GREEN HILL
October 14
Diary, it is quite two weeks since I have made an entry, but the
thrills of actually sitting up, in a big chair, downstairs in front of
a seasonable log fire, and the even more exciting adventure of short
wheel-chair rides in the sheltered paths of a chrysanthemum garden,
have for the moment entirely occupied my time and thoughts. Even to
the exclusion of you! And now, Father is talking of taking me South
for the winter. Just as soon as I am able to walk a little, he wants
to take me--and Sarah--and Wiggles--to Florida, so that I need not
undergo the trials of a Northern winter.
I am worried about Father. He does not look, and is not, at all well.
The old trouble, which dates back to his Spanish-American War days,
has returned, and with it, disquieting heart symptoms. I got Dr. Mac
off in a corner, lately, and asked him to tell me truly what he
thought of Father's condition. "He seems so _tired_ all the time," I
said. And Dr. Mac looked very grave.
"Lassie," he told me, "Your father's a sick man. And a careless one.
He's not minded his own aches and pains all these years, nor spared
himself. And he's not as young as he was."
When I said something to Father, he laughed at me.
"MacAllister is an old woman," he said, "fussing and fretting. I'll be
all right presently, my little girl. Don't worry. The main thing is to
get you on your feet, and then we'll be off to Florida for a long,
long holiday. Bless that boy!" he added, and I knew that he meant Dr.
Denton.
Well, I bless him too, when Sarah wheels me down the garden paths and
I reach out to touch the big friendly flowers. I feel so strong, so
strong! They have to watch me now, for I am like to do all manner of
foolish things, with the old languor gone, and the new red blood
singing through my veins.
But when Doctor Denton comes and looks at me out of those cool eyes,
and asks, "Well, how are the tantrums lately, Miss Carroll?" I'm in no
mood for blessing him then!
GREEN HILL
October 20
Oh! Oh! Diary, if you ever go automobiling, you'll never be content to
sit in my desk drawer again. It's too wonderful! This morning, bundled
up to my eyes, I was taken from my chair, lifted into Mr. John
Denton's great, grey, purring beast, and with Dr. William Denton at
the wheel, and Father and Mr. Denton beside me, I was taken, quietly
and smoothly, over the hill road, down the valley, and through the
wide Meadow Road, on my first tour of exploration.
Eleven years! Eleven years!
Back through the village we came, after an all too short half-hour.
Somehow the news had spread, and from every gate and window, hands
waved and friendly faces peered. They were glad to see me, the Green
Hill people.
"Is she crying?" asked Dr. Denton at the wheel, with interest.
I wanted to. I wanted to cry and laugh and shout all at once. Instead
I folded my hands more tightly in Father's and said demurely, "Sorry,
but she isn't."
Dr. Denton nodded, slouched down in his seat, his strong brown hands
doing marvellous things to the wheel.
"Please," I asked Mr. Denton, "next time you take me riding, will you
drive, and may I sit in the front seat and watch you steer?"
Everyone laughed.
"Ask Bill," answered my old friend, "I've just sold him the car."
"You may ride in the front seat--with me," announced Dr. Denton
graciously, before I had time to withdraw my request, "always
providing that you do not clutch my arm at inopportune moments, or
scream as you did six minutes back," he added, "when that mongrel pup
appeared on the horizon, a good mile away."
"I don't think," I said, "that, after all, I'd care for the front
seat."
"Very well," said the chauffeur obligingly, as, with a turn and twist
we rolled up smoothly before my own front door, where Sarah, apron
flying in the wind, stood, the tears shining on her dear old face.
Front seat or back, I am to ride every day, as long as the good
weather holds, for it has been prescribed for me by no less than two
physicians in reputable professional standing; no matter what their
respective dispositions. And, Diary, I love it so that, for the sake
of the swift silent motion, I would cheerfully ride in any seat
whatsoever, regardless of the driver. So low have I sunk in my new
passion.
"Nervous?" asked Dr. Denton, as he helped carry me to my room. I am
conveyed now as children are, on crossed hands with supporting arms
about my back.
