it. Where is he? Elliston, I mean. I've brought him some short

frocks. Where are they, Mr. Gunther? If he's put them in his pockets,

he'll never find them--they are feet long--the pockets, I mean. Bless

you, Mary Byrd, how good it is to see you! Come into the house, every

one, and let me rest.”

Mary was bubbling with laughter.

“Constance, you human dynamo, we'll go in by all means, and hold our

breaths listening to your 'resting'!”

“Don't sass your elders, naughty girl. Oh, my heavens, I've been five

months in New England, and have behaved like a perfect gentlewoman all

the time! Now I'm due for an attack of New Yorkitis!” Constance rushed

into the sitting room, pulled off her hat and patted her hair into

shape, ran to the kitchen door to say hello to Lily, and was back in her

chair by the time the others had found theirs. Her quick glance traveled

from one to the other.

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

explain your ideas.”

Mary laughed again. “Visitors first,” she nodded to the Norwegian who,

as always, was staring at her with a perfectly civil fixity.

He placed a great hand on either knee and prepared to state his case.

With his red-gold beard and piercing eyes, he was, Mary thought, quite

the handsomest, and, after Stefan, the most attractive man she had ever

seen.

“Mrs. Byrd,” he began, “I am doing, among other things, a large group

called 'Pioneers' for the Frisco exhibition. It is finished in the

clay--as Mrs. Elliot said--all but two heads, and is already roughly

blocked in marble. I want your head, with your son's--I must have them.

Six sittings will be enough. If you cannot, as I imagine, come to the

city, I will bring my clay here, and we will work in your husband's

studio. These figures, of whom the man is modeled from myself, do not

represent pioneers in the ordinary sense. They embody my idea of those

who will lead the race to future greatness. That is why I feel it

essential to have you as a model.”

He spoke quite simply, without a trace of flattery, as if he were merely

putting into words a self-evident truth. A compliment of such staggering

dimensions, however, left Mary abashed.

“You may wonder,” he went on, seeing her silent, “why I so regard you.

It is not merely your beauty, Mrs. Byrd, of which as an artist I can

speak without offense, it is because to my mind you combine strong

mentality and morale with simplicity of temperament. You are an

Apollonian, rather than a Dionysian. Of such, in my judgment, will the

super-race be made.” Gunther folded his arms and leaned back.

He was sufficiently distinguished to be able to carry off a

pronouncement which in a lesser man would have been an impertinence, and

he knew it.

Constance threw up her hands. “There, Mary, your niche is carved. I

don't quite know what Mr. Gunther means, but he sounds right.”

Mary found her voice. “Mr. Gunther honors me very much, and, although

of course I do not deserve his praise, I shall certainly not refuse his

request.”

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

rising.

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

by auto.”

“You lucky woman,” exclaimed Constance. “To think of being immortalized

by two great artists in one year!”

“Her type is very rare,” said Gunther in explanation. “When does one see

the classic face with expression added? Almost always, it is dull.”

“Now, Mary, produce the infant!” Constance did not intend the whole

morning to be devoted to the Olympian discourse of the sculptor.

The baby was brought down, and the rest of the visit pivoted about

him. Mary glowed at the praises he received; she looked immeasurably

brighter, Constance thought, than when they arrived.

On the way home Gunther unbosomed himself of a final pronouncement. “She

does not look too happy, but her beauty is richer and its meaning deeper

than before. She is what the mothers of men should be. I am sorry,” he

concluded simply, “that I did not meet her more than a year ago.”

Constance almost gasped. What an advantage, she thought, great physical

gifts bring. Even without this man's distinction in his art, it was

obvious that he had some right to assume his ability to mate with

whomever he might choose.

Early the next morning the sculptor drove up to the barn, his tonneau

loaded with impedimenta. Mary was ready for him, and watched with

interest while he lifted out first a great wooden box of clay, then a

small model throne, then two turntables, and finally, two tin buckets.

