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The Nest Builder By: Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale |
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A NOVEL
BY BEATRICE FORBES ROBERTSON HALE AUTHOR OF "WHAT WOMEN WANT"
WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY J. HENRY
CONTENTS PART I MATE SONG PART II MATED PART III THE NESTLING PART IV WINGS PART V THE BUILDER
PART I MATE SONG I
Outbound from Liverpool, the Lusitania bucked down the Irish Sea against
a September gale. Aft in her second class quarters each shouldering from
the waves brought a sickening vibration as one or another of the ship's
great propellers raced out of water. The gong had sounded for the second
sitting, and trails of hungry and weary travelers, trooping down the
companionway, met files of still more uneasy diners emerging from the
saloon. The grinding jar of the vessel, the heavy smell of food, and the
pound of ragtime combined to produce an effect as of some sordid and
demoniac orgy an effect derided by the smug respectability of the
saloon's furnishings. Stefan Byrd, taking in the scene as he balanced a precarious way to his
seat, felt every hypercritical sense rising in revolt. Even the prosaic
but admirably efficient table utensils repelled him. "They are so useful,
so abominably enduring," he thought. The mahogany trimmings of doors and
columns seemed to announce from every overpolished surface a pompous
self sufficiency. Each table proclaimed the aesthetic level of the second
class through the lifeless leaves of a rubber plant and two imitation
cut glass dishes of tough fruit. The stewards, casually hovering, lacked
the democracy which might have humanized the steerage as much as the
civility which would have oiled the workings of the first cabin. Byrd
resented their ministrations as he did the heavy English dishes of the
bill of fare. There were no Continental passengers near him. He had left
the dear French tongue behind, and his ears, homesick already, shrank
equally from the see saw Lancashire of the stewards and the monotonous
rasp of returning Americans. Byrd's left hand neighbor, a clergyman of uncertain denomination, had
tried vainly for several minutes to attract his attention by clearing his
throat, passing the salt, and making measured requests for water, bread,
and the like. "I presume, sir," he at last inquired loudly, "that you are an American,
and as glad as I am to be returning to our country?" "No, sir," retorted Byrd, favoring his questioner with a withering stare,
"I am a Bohemian, and damnably sorry that I ever have to see America
again." The man of God turned away, pale to the temples with offense a high
bosomed matron opposite emitted a shocked "Oh!" the faces of the
surrounding listeners assumed expressions either dismayed or deprecating.
Budding conversationalists were temporarily frost bitten, and the watery
helpings of fish were eaten in a constrained silence. But with the
inevitable roast beef a Scot of unshakeable manner, decorated with a
yellow forehead lock as erect as a striking cobra, turned to follow up
what he apparently conceived to be an opportunity for discussion. "I'm not so strongly partial to the States mysel', ye ken, but I'll
confess it's a grand place to mak' money. Ye would be going there,
perhaps, to improve your fortunes?" Byrd was silent. "Also," continued the Scot, quite unrebuffed, "it would be interesting to
know what exactly ye mean when ye call yoursel' a Bohemian. Would ye be
referring to your tastes, now, or to your nationality?" His hand trembling with nervous temper, Byrd laid down his napkin, and
rose with an attempt at dignity somewhat marred by the viselike clutch of
the swivel chair upon his emerging legs. "My mother was a Bohemian, my father an American. Neither, happily, was
Scotch," said he, almost stammering in his attempt to control his extreme
distaste of his surroundings and hurried out of the saloon, leaving a
table of dropped jaws behind him. "The young man is nairvous," contentedly boomed the Scot... Continue reading book >>
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