"Not at all!" I answered indignantly.
"That's good," said he, "for I am a fearsome driver. I have," he said,
sinking his voice to an awe-inspiring whisper, "been known to kill my
men in my day. And any amount of dogs. Strong men as I pass have
turned pale, and women fainted on the streets!"
He and Mr. Denton laid me on my bed, and I could only look at him with
scorn, from that ignominious position. Oh, when I can stand on my two
feet, won't I--well, won't I _just_!!!!
GREEN HILL
November 1
Diary, this day I have stood upright, and taken my first faltering
step forward. Dr. Mac was there, and Dr. Denton, one on each side. And
a step away, with his arms wide, my Father. Sarah, her hand on Dr.
Mac's arm, took the step with me. She was quite white.
I was terribly weak, and all bendy in the middle. But I walked, Diary,
I _walked_.
I am in bed now, after having been fussed over and made much of. I am
sure Father is out sending wires! And Sarah pops in every two minutes
to see if I am still alive. I am very much alive, and my whole soul is
on its knees in gratitude. Now, almost for the first time, I believe
that I am to be a cog in the Great Machinery again; and no longer a
little broken thing, thrown out forever on the scrap heap.
I want to tell Richard Warren. But no word has come from him since my
last letter. So I must wait.
GREEN HILL
December 8
It seems a year since I last opened you, little Blue Friend. For so
much has happened. I walk, as if I had always walked, and it no longer
seems wonderful or blessed. For my Father is very ill. He is up and
dressed and around, but I know and he knows that it may not be for
very long. He has been to town, to see other doctors. And when he came
back, he set his house in order.
After he had told me his exact condition, "Mavis," he said, "you are
the bravest person, except your Mother, I have ever known. It may be
that I shall live for years; it may be that it is only a matter of
weeks or months. I don't know. The doctors hold out very little hope
of my recovery. You are better fitted to help me now than ever you
were. And," he said smiling, "it seems as if I had nothing more to
live for, now that you are well again, and growing stronger every
day."
I was on his lap, in the big still living room.
"Father, father," I said, and held his dear head close against my
breast. They can't take him from me! They can't!
"Hush!" he said. "We have had many years of the most beautiful, close
companionship together, my daughter. You have given me more than you
know. And for a long time I have known...."
He stopped.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, fighting back the tears.
"I talked it over," he said, "with Dr. Denton, and we decided that it
was not wise--as your condition stood then."
Always Dr. Denton! Ordering my life....
"If only," said Father, very low, "if only I could leave you guarded,
protected. You know so little of life.... I am," he whispered to
himself, "responsible to her mother...."
We were quiet a long time.
Presently he put me from him.
"There, there," he said, "I hear Peter calling you outside. Run along,
dearest. And let me see you smile before you go. It may be that we
will have a long time yet together. Kiss me, Mavis, and smile."
Diary, I am so terribly frightened. So alone.
GREEN HILL
December 21
We are getting ready for Christmas. The Green Hill people have sent
me, with their love, a beautiful, courageous tree. And everyone has
offered to come and trim it. But we must be very quiet on this, my
first real Christmas for many years. For Father is failing steadily.
He does not complain, but he spends a great deal of the day in bed;
and he is so white, so worn, that my heart stands still to look at
him. If only I could have stayed all my life in my little rose-grey
room, helpless and cared for, if by some strange twist of Fate my
Father could have been spared this wasting illness.
I hate my feet; so eager to run; I hate my new sense of well-being and
vitality. I hate the faint pink in my cheeks, and all my untired
strength.
It is snowing today. White and soft and thick snow lies over my
garden. Like a.... No, I can't write it....
GREEN HILL
December 28
Christmas is over and done with. I had so many lovely gifts, more than
ever this year, it seems. I have put them away--the books from Mr.
Denton, the little gold watch from Father, even Peter's funny little
hand-painted card. And all the others. I can't seem to be grateful for
anything. Wonderful roses reached me from the city, Christmas morning.