These baffled her, till, having installed the clay-box, which she

doubted if an ordinary man could lift, he made for the garden pump and

watered his clay with the contents of the buckets.

He set up his three-legged turntables, each of which bore an angle-iron

supporting a twisted length of lead pipe, stood a bucket of water

beneath one, and explained that in a few minutes he would be ready

to begin. Donning a linen blouse, he attacked the mass of damp clay

powerfully, throwing great pieces onto the skeleton lead-pipe, which he

explained had been bent to the exact angle of the head in his group.

“The woman's figure I modeled from ideal proportions, Mrs. Byrd, and

this head will be set upon its shoulders. My statue will then be a

living thing instead of a mere symbol.”

When Mary was posed she became absorbed in watching Gunther's work grow.

He modeled with extraordinary speed, yet his movements had none of

the lightning swoops and darts of Stefan's method. Each motion of his

powerful hands might have been preordained; they seemed to move with

a deliberate and effortless precision, so that she would hardly have

realized their speed had the head and face not leaped under them into

being. He was a silent worker, yet she felt companioned; the man's

presence seemed to fill the little building.

“After to-day I shall ask you to hold the child, for as long as it will

not disturb him. I shall then have the expression on your face which I

desire, and I will work at a study of the boy's head at those moments

when he is awake.”

Mary sincerely enjoyed her sittings, which came as a welcome change in

her even days. Gunther usually stayed to lunch, Constance joining them

on one occasion, and Mrs. Farraday on another. Both these came to watch

the work, Gunther, unlike Stefan, being oblivious of an audience; and

once McEwan came, his sturdy form appearing insignificant beside the

giant Norseman. Wallace hung about smoking a pipe for half an hour or

more. He was at his most Scotch, appeared well pleased, and ejaculated

“Aye, aye,” several times, nodding a ponderous head.

“Wallace, what are you so solemnly aye-ayeing about? Why so mysterious?”

enquired Mary.

“I'm haeing a few thochts,” responded the Scot, his expression divided

between an irritating smile and a kindly twinkle.

“Well, don't be annoying, and stay to lunch,” said Mary, dispensing even

justice to both expressions.

Stefan, returning home one afternoon half way through the sittings,

expressed a mild interest in the news of them, and, going out to the

barn, unwrapped the wet cloths from the head.

“He's an artist,” said he; “this has power and beauty. Never sit to a

second-rater, Mary, you've had the best now.” And he covered the head

again with a craftsman's thoroughness.

Mary was sorry when the sittings came to an end. On the last day the

sculptor brought two men with him, who made the return journey in the

tonneau, each guarding a carefully swathed bust against the inequalities

of the road. Gunther bowed low over her hand with a word of thanks at

parting, and she watched his car out of sight regretfully.

V

The week's interlude over, Mary's days reverted to their monotonous

tenor. As November drew to a close, she began to think of Christmas,

remembering how happy her last had been, and wondering if she could

summon enough courage for an attempt to engage Stefan's interest in some

kind of celebration. She now admitted to herself that she was actively

worried about her relations with him. He was quite agreeable to her when

in the house, but she felt this was only because she made no demands

on him. Let her reach out ever so little for his love, and he instantly

became vague or restless. Their intercourse was friendly, but he

appeared absolutely indifferent to her as a woman; she might have been a

well-liked sister. Under the grueling strain of self-repression Mary

was growing nervous, and the baby began to feel the effects. His weekly

gains were smaller, and he had his first symptoms of indigestion.

She redoubled the care of her diet, and lengthened her daily walks, but

he became fretful, and at last, early in December, she found on weighing

him that he had made no gain for a week. Terrified, she telephoned for

Dr. Hillyard, and received her at the door with a white face. It was a

Sunday morning, and McEwan had just dropped in with some chrysanthemums

from the Farradays' greenhouse. Finding Mary disturbed he had not

remained, and was leaving the house as the doctor drove up.

