The Nest Builder by Hale, Beatrice Forbes-Robertson

"Why did you not tell me sooner, darling? Why did you let me tire you like this?" he asked.

Impossible to reply. "Why didn't you know?" her heart cried out, and, "I wasn't tired until to-day," her lips answered.

"But why didn't you tell me?" he urged. "I never even guessed. It was idiotic of me, but I was so absorbed in our love and my work that this never came to my mind."

"But at first, Stefan?" she questioned, probing for the answer she already knew, but still clinging to the hope of being wrong. "I never talked about it because you didn't seem to care. But in the beginning, when you proposed to me--the day we were married--at Shadeham--did you never think of it then?" Her tone craved reassurance.

"Why, no," he half laughed. "You'll think me childish, but I never did. I suppose I vaguely faced the possibility, but I put it from me. We had each other and our love--that seemed enough."

She raised her head and gazed at him in wide-eyed pain. "But, Stefan, what's marriage _for?_" she exclaimed.

He puckered his brows, puzzled. "Why, my dear, it's for love-- companionship--inspiration. Nothing more so far as I am concerned." They stared nakedly at each other. For the first time the veils were stripped away. They had felt themselves one, and behold! here was a barrier, impenetrable as marble, dividing each from the comprehension of the other. To Stefan it was inconceivable that a marriage should be based on anything but mutual desire. To Mary the thought of marriage apart from children was an impossibility. They had come to their first spiritual deadlock.

VIII

Love, feeling its fusion threatened, ever makes a supreme effort for reunity. In the days that followed, Stefan enthusiastically sought to rebuild his image of Mary round the central fact of her maternity. He became inspired with the idea of painting her as a Madonna, and recalled all the famous artists of the past who had so glorified their hearts' mistresses.

"You are named for the greatest of all mothers, dearest, and my picture shall be worthy of the name," he would cry. Or he would call her Aphrodite, the mother of Love. "How beautiful our son will be--another Eros," he exclaimed.

Mary rejoiced in his new enthusiasm, and persuaded herself that his indifference to children was merely the result of his lonely bachelorhood, and would disappear forever at the sight of his own child. Now that her great secret was shared she became happier, and openly commenced those preparations which she had long been cherishing in thought. Miss Mason was sent for, and the great news confided to her. They undertook several shopping expeditions, as a result of which Mary would sit with a pile of sewing on her knee while Stefan worked to complete his picture. Miss Mason took to dropping in occasionally with a pattern or some trifle of wool or silk. Mary was always glad to see her, and even Stefan found himself laughing sometimes at her shrewd New England wit. For the most part, however, he ignored her, while he painted away in silence behind the great canvas.