The Nest Builder Part 28

"Surely not getting into mischief, are you, Felicity?" she mentally questioned, and instantly began to east about for two and two to put together.

"Wonderful!" Stefan was saying. "You surely must have wings--great, b.u.t.terfly ones--only we are too dull to see them. You were exactly like one of my pictures come to life." He was visibly excited.

"Husband disposed of, available lovers unattractive, asks me to drive her out here; that's one half," Constance's mind raced. "Wife on the shelf, variable temperament, studio in town; and that's the other. I've found two and two; I hope to goodness they won't make four," she sighed to herself anxiously.

Mary meanwhile was thanking Miss Berber. She noticed that the dancer was perfectly cool--not a hair ruffled by her efforts. She looked as smooth as a bird that draws in its feathers after flight. Stefan was probably observing this, too, she thought; at any rate he was hovering about, staring at Felicity, and running his hands through his hair. Mary could not be sure of his expression; he seemed uneasy, as if discomfort mingled with his pleasure.

They had had a rare and lovely entertainment, and yet no one appeared wholly pleased except the dancer herself. It was very odd.

Constance looked at her watch. "Now, Felicity, this has all been ideal, but we must be getting on. I 'phoned James, you know, and we are lunching there. I was sure Mrs. Byrd wouldn't want to be bothered with us."

Mary demurred, with a word as to Lily's capacities, but Constance was firm.

"No, my dear, it's all arranged. Besides, you need peace and quiet. Felicity, where are your things? Thank you, Mr. Byrd, in the sitting-room. Mary, you dear, I adore you and your house--I shall come again soon. Where are my gloves?" She was all energy, helping Felicity with her veil, settling her own hat, kissing Mary, and cranking the runabout--an operation she would not allow Stefan to attempt for her--with her usual effervescent efficiency. "I'd no idea it was so late!" she exclaimed.

As Felicity was handed by Stefan into the car, she murmured something in French, Constance noticed, to which he shook his head with a nervous frown. As the machine started, he was left staring moodily after it down the lane.

"Thee is earlier than I expected," little Mrs. Farraday said to Constance, when they arrived at the house. "I am afraid we shall have to keep thee waiting for thy lunch for half an hour or more."

"How glad I shall be--" Stefan turned to Mary, half irritably--"when this baby is born, and you can be active again."

He ate his lunch in silence, and left the table abruptly at the end. Nor did she see him again until dinner time, when he came in tired out, his boots whitened with road dust.

"Where have you been, dearest?" she asked. "I've been quite anxious about you."

"Just walking," he answered shortly, and went up to his room. The tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them away resolutely. She must not mind, must not show him that she even dreamed of any connection between his moodiness and the events of the morning.

"My love must be stronger than that, now of all times," thought Mary.

"Afterwards--afterwards it will be all right." She smiled confidently to herself.

VI

It was the end of June. Mary's rosebushes were in full bloom and the little garden was languid with the scent of them. The nesting birds had all hatched their broods--every morning now Mary watched from her bedroom window the careful parents carrying worms and insects into the trees. She always looked for them the moment she got up. She would have loved to hang far out of the window as she used to do in her old home in England, and call good-morning to her little friends--but she was hemmed in by the bronze wire of the windowscreens. These affected her almost like prison bars; but Long Island's summer scourge had come, and after a few experiences of nights sung sleepless by the persistent horn of the enemy and made agonizing by his sting, she welcomed the screens as deliverers. The mosquitoes apart, Mary had adored the long, warm days--not too hot as yet on the Byrdsnest's shady eminence--and the perpetually smiling skies, so different from the sulky heavens of England. But she began to feel very heavy, and found it increasingly difficult to keep cool, so that she counted the days till her deliverance. She felt no fear of what was coming. Dr. Hillyard had a.s.sured her that she was normal in every respect--"as completely normal a woman as I have ever seen," she put it--and should have no complications. Moreover, Mary had obtained from her doctor a detailed description of what lay before her, and had read one or two hand-books on the subject, so that she was spared the fearful imaginings and reliance on old wives' tales which are the results of the ancient policy of surrounding normal functions with mystery.

Now the nurse was here, a tall, grave-eyed Canadian girl, quiet of speech, silent in every movement. Mary had wondered if she ought to go into Dr. Hillyard's hospital, and was infinitely relieved to have her a.s.surance that it was unnecessary. She wanted her baby to be born here in the country, in the sweet place she had prepared for it, surrounded by those she loved. Everything here was perfect for the advent--she could ask for nothing more. True, she was seeking comparatively little of Stefan, but she knew he was busily painting, and he was uniformly kind and affectionate when they were together. He had not been to town for over two months.

Mrs. Farraday was a frequent caller, and Mary had grown sincerely to love the sweet-faced old lady, who would drive up in a low pony chaise, bringing offerings of fruit and vegetables, or quaint preserves from recipes unknown to Mary, which had been put up under her own direction.

Then, too, McEwan would appear at week-ends or in the evening, tramping down the lane to hail the house in absurd varieties of the latest New York slang, which, never failed to amuse Mary. The shy Jamie was often with her; they were now the most intimate of friends. He would show her primitive tools and mechanical contrivances of his own making, and she would tell him stories of Scotland, of Prince Charlie and Flora, of Bruce and Wallace, of Bannockburn, or of James, the poet king. Of these she had a store, having been brought up, as many English girls happily are, on the history and legends of the island, rather than on less robust feminine fare.

Farraday, too, sometimes dropped in in the evening, to sit on the porch with Stefan and Mary and talk quietly of books and the like.

Occasionally he came with McEwan or Jamie; he never came alone--though this she had not noticed--at hours when Stefan was unlikely to be with her.