Dr. Hillyard's first words were reassuring. There was absolutely nothing

to fear in a week's failure to gain, she explained. “It always happens

at some stage or other, and many babies don't gain for weeks.”

Still, the outcome of her visit was that Mary, with an aching heart,

added a daily bottle to Elliston's régime. In a week the doctor came

again, gave Mary a food tonic, and advised the introduction of a second

bottle. Elliston immediately responded, palpably preferring his bottle

feedings to the others. His fretfulness after these continued, he turned

with increased eagerness to his bottle, and with tears of disappointment

Mary yielded to his loudly voiced demands. By Christmas time he was

weaned. His mother felt she could never forgive herself for failing him

so soon, and a tinge of real resentment colored for the first time her

attitude toward Stefan, whom she knew to be the indirect cause of her

failure.

The somewhat abrupt deterioration of Mary's magnificent nervous system

would have been unaccountable to Dr. Hillyard had it not been for a

chance encounter with McEwan after her first visit. The Scotchman had

hailed her in the lane, asking for a lift to a house beyond the village,

where he had some small errand. During a flow of discursive remarks he

elicited from the doctor, without her knowledge, her opinion that Mary

was nervously run down, after which he rambled at some length about the

value of art, allowing the doctor to pass his destination by a mile or

more.

With profuse thanks for her kindness in turning back, he continued

his ramblings, and she gathered the impression that he was a dull,

inconsequential talker, that he considered young couples “kittle

cattle,” that artists were always absorbed in their work, that females

had a habit of needless worrying, and that commuting in winter was

distracting to a man's labors. She only half listened to him, and

dropped him with relief, wondering if he was an anti-suffragist. Some

memory of his remarks must, however, have remained with her, for after

her next visit to Mary she found herself thinking that Mr. McEwan was

probably neither an anti-suffragist, nor dull.

A little before Christmas McEwan called on Constance, and found her

immersed in preparations for a Suffrage bazaar and fête.

“I can't talk to any one,” she announced, receiving him in a chaos of

boxes, banners, paper flowers, and stenographers, in the midst of which

she appeared to be working with two voices and six hands. “Didn't the

maid warn you off the premises?”

“She did, but I sang 'Take back the lime that thou gavest' in such honey

tones that she complied,” said Mac.

“Just for that, you can give the fête a two-inch free ad in The

Household Magazine,” Constance implacably replied.

He grinned. “I raise the ante. Three inches, at the risk of losing my

job, for five minutes alone with you.”

“You lose your job!” scoffed Constance, leading the way into an

empty room, and seating herself at attention, one eye on her watch.

“Proceed--I am yours.”

Mac sat opposite her, and shot out an emphatic forefinger.

“The Berber girl's middle name is Mischief,” he began, plunging in

medias res; “Byrd's is Variability; for the last five months the Mary

lady's has been Mother. Am I right?”

Constance's bright eyes looked squarely at him.

“Wallace McEwan, you are,” she said.

His finger continued poised. “Very well, we are 'on,' and _our_ middle

name is Efficiency, eh?”

“Yes,” Constance nodded doubtfully, “but--”

McEwan's hand slapped his knee. “Here's the scheme,” he went on rapidly.

“Variable folk must have variety, either in place or people. If we

don't want it to be people, we make it place, see? Is your country house

closed yet?”

“No, I fancied I might go there to relax for a week after the fête.”

“A1 luck. You won't relax, you'll have a week's house-party, sleighing,

skating, coasting, all that truck. The Byrds, Farraday (I'll persuade

him he can leave the office), a couple of pretty skirts with no

brains--me if you like. Get me?”

Constance gasped, her mind racing. “But Mary's baby?” she exclaimed,

clutching at the central difficulty.

“You're the goods,” replied McEwan admiringly. “She couldn't shine as

Queen of the Slide if she was tied to the offspring--granted. Now then.”

