The Nest Builder Part 12

"Thanks," beamed Stefan, "but you couldn't, adequately, you know."

"Obviously not," a.s.sented the other with a glance at Mary. "Our mutual friend, McEwan, was here again yesterday, with a most glowing account of your work, Mr. Byrd; he seems to have adopted the role of press agent for the family."

"He's the soul of kindness," said Mary.

"Yes, a thoroughly good sort," Stefan conceded. "Here are the New York sketches," he went on, opening his portfolio on Farraday's desk. "Half a dozen of them."

"Thank you, just a moment," interposed the editor, who had opened Mary's ma.n.u.script. "Your wife's work takes precedence. She is an established contributor, you see," he smiled, running his eyes over the pages.

Stefan sat down. "Of course," he said, rather absently.

Farraday gave an exclamation of pleasure.

"Mrs. Byrd, these are good; unusually so. They have the Stevenson flavor without being imitations. A little condensation, perhaps--I'll pencil a few suggestions--but I must have them all. I would not let another magazine get them for the world! Let me see, how many are there! Eight.

We might bring them out in a series, ill.u.s.trated. What if I were to offer the ill.u.s.trating to Mr. Byrd, eh?" He put down the sheets and glanced from wife to husband, evidently charmed with his idea. "What do you think, Mr. Byrd? Is your style suited to her work?" he asked.

Stefan looked thoroughly taken aback. He laughed shortly. "I'm a painter, Mr. Farraday, not an ill.u.s.trator. I haven't time to undertake that kind of thing. Even these drawings," he indicated the portfolio, "were done in spare moments as an amus.e.m.e.nt. My wife suggested placing them with you--I shouldn't have thought of it."

To Mary his tone sounded needlessly ungracious, but the editor appeared not to notice it.

"I beg your pardon," he replied suavely. "Of course, if you don't ill.u.s.trate--I'm sorry. The collaboration of husband and wife would have been an attraction, even though the names were unknown here. I'll get Ledward to do them."

Stefan sat up. "You don't mean Metcalf Ledward, the painter, do you?" he exclaimed.

"Yes," replied Farraday quietly; "he often does things for us--our policy is to popularize the best American artists."

Stefan was nonplused. Ledward ill.u.s.trating Mary's rhymes! He felt uncomfortable.

"Don't you think he would get the right atmosphere better perhaps than anyone?" queried Farraday, who seemed courteously anxious to elicit Stefan's opinion. Mary interposed hastily.

"Mr. Farraday, he can't answer you. I'm afraid I've been stupid, but I was so pessimistic about these verses that I wouldn't show them to him.

I thought I would get an outside criticism first, just to save my face,"

she hurried on, anxious in reality to save her husband's.

"I pleaded, but she was obdurate," contributed Stefan, looking at her with reproach.

Farraday smiled enlightenment. "I see. Well, I shall hope you will change your mind about the ill.u.s.trations when you have read the poems--that is, if your style would adapt itself. Now may I see the sketches?" and he held out his hand for them.

Stefan rose with relief. Much as he adored Mary, he could not comprehend the seriousness with which this man was taking the rhymes which she herself had described as "just little songs for children." He was the more baffled as he could not dismiss Farraday's critical pretensions with contempt, the editor being too obviously a man of cultivation. Now, however, that attention had been turned to his own work, Stefan was at his ease. Here, he felt, was no room for doubts.

"They are small chalk and charcoal studies of the spirit of the city--mere impressions," he explained, putting the drawings in Farraday's hands with a gesture which belied the carelessness of his words.

Farraday glanced at them, looked again, rose, and carried them to the window, where he examined them carefully, one by one. Mary watched him breathlessly, Stefan with unconcealed triumph. Presently he turned again and placed them in a row on the bare expanse of his desk. He stood looking silently at them for a moment more before he spoke.

"Mr. Byrd," he said at last, "this is very remarkable work." Mary exhaled an audible breath of relief, and turned a glowing face to Stefan. "It is the most remarkable work," went on the editor, "that has come into this office for some time past. Frankly, however, I can't use it."

Mary caught her breath--Stefan stared. The other went on without looking at them:

"This company publishes strictly for the household. Our policy is to send into the average American home the best that America produces, but it must be a best that the home can comprehend. These drawings interpret New York as you see it, but they do not interpret the New York in which our readers live, or one which they would be willing to admit existed."

