Nest Builder

Nest Builder

Project Gutenberg's The Nest Builder, by Beatrice Forbes-Robertson
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Title: The Nest Builder
Author: Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale
Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7837] [Yes, we are more than one
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THE NEST-BUILDER
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