He leant forward. “She's had to wean him--you didn't know that. Your

dope is to talk up the house-party, tell her she owes it to herself to

get a change, and make her leave the boy with a trained nurse. The Mary

lady's no fool, she'll be on.”

Constance's eyes narrowed to slits, she fingered her beads, and nodded

once, twice.

“More trouble,” she said, “but it's a go. Second week in January.”

He grasped her hand. “Votes for Women,” he beamed.

She looked at her watch. “Five minutes exactly. Three inches, Mr.

McEwan!”

“Three inches!” he called from the door.

VI

Christmas was a blank period for Mary that year. Stefan came home on

Christmas eve in a mood of somewhat forced conviviality, but Mary had

had no heart for festive preparations. Stefan had failed her and she had

failed her baby--these two ever present facts shadowed her world. She

had bought presents for Lily and the baby, a pair of links for Stefan,

books for Mrs. Farraday and Jamie, and trifles for Constance and Miss

Mason, but the holly and mistletoe, the tree, the new frock and the

Christmas fare which normally she would have planned with so much joy,

were missing. Stefan's gift to her--a fur-lined coat--was so extravagant

that she could derive no pleasure from it, and she had the impression

that he had chosen it hurriedly, without much thought of what would

best please her. From Constance she received a white sweater of very

beautiful heavy silk, with a cap and scarf to match, but she thought

bitterly that pretty things to wear were of little use to her now.

It was obvious that Stefan's conscience pricked him. He spent the

morning hanging about her, and even played a little with his son, who

now sat up, bounced, crowed with laughter, clutched every article within

reach, and had two teeth. Mary's heart reached out achingly to Stefan,

but he seemed to her a strange man. The contrast between this and their

last Christmas smote her intolerably.

In the afternoon they walked over to the Farradays', where there was

a tree for Jamie and a few friends, including the chauffeur's and

gardener's children. Here Stefan prowled into the picture gallery,

while Mary, surrounded by children, was in her element. Returning to the

drawing room, Stefan watched her playing with them as he had watched her

on the Lusitania fifteen months before. She was less radiant now, and

her figure was fuller, but as she smiled and laughed with the children,

her cheeks pink and her hair all a-glitter under the lights, she looked

very lovely, he thought. Why did the sight of her no longer thrill him?

Why did he enjoy more the society of Felicity Berber, whom he knew to be

affected and egotistic, and suspected of being insincere, than that of

this beautiful, golden woman of whose truth he could never conceive a

doubt?

A feeling of deep sadness, of unutterable regret, swept through him.

Better never to have married than to have outlived so soon the magic of

romance. Which of them had lost the key? When Mary had furled her wings

to brood over her nest he had thought it was she; now he was not so

sure.

Walking home through the dark woods he stopped suddenly, and drew her to

him.

“Mary, my Beautiful, I'm drifting, hold me close,” he whispered. Her

breath caught, she clung to him, he felt her face wet with tears. No

more words were spoken, but they walked on comforted, groping their way

under the damp fingers of the trees. Stefan felt no passion, but his

tenderness for his wife had reawakened. For her part, tears had thawed

her bitterness, without washing it away.

The next morning Constance drove over.

“Children,” she said, hurrying in from the cold air, “what a delicious

scene! I invite myself to lunch.”

Mary was playing with Elliston on a blanket by the fire, Stefan

sketching them, the room full of sun and firelight. The two greeted her

delightedly.

“Now,” she said, settling herself on the couch, “let me tell you why

I came,” and she proceeded to unfold her plans for a house-party

at Burlington. “You've never seen our winter sports, Mary, they're

glorious, and you need a change from so much domesticity. As for

you, Mr. Byrd, it will give you a chance to learn that America can be

attractive even outside New York.”

Both the Byrds were looking interested, Stefan unreservedly, Mary with a

pucker of doubt.