At the suggestion of Mrs. Farraday, whose word was the social law of the district, the most charming women in the neighborhood had called on Mary, so that her circle of acquaintances was now quite wide. She had had in addition several visits from Constance, and the Sparrow had spent a week-end with them, chirping admiration of the place and encomiums of her friend's housekeeping. But Mary liked best to be with Stefan, or to dream alone through the hushed, sunlit hours amid her small tasks of house and garden. Now that the nurse was here, occupying the little bedroom opening from Mary's room, the final preparations had been made; there was nothing left to do but wait.

Miss McCullock had been with them three days, and Stefan had become used to her quiet presence, when late one evening certain small symptoms told her that Mary's time had come. Stefan, entering the hall, found her at the telephone. "Dr. Hillyard will be here in about an hour and a quarter," she said quietly, hanging up the receiver. "Do you know if she has driven out before? If not, it might be well for you, Mr. Byrd, to walk to the foot of the lane soon, and be ready to signal the turning to her." Miss McCullock always distrusted the nerves of husbands on these occasions, and planned adroitly to get them out of the way.

Stefan stared at her as flabbergasted as if this emergency had not been hourly expected. "Do you mean," he gasped, "that Mary is ill?"

"She is not ill, Mr. Byrd, but the baby will probably be born before morning."

"My G.o.d!" said Stefan, suddenly blanching. He had not faced this moment, had not thought about it, had indeed hardly thought about Mary's motherhood at all except to deplore its toll upon her bodily beauty. He had tried for her sake, harder than she knew, to appear sympathetic, but in his heart the whole thing presented itself as nature's grotesque price for the early rapture of their love. That the price might be tragic as well as grotesque had only now come home to him. He dropped on a chair, his memory flying back to the one other such event in which he had had part. He saw himself thrust from his mother's door--he heard her shrieks--felt himself fly again into the rain. His forehead was wet; cold tingles ran to his fingertips.

The nurse's voice sounded, calm and pleasant, above him. A whiff of brandy met his nostrils. "You'd better drink this, Mr. Byrd, and then in a minute you might go and see Mrs. Byrd. You will feel better after that, I think."

He drank, then looked up, haggard.

"They'll give her plenty of chloroform, won't they?" he whispered, catching the nurse's hand. She smiled rea.s.suringly. "Don't worry, Mr.

Byrd, your wife is in splendid condition, and ether will certainly be given when it becomes advisable."

The brandy was working now and his nerves had steadied, but he found the nurse's manner maddeningly calm. "I'll go to Mary," he muttered, and, brus.h.i.+ng past her, sprang up the stairs.

What he expected to see he did not know, but his heart pounded as he opened the bedroom door. The room was bright with lamplight, and in spotless order. At her small writing-table sat Mary, in a loose white dressing gown, her hair in smooth braids around her head, writing. What was she doing? Was she leaving some last message for him, in case--? He felt himself grow cold again. "Mary!" he exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely.

She looked round, and called joyfully to him.

"Oh, darling, there you are. I'm getting everything ready. It's coming, Stefan dearest. I'm so happy!" Her face was excited, radiant.

He ran to her with a groan of relief, and, kneeling, caught her face to his. "Oh, Beautiful, you're all right then? She told me--I was afraid--"

he stumbled, inarticulate.

She stroked his cheek comfortingly. "Dearest, isn't it wonderful--just think--by to-morrow our baby will be here." She kissed him, between happy tears and laughter.

"You are not in pain, darling? You're all right? What were you writing when I came in?" he stammered, anxiously.

"I'm putting all the accounts straight, and paying all the bills to date, so that Lily won't have any trouble while I'm laid up," she beamed.

Stefan stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, then burst into half-hysterical laughter.

"Oh, you marvel," he gasped, "G.o.ddess of efficiency, unshakable Olympian! Bills! And I thought you were writing me a farewell message."

"Silly boy," she replied. "The bills have got to be paid; a nice muddle you would be in if you had them to do yourself. But, dearest--" her face grew suddenly grave and she took his hand--"listen. I _have_ written you something--it's there--" her fingers touched an elastic bound pile of papers. "I'm perfectly well, but if anything _should_ happen, I want my sister to have the baby. Because I think, dear--" she stroked his hand with a look of compa.s.sionate understanding--"that without me you would not want it very much. Miss Mason would take it to England for you, and you could make my sister an allowance. I've left you her address, and all that I can think of to suggest."

He gazed at her dumbly. Her face glowed with life and beauty, her voice was sweet and steady. There she sat, utterly mistress of herself, in the shadow of life and death. Was it that her imagination was transcendent, or that she had none? He did not know, he did not understand her, but in that moment he could have said his prayers at her feet.

The nurse entered. "Now, Mr. Byrd, I think if you could go to the end of the lane and be looking out for the doctor? Mrs. Byrd ought to have her bath."

Stefan departed. In a dream he walked to the lane's end and waited there. He was thinking of Mary, perhaps for the first time, not as a beautiful object of love and inspiration, nor as his companion, but as a woman. What was this calm strength, this cert.i.tude of hers? Why did her every word and act seem to move straight forward, while his wheeled and circled? What was it that Mary had that he had not? Of what was her inmost fiber made? It came to him that for all their loving pa.s.sages his wife was a stranger to him, and a stranger whom he had never sought to know. He felt ashamed.

It was about eleven o'clock when the distance was p.r.i.c.ked by two points of light, which, gradually expanding, proved to be the head-lamps of the doctor's car. She stopped at his hail and he climbed beside her.

"I'm glad you came, though I think I know the turning," said Dr.

Hillyard cheerfully.