The boat pulled slowly away from the docks. Standing at the rail, I
could plainly see the brilliant feather on Mercedes' little French
hat, nodding in the breeze. A fleck of white was in her hand, now
fluttering frantically, now at her eyes. Wright, beside her, was
gesticulating like a semaphore, and not far away, Silas was straining
his keen eyes to catch the last glimpse of his Sarah. Presently the
docks faded into a vari-colored blur, and Bill pulled me away from the
rail.
"Good-by, Cuba!" I said, waving my hand for the last time, as I
turned.
"You're not crying?" he asked, teasingly.
"No," I dried my eyes a little defiantly, "but I have loved it so.
Color and warmth and sunshine," I said, watching the soft pastel
shades of the shore line, where Morro Castle stood, dazzling in the
light, its stone feet set in blue waters, "and I hated to leave,
somehow--"
"We'll go back," said he. "No, don't go below. Sarah will unpack and
settle for you. I bribed the steward to give us these chairs. Sit
down, darling, and let me tuck you up."
Obediently, I sat, and he sprawled his long length beside me, cupping
his pipe in his hands, to shield the match flare from the wind.
"But," I argued, "it won't be like going back to 'The Palms.' I'll
hate the nasty people who are going to buy it--do you suppose they'll
buy Arthur, too?"
"Do you want him?" asked Bill.
I turned my hand so that the light fell on the big, new diamond on my
finger. Bill had bought it in Havana, two days after the fire. It was
my engagement ring, he said, and I had gotten up more than once in the
last few nights to admire it by candle or moonlight. It was like a
drop of dew. I told him that when he gave it to me, and he had added
"on a white flower," and had kissed the finger he slipped it on.
"Want Arthur? I think not. He'd be the scandal of Green Hill, and
perhaps he'd not thrive away from Guayabal--"
"Shall I buy 'The Palms'?" asked Bill, pushing his cap back from his
forehead, so that the sun fell across his face.
"Are you crazy?" I demanded.
"Possibly."
He slipped his hand under the rug across my knees and took mine.
"What do you think?" he asked, gravely.
"I think you are," said I. "Such extravagance! Delusions of grandeur.
But, anyway, I'd rather we built our own house--"
"So would I," said Bill, with satisfaction.
"Couldn't we add to the Green Hill house?" I asked, "an office for
you--and more rooms? Do you mind?" I said. "So much of me is in that
house. I don't want to forget those years--. And I was born there. My
Mother came there as a bride--and I think Father will want us to live
there always--unless," I added careful, "you have other plans, Doctor
Denton?"
Bill laughed.
"No. When we get home, if your Father is willing, I'll turn you loose
with painters and carpenters and decorators--as long as I may always
smoke, even in the 'best parlour' and as long as you don't banish me
and my bottles to the garage--for we'll have to have a garage, you
know, and I've spoken to Silas about that little house in the garden.
There's lots of room."
"Chintz," I said dreamily, "creton,--lots of it--and another
fireplace--and oodles of bookshelves. Bill, may I dig in the garden
next summer?"
"I shouldn't wonder," he answered cheerfully. "You're really
remarkably strong--beyond my wildest hopes. I was amazed to see how
soon you recovered from the effects of the fire--"
I looked at the little scars on my hands. They would go, eventually, I
knew. Bill had said so. I was a little sorry.
"Were you?" I asked. "But I had a very good doctor, and wonderful
medicine--"
He kissed me, to the horror of a passing elderly couple.
"Then," said I, straightening my cap, "you'll practise in Green Hill,
after all? People will say you'll be burying yourself there--"
"Let 'em," said Bill. "I shall have time, at last, for all the things
I want to do. Time, ambition and encouragement. We'll have a
laboratory--away from the house, so your little nose won't be offended
and turn up even more--"
"It doesn't," said I, one hand to the insulted feature.
"It does. Don't contradict. I love it!--A laboratory," he went on,
"and I can work again on that cancer-cure--"
"Oh, Bill," I said, "isn't it wonderful? To think that perhaps you
can bring a blessing to all the world, and I may help--a little--"
We were silent for a while--such a comfortable, understanding silence.
"Aunt Mavis," said Peter, appearing suddenly on deck, "Sarah has gone
to bed!"
"Is she ill?" I asked, viewing the water, which was like blue glass.