“Now, don't begin about Elliston,” exclaimed Constance, forestalling

objections. “We've heaps of room, but it would spoil your fun to bring

him. I want you to get a trained nurse for the week--finest thing in the

world to take a holiday from maternity once in a while.” She turned to

Stefan as a sure ally. “Don't you agree, Mr. Byrd?”

“Emphatically,” beamed he, seizing her hand and kissing it. “A glorious

idea! Away with domesticity! A real breath of freedom, eh, Mary?”

Constance again forestalled difficulties.

“We are all going to travel up by night, ten of us, and Theodore is

engaging a compartment car with rooms for every one, so there won't

be any expense about that part of it, Mary, my dear. Does it seem too

extravagant to ask you to get a trained nurse? I've set my heart on

having you free to be the life of the party. All your admirers are

coming, that gorgeous Gunther, my beloved James, and Wallace McEwan.

I baited my hooks with you, so you simply _can't_ disappoint me!” she

concluded triumphantly.

Stefan pricked up his ears. Here was Mary in a new guise; he had not

thought of her for some time as having “admirers.” Yet he had always

known Farraday for one; and certainly Gunther, who modeled her, and

McEwan, who dogged her footsteps, could admire her no less than the

editor. The thought that his wife was sought after, that he was probably

envied by other men, warmed Stefan's heart pleasantly, just as Constance

intended it should.

“It sounds fascinating, and I certainly think we must come,” Mary was

saying, “though I don't know how I shall bring myself to part with

Elliston,” and she hugged the baby close.

“You born Mother!” said Constance. “I adored my boys, but I was always

enchanted to escape from them.” She laughed like a girl. “Now you grasp

the inwardness of my Christmas present--it is a coasting outfit. Won't

she look lovely in it, Mr. Byrd?”

“Glorious!” said Stefan, boyishly aglow; and “I don't believe two and

two do make four, after all,” thought Constance.

All through luncheon they discussed the plan with animation, Constance

enlisting Mary's help at the Suffrage Fête the first week in January

in advance payment, as she said, for the house-party. “Why not get your

nurse a few days earlier to break her in, and be free to give me as much

time as possible?” she urged.

“Good idea, Mary,” Stefan chimed in. “I'll stay in town that week and

lunch with you at the bazaar, and you could sleep a night or two at the

studio.”

“We'll see,” said Mary, a little non-committal. She knew she should

enjoy the Fête immensely, but somehow, she did not feel she could bring

herself to sleep in the little studio, with Felicity the Nixie sneering

down at her from one wall, and Felicity the Dancer challenging from the

other.

But it was a much cheered couple that Constance left behind, and Stefan

came home every afternoon during the week that remained till the opening

of the bazaar.

Being in the city for this event, Mary, in addition to engaging a nurse,

indulged in some rather extravagant shopping. She had made up her mind

to look her best at Burlington, and though Mary was slow to move,

when she did take action her methods were thorough. She realized with

gratitude that Constance, whom she suspected of knowing more than she

indicated, had given her a wonderful opportunity of renewing her

appeal to her husband, and she was determined to use it to the full.

Incapable--as are all women of her type--of coquetry, Mary yet knew the

value of her beauty, and was too intelligent not to see that both it and

she had been at a grave disadvantage of late. She understood dimly that

she was confronted by one of the fundamental problems of marriage, the

difficulty of making an equal success of love and motherhood. She could

not put her husband permanently before her child, as Constance had done,

and as she knew most Englishwomen did, but she meant to do it completely

for this one week of holiday, at least.

Meanwhile, amidst the color and music of the great drill-hall where the

suffragists held their yearly Fête, Mary, dispensing tea and cakes in

a flower-garlanded tent, enjoyed herself with simple whole-heartedness.

All Constance's waitresses were dressed as daffodils, and the high cap,

representing the inverted cup of the flower, with the tight-sheathed

yellow and green of the gown, was particularly becoming to Mary. She

knew again the pleasure, which no one is too modest to enjoy, of being

a center of admiration. Stefan dropped in once or twice, and waxed

enthusiastic over Constance's arrangements and Mary's looks.