"They interpret the real New York, though," interposed Stefan.

"Obviously so, to you," replied the editor, looking at him for the first time. "For me, they do not. These drawings are an arraignment, Mr. Byrd, and--if you will pardon my saying so--a rather bitter and inhuman one.

You are not very patriotic, are you?" His keen eyes probed the artist.

"Emphatically no," Stefan rejoined. "I'm only half American by birth, and wholly French by adoption."

"That explains it," nodded Farraday gravely. "Well, Mr. Byrd, there are undoubtedly publications in which these drawings could find a place, and I am only sorry that mine are not amongst them. May I, however, venture to offer you a suggestion?"

Stefan was beginning to look bored, but Mary interposed with a quick "Oh, please do!" Farraday turned to her.

"Mrs. Byrd, you will bear me out in this, I think. Your husband has genius--that is beyond question--but he is unknown here as yet. Would it not be a pity for him to be introduced to the American public through these rather sinister drawings? We are not fond of the too frank critic here, you know," he smiled, whimsically. "You may think me a Philistine, Mr. Byrd," he continued, "but I have your welfare in mind. Win your public first with smiles, and later they may perhaps accept chastis.e.m.e.nt from you. If you have any drawings in a different vein I shall feel honored in publis.h.i.+ng them"--his tone was courteous--"if not, I should suggest that you seek your first opening through the galleries rather than the press. Whichever way you decide, if I can a.s.sist you at all by furnis.h.i.+ng introductions, I do hope you will call on me. Both for your wife's sake and for your own, it would be a pleasure. And now"--gathering up the drawings--"I must ask you both to excuse me, as I have a long string of appointments. Mrs. Byrd, I will write you our offer for the verses. I don't know about the ill.u.s.trations; you must consult your husband." They found themselves at the door bidding him goodbye: Mary with a sense of disappointment mingled with comprehension; Stefan not knowing whether the more to deplore what he considered Farraday's Philistinism, or to admire his critical ac.u.men.

"His papers and his policy are piffling," he summed up at last, as they walked down the Avenue, "but I must say I like the man himself--he is the first person of distinction I have seen since I left France."

"Oh! Oh! The first?" queried Mary.

"Darling," he seized her hand and pressed it, "I said the first person, not the first immortal!" He had a way of bestowing little endearments in public, which Mary found very attractive, even while her training obliged her to cla.s.s them as solecisms.

"I felt sure you would like him. He seems to me charming," she said, withdrawing the hand with a smile.

"Grundy!" he teased at this. "Yes, the man is all right, but if that is a sample of their att.i.tude toward original work over here we have a pretty prospect of success. 'Genius, get thee behind me!' would sum it up. Imbeciles!" He strode on, his face mutinous.

Mary was thinking. She knew that Farraday's criticism of her husband's work was just. The word "sinister" had struck home to her. It could be applied, she felt, with equal truth to all his large paintings but one--the Danae.

"Stefan," she asked, "what did you think of his advice to win the public first by smiles?"

"Tennysonian!" p.r.o.nounced Stefan, using what she knew to be his final adjective of condemnation.

"A little Victorian, perhaps," she admitted, smiling at this succinct repudiation. "Nevertheless, I'm inclined to think he was right. There is a sort of Pan-inspired terror in your work, you know."

He appeared struck. "Mary, I believe you've hit it!" he exclaimed, suddenly standing still. "I've never thought of it like that before--the thing that makes my work unique, I mean. Like the music of Pan, it's outside humanity, because I am."

"Don't say that, dear," she interrupted, shocked.

"Yes, I am. I hate my kind--all except a handful. I love beauty. It is not my fault that humanity is ugly."

Mary was deeply disturbed. Led on by a chance phrase of hers, he was actually boasting of just that lack which was becoming her secret fear for him. She touched his arm, pleadingly.

"Stefan, don't speak like that; it hurts me dreadfully. It is awful for any one to build up a barrier between himself and the world. It means much unhappiness, both for himself and others."

He laughed affectionately at her. "Why, sweet, what do we care? I love you enough to make the balance true. You are on my side of the barrier, shutting me in with beauty."

"Is that your only reason for loving me?" she asked, still distressed.

"I love you because you have a beautiful body and a beautiful mind--because you are like a winged G.o.ddess of inspiration. Could there be a more perfect reason?"