The Nest Builder Part 10

"Business, business," interjected McEwan, who, Mary was amused to observe, approximated much more to the popular idea of an American than did his friend. "I've brought you a find, Farraday. This lady writes for children--she's printed stuff in England. I haven't read it, but I know it's good because I've seen her telling stories to the kids by the hour aboard s.h.i.+p, and you couldn't budge them. You can see," he waved his hand at her, "that her copy would be out of the ordinary run."

This absurdity would have embarra.s.sed Mary but that Mr. Farraday turned on her a smile which seemed to make them allies in their joint comprehension of McEwan's advocacy.

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

"I've told her if it's good enough for our magazine it's two hundred dollars good enough. There's the script." He took it from her, and flattened it out on Farraday's table. "Look it over and write her."

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

"I'll remember that," McEwan nodded; "coming round to see you. There you are, James. We won't keep you. You have no time and I have less. Come on, Mrs. Byrd." He made for the door, but Farraday lifted his hand.

"Too fast, Mac," he smiled. "I haven't had a chance yet. A mere American can't keep pace with the dynamic energy you store in Scotland. Where does it come from? Do you do nothing but sleep there?"

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

laughed Mary.

"He has no need to practise. You should have heard him when he first came over," said Farraday.

"Well, if you two are going to discuss me, I'll leave you at it; I'm not a highbrow editor; I'm the poor ad man--my time means money to me."

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

"Won't you sit down again, Mrs. Byrd? I'd like to ask you a few questions," interposed Farraday, who had been turning the pages of Mary's ma.n.u.script. "Mac, you be off. I can't focus my mind in the presence of a human gyroscope."

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

"But don't you be taken in by him; he likes to pretend he's slow, but he's really as quick as a buzz-saw. See you soon," and with a final wave of the hand he was gone.

"Now tell me a little about your work," said Farraday, turning on Mary his kind but penetrating glance. She told him she had published three or four stories, and in what magazines.

"I only began to write fiction a year ago," she explained. "Before that I'd done nothing except scribble a little verse at home."

"What kind of verse?"

"Oh, just silly little children's rhymes."

"Have you sold any of them?"

"No, I never tried."

"I should like to see them," he said, to her surprise. "I could use them perhaps if they were good. As for this story," he turned the pages, "I see you have an original idea. A child bird-tamer, dumb, whose power no one can explain. Before they talk babies can understand the birds, but as soon as they learn to speak they forget bird language. This child is dumb, so he remembers, but can't tell any one. Very pretty."

Mary gasped at his accurate summary of her idea. He seemed to have photographed the pages in his mind at a glance.

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

His smile rea.s.sured her.

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

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

The style is good, and individual." He touched a bell, and handed the ma.n.u.script to an answering office boy. "Ask Miss Haviland to read this, and report to me to-day," he ordered.

"I rarely have time to read ma.n.u.scripts myself," he went on, "but Miss Haviland is my a.s.sistant for our children's magazine. If her judgment confirms mine, as I feel sure it will, we will mail you a cheque to-night, Mrs. Byrd--according to our friend McEwan's instructions--"

and he smiled.

Mary blushed with pleasure, and again rose to go, with an attempt at thanks. The telephone bell had twice, with a mere thread of sound, announced a summons. The editor took up the receiver. "Yes, in five minutes," he answered, hanging up and turning again to Mary.

"Don't go yet, Mrs. Byrd; allow me the luxury of postponing other business for a moment. We do not meet a new contributor and a new citizen every day." He leant back with an air of complete leisure, turning to her his kindly, open smile. She felt wonderfully at her ease, as though this man and she were old acquaintances. He asked more about her work and that of her husband.

"We like to have some personal knowledge of our authors; it helps us in criticism and suggestion," he explained.

Mary described Stefan's success in Paris, and mentioned his sketches of downtown New York. Farraday looked interested.

"I should like to see those," he said. "We have an ill.u.s.trated review in which we sometimes use such things. If you are bringing me your verses, your husband might care to come too, and show me the drawings."

Again the insistent telephone purred, and this time he let Mary go, shaking her hand and holding the door for her.

"Bring the verses whenever you like, Mrs. Byrd," was his farewell.

When she had gone, James Farraday returned to his desk, lit a cigar, and smoked absently for a few moments, staring out of the window. Then he pulled his chair forward, and unhooked the receiver.

VI

Mary hurried home vibrant with happiness, and ran into the studio to find Stefan disconsolately gazing out of the window. He whirled at her approach, and caught her in his arms.

"Wicked one! I thought, like Persephone, you had been carried off by Dis and his wagon," he chided. "I could not work when I realized you had been gone so long. Where have you been?" He looked quite woebegone.

"Ah, I'm so glad you missed me," she cried from his arms. Then, unable to contain her delight, she danced to the center of the room, and, throwing back her head, burst into song. "Praise G.o.d from whom all blessings flow," chanted Mary full-throated, her chest expanded, pouring out her grat.i.tude as whole-heartedly as a lark.

"Mary, I can see your wings," interrupted Stefan excitedly. "You're soaring!" He seized a stick of charcoal and dashed for paper, only to throw down his tools again in mock despair. "Pouf, you're beyond sketching at this moment--you need a cathedral organ to express you.

What has happened? Have you been sojourning with the immortals?"

But Mary had stopped singing, and dropped on the divan as if suddenly tired. She held out her arms to Stefan, and he sat beside her, lover-like.

"Oh, dearest," she said, her voice vibrating with tenderness, "I've wanted so to help, and now I think I've sold a story, and I've found a chance for your New York drawings. I'm so happy."

"Why, you mysterious creature, your eyes have tears in them--and all because you've helped me! I've never seen your tears, Mary; they make your eyes like stars lost in a pool." He kissed her pa.s.sionately, and she responded, but waited eagerly to hear him praise her success. After a moment, however, he got up and wandered to his drawing board.

"You say you found a chance for these," indicating the sketches. "How splendid of you! Tell me all about it." He was eagerly attentive, but she might never have mentioned her story. Apparently, that part of her report simply had not registered in his brain.

Mary's spirits suddenly dropped. She had come from an interview in which she was treated as a serious artist, and her husband could not even hear the account of her success. She rose and began to prepare their luncheon, recounting her adventures meanwhile in a rather flat voice.

Stefan listened to her description of McEwan's metamorphosis only half credulously.

"Don't tell me," he commented, "that the cloven hoof will not out. Do you mean to say it's to him that you owe this chance?"

She nodded.

"I don't see how we can take favors from that brute," he said, running his hands moodily into his pockets.