On one of these occasions Miss Berber suddenly appeared in the tent,

dressed wonderfully in white panne, with a barbaric mottle of black and

white civet-skins flung over one shoulder, and a tight-drawn cap of the

fur, apparently held in place by the great claws of some feline mounted

in heavy gold. She wore circles of fretted gold in her ears, and carried

a tall ebony stick with a gold handle, Louis Quatorze fashion. From

her huge civet muff a gold purse dangled. She looked at once more

conventional and more dynamic than Mary had seen her, and her rich dress

made the simple effects of the tent seem amateurish.

Neither Mary nor she attempted more than a formal salutation, but she

discoursed languidly with Constance for some minutes. Stefan, who had

been eating ice cream like a schoolboy with two pretty girls at the

other side of the tent, came forward on seeing the new arrival, and

after a good deal of undecided fidgeting, and a “See you later” to

Mary, wandered off with Miss Berber and disappeared for the rest of the

afternoon. In spite of her best efforts, Mary's spirits were completely

dashed by this episode, but they rose again when Stefan met her at the

Pennsylvania Station and traveled home with her. As they emerged from

the speech-deadening roar of the tunnel he said casually, “Felicity

Berber is an amusing creature, but she's a good deal of a bore at

times.” Mary took his hand under the folds of their newspaper.

VII

On the evening of their departure Mary parted from her baby with a pang,

but she knew him to be in the best of hands, and felt no anxiety as

to his welfare. The nurse she had obtained was a friend of Miss

McCullock's, and a most efficient and kindly young woman.

Their journey up to town reminded Mary of their first journey from

Shadeham, so full of spirits and enthusiasm was Stefan. The whole

party met at the Grand Central, and boarded the train amid laughter,

introductions, and much gay talk. Constance scintillated. The solid Mr.

Elliot was quite shaken out of his sobriety, McEwan's grin was at its

broadest, Farraday's smile its pleasantest, and the three young women

whom Constance had collected bubbled and shrilled merrily.

Only Gunther appeared untouched by the holiday atmosphere. He towered

over the rest of the party calm and direct, disposing of porters and

hand-baggage with an unruffled perfection of address. Mary, watching

him, pulled Stefan's sleeve.

“Look,” she said, pointing to two long ribbons of narrow wood lashed to

some other impedimenta of Gunther's. “Skis, Stefan, how thrilling! I've

never seen them used.”

Stefan nodded. “I'd like to get a drawing of that chap in action. His

lines are magnificent,” Mary had never been in a sleeping car before,

and was fascinated to see the sloping ceilings of the state-rooms change

like pantomime trick into beds under the deft handling of the porter.

She liked the white coat of this autocrat of the road, and the smart,

muslin trimmings of the colored maid. She and Stefan had the compartment

next their host's; Farraday and McEwan shared one beyond; Gunther and

his skis and Walter, the Elliot's younger son, completely filled the

next; Mrs. Thayer, a cheerful young widow, and Miss Baxter and Miss Van

Sittart, the two girls of the party, occupied the remaining three. The

drawing room had been left empty to serve as a general overflow. To

this high-balls, coffee, milk and sandwiches were borne by white-draped

waiters from the buffet, and set upon a magically installed table. Mrs.

Thayer, Constance, and the men fell upon the stronger beverages, while

Mary and the girls divided the milk.

Under cover of the general chatter McEwan raised his glass to Constance.

“I take off my hat to you, Mrs. Elliot, for a stage manager,” he

whispered, glancing at the other women. “A black-haired soubrette, a

brown pony, and a redheaded slip; no rivals to the leading lady in this

show!”

Their train reached Burlington in a flurry of snow, and they were

bundled into big, two-seated sleighs for the drive out of the city.

