The Nest Builder Part 51

"I expect the fellow's right," he said. "I don't think my soul was as strong on wings in the old days as my brush was. Without joking, though," he went on, suddenly grave, "I don't know if there is such a thing as a soul, but if there is, such splendid ones were being spilled out there that I think, perhaps, Mary, I may have picked a bit of one up."

"Dearest," said Mary, with a kiss of comprehension, "I'm so proud of you. You are great, a great artist, and a great spirit." And she kissed him again, her eyes shining.

If the Byrdsnest was proud in November of its distinguished head, it positively bristled with importance in December, when Constantine telephoned that the trustees of the Metropolitan were negotiating for Stefan's whole series. This possibility had already been spoken of in the press, though the family had not dared hope too much from the suggestion.

The Museum bought the drawings, and Stefan took his place as one of America's great artists.

"Mary, I'm so glad I can be useful again, as well as ornamental," he grinned, presenting to her with a flourish a delightfully substantial cheque.

His courage, and his happiness in his success, were an increasing joy to Mary. She blossomed in her pride of him, and the old glowing look came back to her face.

Only one thing--besides her anxiety for his health--troubled her. With all his tenderness to her, and his renewed love, he still remained a stranger to his children. He seemed proud of their healthy beauty, and glad of Mary's happiness in them; but their nearness bored and tired him, and they, quick to perceive this, became hopelessly unresponsive in his presence. Ellie would back solemnly away from the approaching chair, and Rosamond would hang mute upon her mother's shoulder. "It's strange,"

Mary said to the Sparrow, who was quick to notice any failure to appreciate her adored charges; "they're his own, and yet he hasn't the key to them. I suppose it's because he's a genius, and too far apart from ordinary people to understand just little human babies."

The thought stirred faintly the memory of her old wound.

V

That Christmas, for the first time in its history, the Byrdsnest held high festival. House and studio were decorated, and in the afternoon there was a Christmas-tree party for all the old friends and their children.

The dining-room had been closed since the night before in order to facilitate Santa Clans' midnight spiritings.

When all the guests had arrived, and Stefan had been wheeled in from the studio, the mysterious door was at last thrown open, revealing the tree in all its glory, rooted in a floor of glittering snow, with its topmost star sc.r.a.ping the ceiling.

With shouts the older children surrounded it; Ellie followed more slowly, awed by such splendor; and Rosamond crept after, drawn irresistibly by a hundred glittering lures.

Crawling from guest to guest, her tiny hands clutching toys as big as herself, her dark eyes brilliant, her small red mouth emitting coos of rapture, she enchanted the men, and drew positive tears of delight from Constance.

"Oh, Walter!" she cried, shaking her son with viciousness, "how could you have been so monotonous as to be born a boy?"

After a time Mary noticed that Stefan was being tired by the hubbub, and signaled an adjournment to the studio for tea and calm. The elders trooped out; the children fell upon the viands; and Miss Mason caught Rosamond by the petticoat as she endeavored to creep out after Gunther, whose great size seemed to fascinate her.

The sculptor had given Mary a bronze miniature of his now famous "Pioneers" group. It was a beautiful thing, and Constance and James were anxious to know if other copies were to be obtained.

"No," Gunther answered them laconically, "I have only had three cast.

One the President wished to have, the second is for myself, and Mrs.

Byrd, as the original of the woman, naturally has the third."

"Couldn't you cast one or two more?" Constance pleaded.

"No," he replied, "I should not care to do so."

Stefan examined the bronze with interest, his keen eyes traveling from the man's figure to the woman's.

"It's very good of you both," he said, looking from Gunther to Mary, with a trace of his old teasing smile. Mary blushed slightly. For some reason which she did not a.n.a.lyze she was a trifle embarra.s.sed at seeing herself perpetuated in bronze as the companion of the sculptor.

When the guests began to leave, Mary urged the Farradays to remain a little longer. "It's only five o'clock," she reminded them.

Mrs. Farraday settled herself comfortably, and drew out her khaki-colored knitting. James lit his pipe, and Stefan wheeled forward to the glow of the fire, fitting a cigarette into his new amber holder.

"I have a letter from Wallace," said James, "that I've been waiting to read you. Shall I do so now?"

"Oh, do!" exclaimed Mary, "we shall love to hear it. Wait a moment, though, while I fetch Rosamond--the Sparrow can't attend to them both at once _and_ help Lily."

She returned in a moment with the sleepy baby.

"I'll have to put her to bed soon," she said, settling into a low rocking chair, "but it isn't quite time yet. I suppose Jamie has heard his father's letter?"

"Oh, yes," said James, "and has dozens of his own, too."

"He's such a dear boy," Mary continued, "he's playing like an angel with Ellie in there, while the Sparrow flits."

James unfolded Mac's closely written sheets, and read his latest accounts of the officers' training corps with which he had been for the last six months, the gossip that filtered to them from the front, and his expectation of being soon gazetted to a Highland Regiment.

"The waiting is hard, but when once I get with our own lads in the trenches I'll be the happiest man alive," wrote Mac.

"Meanwhile, I think a lot of all you dear people. I'm more than happy in what you tell me of Byrd's success and of the bairns' and Mary's well being. Give them all my love and congratulations."

James turned the last page, and paused. "I think that's about all," he said.

But it was not all. While the others sat silent for a minute, their thoughts on the great struggle, Farraday's eyes ran again down that last page.

"Poor Byrd," Mac wrote, "so you say he'll not last many years. Well, life would have broken him anyway, and it's grand he's found himself before the end. He's not the lasting kind, there's too much in him, and too little. She wins, after all, James; life won't cheat her as it has him. She is here just to be true to her instincts--to choose the finest mate for her nest-building. She'll marry again, though the dear woman doesn't know it, and would be horrified at the thought. But she will, and it won't be either of us--we are too much her kind.

It will be some other brilliant egoist who will thrill her, grind her heart, and give her wonderful children. She is an instrument.

As I think I once heard poor Byrd say, she is not merely an expression of life, she is life."

James folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.

"Come, son, we must be going," murmured Mrs. Farraday, putting up her knitting.

"Rosamond is almost asleep," smiled Mary.

"Don't rise, my dear," said the little lady, "we'll find our own way."

"Good-bye, Farraday," said Stefan, "and thank you for everything."

Mary held out her hand to them both, and they slipped quietly out.

"What a good day it has been, dearest. I hope you aren't too tired," she said, as she rocked the drowsy baby.

"No, Beautiful, only a little."

He dropped his burnt-out cigarette into the ash-tray at his side. The rocker creaked rhythmically.

"Mary, I want to draw Rosamond," said Stefan thoughtfully.