"Not yet," said Peter gravely, "but she says she's taking no chances!"
"Poor Sarah!" I said, as Bill laughed. "Stay here with your uncle,
Peterkins, and I'll go and see if I can do anything for her."
When I returned, I found my young charge and my husband hanging
perilously over the rail, watching the antics of the flying-fish.
"Aren't they pretty?" I asked, joining them, "like tiny, colored
aeroplanes."
We watched for some time in silence, and then Peter growing sleepy,
for we had gotten up very early that morning, Bill tucked him into a
rug in a chair, and we left him asleep almost instantly, to walk the
deck until luncheon.
"I've got a scheme," said Bill. "Want to hear?"
"Uh-huh!" said I.
"New York first. Uncle John's, or, if you'd rather, a hotel. Your Dad
will meet us. We'll ship Sarah on to Green Hill with Peter, to get the
house in order and to look after the boy until the Goodriches return.
When is it--ten days? And after you've gone on that shopping orgy you
threatened me with, I'll have one of the men bring my car down from
Green Hill and we'll motor. Would you like that?"
"Oh, Bill, where?" I asked, skipping a little, and collapsing up
against his side as the boat rolled.
"Cape Cod, I thought, if you'd care about it. There's a dear old inn
at Provincetown--I know you'd love it. We could go there, for a week
or so--it's so early yet we'd have the place to ourselves. And then,
early in May, back to Green Hill and settle for the summer. What do
you think?"
"I think you're a darling!" I answered, brazenly, and with just the
effect I had calculated. And after we had told each other several
times that no one in the world could be as happy and as much in love
as we were--and firmly believed it, too I--Bill said suddenly,
"I cabled Mother from Cuba--and wrote her. She will meet us in New
York."
"For heaven's sake," said I, "do you think she'll like me?"
"Can't tell," said Bill, solemnly, "she's odd. But, after all, it
isn't as if you were a stranger. You've corresponded with her, you
know, and she made you some bed-socks. That's a bond."
"But that was Richard Warren's mother," I said, not quite convinced.
"She's mine too. Funny, isn't it? I think you've committed bigamy."
"Is she really little and blue-eyed and red-haired?" I asked, "or was
that poetic license?"
"Honest truth. She's the prettiest thing in the world--except you. And
I've written her all about it."
"Did she know that I didn't know you were you?" I asked somewhat
incoherently. But he understood. That was one of the nice things about
Bill--recently, anyway. He was the Person Who Understood.
He nodded.
"Yes, but she didn't know everything--not that we were married."
"Why?" I asked, curiously.
He smiled down at me, very big, very protective.
"Why, you see," said Bill gently, "she knew that I loved you. And
she'd got to love you too. After all, she has a weakness for me, and
an unbounded faith in my choice. And so--well, I didn't want to
disappoint her--didn't want her to know how matters stood--that we
weren't quite happy. So I waited. After a while, I grew afraid that
she would have to be told after all--"
"Please, don't," I said hastily. "What did you write her?"
"Cabled first: 'Married Mavis. Meet us in New York at Uncle John's as
soon as you can.' And then, I wrote and sent it by someone who was
sailing sooner. She will break the trip from California in Chicago,
she has cousins there. I hope the letter will catch her."
"I've never had a mother," I said, the least bit wistfully.
"You have one now," said Bill.
Cuba had long since disappeared. I closed my eyes for a second to keep
the memory of all we had left clear and vivid. The Palms--the cane, as
it had looked before the fire, emerald-green and graceful--the red
soil of Guayabal and the long, white roads--the mountains in the
distance--the palm-trees, straight as arrows, with their rustling
tops--my own orchids, little lavender balloons--peacocks and
ox-carts--naked brown babies creeping in the sun--sunlight on adobe
and thatch--and Arthur, screaming raucously for his morning coffee.
No, I would never forget.
The trip passed like a dream. Peter found some American children to
play with on the boat, and romped with them under the watchful eyes of
a correct English nurse. Sarah, with Wiggles, kept to her cabin. And
Bill and I, exchanging polite platitudes with the people at our table,
were left very much to ourselves. And the voyage was calm, totally
unlike the one we had taken so many months before.
It was on the boat that I read some of Richard Warren's new poems,
part of the new volume. And, sitting in a sheltered corner of the
deck, I watched my husband write the dedication across a white sheet
of paper:
"To my wife."