Mary, wrapped in her fur-lined coat and covered with a huge bearskin,

watched with interest the tidy, dignified little town speed by. Even

Stefan was willing to admit it had some claims to the picturesque, but a

little way beyond, when they came to the open country, he gave almost a

whoop of satisfaction. Before them stretched tumbled hills, converging

on an icebound lake. Their snowy sides glittered pink in the sun and

purple in the shadows; they reared their frosted crests as if in welcome

of the morning; behind them the sky gleamed opalescent. Stefan leant

forward in the speeding sleigh as if to urge it with the sway of his

body, the frosty air stung his nostrils, the breath of the horses

trailed like smoke, the road seemed leading up to the threshold of the

world. The speed of their cold flight was in tune with the frozen dance

of the hills--Stefan whooped again, intoxicated, the others laughed

back at him and cheered, Mary's face glowed with delight, they were like

children in their joy.

The Elliot house lay in a high fold of the hills, overlooking the lake,

and almost out of sight of other buildings. Within, all was spacious

warmth and the crackle of great wood fires; on every side the icy view,

seen through wide windows, contrasted with the glowing colors of the

rooms. A steaming breakfast waited to fortify the hastily drunk coffee

of the train. After it, when the Byrds found themselves in their cozy

bedroom with its old New England furniture and blue-tiled bathroom,

Stefan, waltzing round the room, fairly hugged Mary in excited glee.

“What fun, Beautiful, what a lovely place, what air, what snow!” She

laughed with him, her own heart bounding with unwonted excitement.

The six-day party was a marked success throughout. Even the two young

girls were satisfied, for Constance contrived the appearance of several

stalwart youths of the neighborhood to help her son leaven the group

of older men. Mrs. Thayer flirted pleasantly and wittily with whoever

chanced to be at hand, Mr. Elliot hobnobbed with Farraday and made

touchingly laborious efforts to be frivolous, and McEwan kept the

household laughing at his gambols, heavy as those of a St. Bernard pup.

Constance darted from group to group like a purposeful humming-bird, but

did not lack the supreme gift of a hostess--that of leaving her guests

reasonably alone. All the women were inclined to hover about Byrd, who,

with Gunther, represented the most attractive male element. As the women

were sufficiently pretty and intelligent, Stefan enjoyed their notice,

but Gunther stalked away from them like a great hound surrounded by

lap-dogs. He was invariably courteous to his hostess, but had eyes only

for Mary. Never seeming to follow her, and rarely talking to her

alone, he was yet always to be found within a few yards of the spot she

happened to occupy. Farraday would watch her from another room, or talk

with her in his slow, kind way, and Wallace always drew her into his

absurd games or his sessions at the piano. But Gunther neither watched

nor chattered, he simply _was_, seeming to draw a silent and complete

satisfaction from her nearness. Of the men he took only cursory notice,

talking sometimes with Stefan on art, or with Farraday on life, but

never seeking their society.

Indoors Gunther seemed negative, outdoors he became godlike. The Elliots

possessed a little Norwegian sleigh they had brought from Europe. It was

swan-shaped, stood on low wooden runners, and was brightly painted

in the Norse manner. This Gunther found in the stable, and, promptly

harnessing to it the fastest horse, drove round to the house. Striding

into the hall, where the party was discussing plans for the day, he

planted himself before Mary, and invited her to drive. The others,

looking out of the window, exclaimed with pleasure at the pretty little

sleigh, and Mary gladly threw on her cap and coat. Gunther tucked her

in and started without a word. They were a mile from the house before he

broke silence.

“This sleigh comes from my country, Mrs. Byrd; I wish I could drive you

there in it.”

He did not speak again, and Mary was glad to enjoy the exhilarating air

in silence. By several roads they had gradually climbed a hillside. Now

from below they could see the house at some distance to their right, and

another road running in one long slope almost straight to it from where

they sat. Gunther suddenly stood up in the sleigh, braced his feet, and

wrapped a rein round each arm.