There is no card. But I know who sent them. Why doesn't he write? He
would help, a little, I think. But I can't write to him. Not now.
GREEN HILL
January 1
The new year.
I ran over to see Mrs. Goodrich this morning. She is terribly
distressed because Mr. Goodrich's firm is sending him abroad, and he
wants her to go with him. They will be travelling too much to take
Peter and have decided against it. Of course I asked for him. And she
will let me know. Father, when I told him, shook his head. He said
nothing, but I knew what he was thinking.
GREEN HILL
January 2
Father asked me today if I liked Dr. Denton. He asked me so wistfully
and so strangely that I couldn't tell him the truth. They are great
friends, I know. So I lied.
"Why, yes," I said, "I like him very much."
I felt myself grow red. Father patted my hand.
"He's a good man," he said. "I want you to trust him, Mavis. I have
made John Denton your guardian--you know so little about money and the
dull things of life," he added, half sighing, half smiling. "You are,
after all, only a child."
I tried to change the subject, as I always do, when directly or
indirectly Father speaks of leaving me. He seemed happier, when I left
him, than I have seen him in many days. I am glad, Diary, that I lied
to him about the Enemy.
GREEN HILL
January 10
This morning Father was worse. I rushed to the 'phone and tried to get
Dr. Mac, but he was out, making his calls. So Dr. Denton came. He sent
me from the room, and was with Father a long, long time. When he came
out, he called me.
"Your father wishes to see you, Miss Carroll," he said.
"Dr. Denton--" I couldn't say any more. Suddenly he took my two
ice-cold hands in his firm, warm grasp.
"Remember," he said, almost sternly, "that I am at your service,
always, and at his."
He dropped my hands and turned away.
"I shall be back," he told me, "in the afternoon."
Shaking all over, I laid my hand on the doorknob and prayed, over and
over, just "Please, God, help him," and went in.
Father, very white, held out his hands. "Come here," he said. And when
I was beside him,
"Mavis," he said, "the thought of leaving you alone--now that I feel
certain that I must leave you, is unbearable. I have been talking
today with Dr. Denton. He wants to marry you, my dear, and take care
of you always, for me. He has been like my own son to me, that boy.
He is straight and true and clean. And I think that I could go on my
long journey with very few regrets, my Mavis, if I knew that you were
in as safe hands as his."
Cruel! Cruel!
My heart almost stopped, and then raced on again. I couldn't speak.
Father, his hand on mine, looked at me wistfully, entreatingly. I
couldn't bear to have him look like that. Like a beggar. And yet, for
a moment, I had absolutely no impulse of love toward him. He was a
stranger to me, my own Father. It was impossible that it was his voice
asking me to do this unthinkable thing.
"Mavis?"
"I can't," I said, in a whisper.
His hand loosened from mine. Dropped wearily to the bed,
"Very well, dearest," he said, "of course you shall do nothing against
your will. I only thought...." he stopped, and then, "It seemed a
solution," he finished.
He looked very tired. All my love for him came rushing back. I kissed
him, and he held me close for an instant.
"Will you--think it over?" he asked slowly.
"Yes, Father," I said, and was rewarded by his old brilliant smile.
Once out of the room, I brushed past Sarah, hovering near the door,
and went to my own room. There, lying on my bed, I "thought it over."
What was it Dr. Denton said to me,--"you owe your father something."
I have cried until I have no tears left, rebellious, sick at heart.
I can't. And yet ... if it would make him any happier....
The bell is ringing. If that is Dr. Denton, I will see him before he
goes to Father.
Late at night.
I have said that I will marry William Denton.
GREEN HILL
January 12
It is only a matter of days with Father now. Dr. Denton told me that,
when we had our talk two days ago. He listened to what I had to say,
very quietly, standing in front of the fire, his arms crossed, and
looking down at the great chair in which I was half buried.
After he had told me about Father, "If you will marry me, Miss
Carroll," he said, "I will do my best to carry out your father's
wishes. I cannot make you happy--that I know--but I can make
you--safe. Until such time as you do not need my protection."
