The Nest Builder Part 27

"Look at her pair of love-birds sidling along the curtain pole, as tame as humans! Where did you find that wooden cage? And that white cotton dress? You smell of lavender and an ironing-board! Oh, dear," she began again, "driving is very wearing, and I should like a c.o.c.ktail, but I must have milk. Milk, my dear Mary, is the only conceivable beverage in this house. Have you a cow? You ought to have a cow--a brindled cow--also a lamb; 'Mary had,' et cetera. My dear, stop me. Enthusiasm converts me into an 'agreeable rattle,' as they used to call our great-grandmothers."

"Subdue yourself with this," laughed Mary, holding out the desired gla.s.s of milk. "Miss Berber, can I get anything for you?"

Felicity by this time was unwrapped, and had disposed herself upon a window-seat, her back to the light.

"Wine or water, Mrs. Byrd; I do not drink milk," she breathed, lighting a cigarette.

"We have some Chianti; nothing else, I'm afraid," said Mary, and a gla.s.s of this the designer deigned to accept, together with a little yellow cake set with currants, and served upon a pewter plate.

"I see, Mrs. Byrd," Felicity murmured, as Constance in momentary silence sipped her milk, "that you comprehend the first law of decoration for woman--that her accessories must be a frame for her type. I--how should I appear in a room like this?" She gave a faint shrug. "At best, a false tone in a chromatic harmony. You are entirely in key."

Her eyelids drooped; she exhaled a long breath of smoke. "Very well thought out--unusually clever--for a layman," she uttered, and was still, with the suggestion of a sibyl whose oracle has ceased to speak.

Mary tried not to find her manner irritating, but could not wholly dispel the impression that Miss Berber habitually patronized her.

She laughed pleasantly.

"I'm afraid I can't claim to have been guided by any subtle theories--I have merely collected together the kind of things I am fond of."

"Mary decorates with her heart, Felicity, you with your head," said Constance, setting down her empty tumbler.

"I'm afraid I should find the heart too erratic a guide to art.

Knowledge, Mrs. Byrd, knowledge must supplement feeling," said Felicity, with a gesture of finality.

"Really!" answered Mary, falling back upon her most correct English manner. There was nothing else to say. "She is either cheeky, or a bromide," she thought.

"Felicity," exclaimed Constance, "don't adopt your professional manner; you can't take us in. You know you are an outrageous humbug."

"Dear Connie," replied the other with the ghost of a smile, "you are always so amusing, and so much more wide awake in the morning than I am."

Conversation languished for a minute, Constance having embarked on a cake. For some reason which she could not a.n.a.lyze, Mary felt in no great hurry to call Stefan from the barn, should he be there.

Felicity rose. "May we not see your garden, Mrs. Byrd?"

"Certainly," said Mary, and led the way to the door. Felicity slipped out first, and wandered with her delicate step a little down the path.

"Isn't it darling!" exclaimed Constance from the porch, surveying the flower-strewn gra.s.s, the feathery trees, and the pale gleam of the water. Mary began to show her some recent plantings, in particular a rose-bed which was her last addition to the garden.

"I see you have a barn," said Felicity, flitting back to them with a hint of animation. "Is it picturesque inside? Would it lend itself to treatment?" She wandered toward it, and there was nothing for the others to do but follow.

"Oh, yes," explained Mary, "my husband has converted it into a studio.

He may be working there now--I had been meaning to call him."

She felt a trifle uncomfortable, almost as if she had put herself in the wrong.

"Coo-oo, Stefan," she called as they neared the barn, Felicity still flitting ahead. The door swung open, and there stood Stefan, pallette in hand, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes in the sun.

As they lit on his approaching visitor an expression first of astonishment, and then of something very like displeasure, crossed his face. At sight of it, Mary's spirits subconsciously responded by a distinct upward lift. Stefan waved his brush without shaking hands, and then, seeing Constance, broke into a smile.

"How delightful, Mrs. Elliot! How did you come? By auto? And you drove Miss Berber? We are honored. You are our first visitors except the Farradays. Come and see my studio."