“Now we will drive,” said he. They started, they gathered speed, they

flew, the horse threw himself into a stretching gallop, the sleigh

rocked, it leapt like a dashing wave. Gunther half crouched, swaying

with it. The horse raced, his flanks stretched to the snow. Mary clung

to her seat breathless and tense with excitement--she looked up at the

driver. His blue eyes blazed, his lips smiled above a tight-set jaw, he

looked down, and meeting her eyes laughed triumphantly. Expanding his

great chest he uttered a wild, exultant cry--they seemed to be rushing

off the world's rim. She could see nothing but the blinding fume of the

upflung snow. She, too, wanted to cry aloud. Then their pace slackened,

she could see the road, black trees, a wall, a house. They drove into

the courtyard and stopped.

The hall door was flung open. They were met by a group of faces excited

and alarmed. Gunther, his eyes still blazing, helped her down and,

throwing the reins to a waiting stable-boy, strode silently past the

guests and up to his room.

“Good heavens! you might have been killed,” fussed Mr. Elliot. Farraday

looked pale, the women laughed excitedly.

“Mary,” cried Stefan, his face flashing with eagerness, “you weren't

frightened, were you?”

She shook her head, still breathless.

“It was glorious, you were like storm gods. I've never seen anything so

inspiring.” And he embraced her before them all.

After this episode Gunther resumed his impassive manner, nor did any

other of their outdoor sports draw from him the strange, exultant look

he had given Mary in the sleigh. But his feats on the toboggan slide and

with his skis were sufficiently daring to supply the party with liberal

thrills. His obvious skill gained him the captaincy of the toboggan, but

after his exhibition of driving, most of the women hesitated at first

to form one of his crew. Mary, however, who was quite fearless and

fascinated by this new sport, dashed down with him and the other men

again and again, and was, with her white wraps and brilliant pink

cheeks, as McEwan had prophesied, “the queen of the slide.”

Stefan was intoxicated by the tobogganing, and though he was only less

new to it than Mary he soon became expert. But on his skis the great

Norwegian was alone, the whole party turning out to watch whenever

he strapped them to his feet. His daring leaps were, Stefan said,

the nearest thing to flying he had ever seen. “For I don't count

aeroplanes--they are mere machinery.”

“Ah, if the lake were frozen enough for ice-boating,” replied Gunther,

“I could show you something nearer still. But they tell me there is

little chance till February for more than in-shore skating.”

Only in this last named sport had Gunther a rival, Stefan making up in

grace what he lacked in practice. Beside his, the Norwegian's skating

was powerful, but too unbending.

Mary, owing to the open English winters, had had less experience than

any one there, but she was so much more graceful and athletic than the

other women that she soon outstripped them. She skated almost entirely

with Stefan, only once with Gunther, who, since his strange look in the

sleigh, a little troubled her. On that one occasion he tore round the

clear ice at breakneck speed, halting her dramatically, by sheer weight,

a few inches from the bank, where she arrived breathless and thrilled.

Seeing her thus at her best, happy and admired, and full of vigorous

life, Stefan found himself almost as much in love as in the early weeks

of their marriage.

“You are more beautiful than ever, Mary,” he exclaimed; “there is an

added life and strength in you; you are triumphant.”

It was a joy again to feel her in his arms, to know that they were each

other's. After his troubled flights he came back to her love with a

feeling of deep spiritual peace. The night, when he could be alone with

her, became the happy climax of the day.

The amusements of the week ended in an impromptu dance which Constance

arranged by a morning at the telephone. For this, Mary donned her main

extravagance, a dress of rainbow colored silk gauze, cut short to the

ankle, and worn with pale pink slippers. She had found it “marked

down” at a Fifth Avenue house, and had been told it was a model dubbed

“Aurora.” With it she wore her mother's pearl ornaments. Stefan was

entranced by the result, and Constance almost wept with satisfaction.

“Oh, Mary Byrd,” she cried, hugging her daintily to avoid crushing the

frock; “you are the best thing that has happened in my family since my

mother-in-law quit living with me.”