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"I mean," he answered gravely, "that you are very young and that the
abnormal life which your accident forced you to lead has peculiarly
unfitted you for any solitary encounter with the world. If you would
trust yourself to me, I promise faithfully to care for you, to watch
over you, and to help you through the first bewildering time. After
that--you may dispose of me as you see fit."
"You mean?" I whispered again.
He smiled, sombrely. "I am not trying to bind you to me," he said. "I
am asking you for your Father's sake, to let me take care of you for a
time. When you are quite strong, and quite able to look out for
yourself, it will remain for me to step aside, and you will be free to
do and go as you please."
Something of hope stirred faintly in me. "You will let me go then?"
"Certainly."
I laid my face against the soft cushions of the chair.
"Marriage," I said, under my breath, "I--I--"
I couldn't go on.
"It will not be," he said very gently, "a marriage, Miss Carroll. It
will be a business arrangement. You may have my sacred word of honor
that I will not trouble you in any way. And that as soon as possible I
will take the steps to make you quite free again."
I stood up and faced him.
"You think that Father really wishes this?" I asked.
"It is, I know, his heart's desire," said Dr. Denton, "and I am
tremendously honored by his faith in me."
"Very well," I said, and held out my hand.
Silently, he took it.
"Thank you, Mavis," he said quietly.
I was conscious of a longing to escape; it was as if a fine silken
cord were tightening about me.
"Shall we go to Father?" I asked him.
Without another word we two walked from the room.
"Remember," he said to me at the door, "this is for your father. We
must make believe for him, you and I."
I nodded.
The door closed behind us.
GREEN HILL
January 20
I am to be married tomorrow. It is Father's wish. He is weaker, but
suffers no pain, and he recognizes us all.
Twenty-four hours to my wedding. Please God that Father will never
know how I dread it.
Mr. John Denton is to give me away. And we are to be married from this
house, with no one but the Goodriches and Mr. Denton present at the
ceremony. Ceremony! The mockery of it!
Dr. Denton has given me a ring. It was his Mother's, he said. I have
never asked him about his Mother. I do not even know if he has told
her.
Nothing seems to matter very much. Father.... _Father_....
January 21
William--he has asked me to call him that--came to me this morning,
and for the first time in days we talked together for more than a
moment.
"You are frightened," he said to me, "and nervous. You need not be."
"Why--why are you marrying me?" I asked him suddenly.
"Why are you marrying me?" he countered.
"Father," I said, and stopped.
He nodded.
"I, too," he said simply.
All at once I realized what a tremendous sacrifice he was making. I
tried, very poorly, to tell him.
"Not at all," he assured me, "I am perfectly clear as to what I am
doing. And my own motives. I shall be, after all," he added,
"perfectly free--except perhaps outwardly."
There was something in his voice.... I got to my feet.
"Very well," I said, "it is understood that we are both free? Except
perhaps outwardly?"
I do not think he liked it.
January 21
This afternoon, at four, I was married to Dr. William Denton, in the
room next door to Father's. They let me see him right afterwards; and
he put his dear thin white hand on my forehead and smiled.
William has moved over to the house to be near Father, and after the
grave congratulations of our few friends, we were alone together in
the quiet house. Married. And as far apart as Pole from Pole. Diary,
you who have guarded my girlhood so jealously, it is Good-by now. I
have come to the end of the chapter. And there will be nothing in my
future life that I shall want to record. There is only this:
Uncle John brought me today a letter. From Richard Warren. I opened it
ten minutes ago, alone in my room. It was a short letter. It asked if
he might come to me; it said that he had loved me all these months; it
was signed, "Your Lover, Richard Warren."
It came too late, dear Diary. I will lay it among your pages, with my
dreams and my hopes and my sorrow.
Good-by. With a very steady hand, I, by some mysterious alchemy of the
Law and the Church, Mrs. William Denton, write this last word on your
pages.
_Finis_