They trooped into the quaint little barn, which appeared to wear its big north light rather primly, as a girl her first low-necked gown. It was unfurnished, save for a table and easel, several canvases, and an old arm-chair. Felicity glanced at the sketches.

"In pastoral mood again," she commented, with what might have been the faintest note of sarcasm. Stefan's eyebrows twitched nervously.

"There's nothing to see in here-these are the merest sketches," he said abruptly. "Come along, Mrs. Elliot, I've been working since before breakfast; let's say good-morning to the flowers." And with his arm linked through hers he piloted Constance back toward the lawn.

"Mr. Byrd ought never to wear tweed, do you think? It makes him look heavy," remarked Felicity.

Again Mary had to suppress a feeling of irritation. "I rather like it,"

she said. "It's so comfy and English."

"Yes?" breathed Felicity vaguely, walking on.

Suddenly she appeared to have a return of animation.

She floated forward quickly for a few steps, turned with a swaying movement, and waited for Mary with hands and feet poised.

"The gra.s.s under one's feet, Mrs. Byrd, it makes them glad. One could almost dance!"

Again she fluttered ahead, this time overtaking Constance and Stefan, who had halted in the middle of the lawn. She swayed before them on tiptoe.

"Connie," she was saying as Mary came up, "why does one not more often dance in the open?"

Though her lids still drooped she was half smiling as she swayed.

"It may be the spring; or perhaps I have caught the pastoral mood of Mr.

Byrd's work; but I should like to dance a little. Music," her palms were lifted in repudiation, "is unnecessary. One has the birds."

"Good for you, Felicity! That _will_ be fun," Constance exclaimed delightedly. "You don't dance half often enough, bad girl. Come along, people, let's sit on the porch steps."

They arranged themselves to watch, Constance and Mary on the upper step, Stefan on the lower, his shoulders against his wife's knees, while Felicity dexterously slipped off her sandals and stockings.

Her dress, modeled probably on that of the central figure in Botticelli's Spring, was of white chiffon, embroidered with occasional formal sprigs of green leaves and hyacinth-blue flowers, and kilted up at bust and thigh. Her loosely draped sleeves hung barely to the elbow.

A line of green crossed from the shoulders under each breast, and her hair, tightly bound, was decorated with another narrow band of green.

She looked younger than in the city--almost virginal. Stooping low, she gathered a handful of blue scylla from the gra.s.s, Mary barely checking an exclamation at this ravis.h.i.+ng of her beloved bulbs. Then Felicity lay down upon the gra.s.s; her eyes closed; she seemed asleep. They waited silently for some minutes. Stefan began to fidget.

Suddenly a robin called. Felicity's eyes opened. They looked calm and dewy, like a child's. She raised her head--the robin called again.

Felicity looked about her, at the flowers in her hand, the trees, the sky. Her face broke into smiles, she rose tall, taller, feet on tiptoe, hands reaching skyward. It was the waking of spring. Then she began to dance.

Gone was the old languor, the dreamy, hushed steps of her former method.

Now she appeared to dart about the lawn like a swallow, following the calls of the birds. She would stand poised to listen, her ear would catch a twitter, and she was gone; flitting, skimming, seeming not to touch the earth. She danced to the flowers in her hand, to the trees, the sky, her face aglint with changing smiles, her skirts rippling like water.

At last the blue flowers seemed to claim her solely. She held them sunward, held them close, always swaying to the silent melody of the spring. She kissed them, pressed them to her heart; she sank downward, like a bird with folding wings, above a clump of scylla; her arms encircled them, her head bent to her knees--she was still.

Constance broke the spell with prolonged applause; Mary was breathless with admiration; Stefan rose, and after prowling restlessly for a moment, hurried to the dancer and stooped to lift her.

As if only then conscious of her audience, Felicity looked up, and both the other women noticed the expression that flashed across her face before she took the proffered hand. It seemed compounded of triumph, challenge, and something else. Mary again felt uncomfortable, and Constance's quick brain signaled a warning.