"I'm very proud," said I, a little tremulously. "They are beautiful.
Wright knew. He said they were bigger and finer than the others. But,"
I added, "after all, I fell in love with _The Lyric Hour_, Bill."
"But these," said Bill, "are your own."
And so they were.
"Now," he said, "suppose you show me what you were so careful to hide
from me in Cuba?"
"Did Wright--?" I began indignantly, "What do you mean?"
"No, Wright didn't. But I guessed. Have I written for nothing all
these years? I'm a sleuth when it comes to a fellow-craftsman.
Besides, there's this--"
He drew a crumpled sheet from his inner pocket. I snatched at it.
"That old thing!" said I, with scorn. "Where did you find it?"
"I couldn't account for your inky little hands and your fits of
abstraction," he answered, "solely by an explanation of your love for
letter-writing and your dislike of me."
"Where did you find it, Creature?" I demanded again.
"In Wright's pocket. Old coat, on a chair--I was looking for a match."
"Doesn't sound plausible," said I, spreading out the blotted paper.
Bill read with me, over my shoulder.
AFTER SUNSET
Carved in dull ebony, one somber row
Of straight palms, etched in sudden, sharp relief,
Against a molten-copper afterglow....
Oh, Hour of Enchantment, past belief,
When down the garden paths the peacocks go,
In plumed splendor and with stately tread.
Across the shadowed valleys cool winds blow,
From where the smoke-blue mountain rears its head.
Beyond the world's rim, slips the ghost-wan Day,
To draw Night's curtain close about her bed
And set a star to light her to her rest,
While Evening, shaking free her dusky hair,
Lures every weary bird to seek its nest,
And, kissing shut the tired eyes of care,
Lulls Earth to peace upon her gentle breast.
"I didn't mean you to know," I said, as he took the verse away from me
again and put it back in his pocket.
"But you told Wright," said he.
"That was different," I answered, firmly.
"Mad?"
"N-No!"
He slipped his arm around me.
"Mavis," he said very softly, "Mavis with the amber hair and the deep
brown eyes. Mavis, child and poet and--all mine."
"You're not laughing?" I asked anxiously. "I mean, about the verses?"
"Laughing?" he raised his head from my hair. My cap had fallen off,
and it blew in wildest confusion about my face and his. "I'm very far
from laughing. I'm proud and happy. But," said he, with a change of
tone, "to steal my thunder! You'll be dabbling in my pill-boxes yet! I
suppose I may as well reconcile myself to being known as 'the husband
of Mavis Denton.' Appalling outlook!"
"Is it?" I asked impishly.
"Well--in that sense at least. 'Husband of The Poetess.' It wounds my
masculine pride."
"It shouldn't," said I, triumphantly, "if it ever happened--which, of
course, it won't. But I will be quite content to be known as Richard
Warren's wife--"
"You dear! But, of course, you have a better disposition than I
have--"
"I haven't! I'm a petulant, snappish, mean--"
"You're the loveliest thing God ever made!"
And so on, ad infinitum.
The lazy, happy trip over, we sailed importantly into New York once
more. Father and Uncle John were on the dock, two bronzed, happy men,
and it was late that night before I got to sleep, in that same,
old-fashioned room, my head in a perfect whirl. How we had talked and
laughed, questioned and answered! From the twinkle in Uncle John's
eyes, the tenderest, most quizzical twinkle, I half-suspected that he
knew more than I had thought. He didn't say so, but if he didn't
know--well, he had developed perfectly miraculous powers of teasing
since I had left. But he was a dear. And it was so amazing to sit
there and listen to him and Bill discuss the new volume, and to put
my little, critical oar in now and then, while Father sat by, my hand
in his, a look of the most wonderful content on his face. They had
great difficulty to persuade me to go to bed. It was fascinating to
linger in the smoky old room, with its rows and rows of books and its
untidy, comfortable, masculine atmosphere. After I had three times
refused to leave them, Bill unceremoniously picked me up and carried
me up the stairs, kicking, and losing my slippers on the way.
Did I say that a wire was waiting for me when I reached Uncle John's?
"LOVE TO YOU BOTH," it read. "WILL BE WITH YOU WEDNESDAY AT THE
LATEST," and it was addressed to me, and signed, "MOTHER." Wednesday
was two days off. I spent the intervening time in the outrageous
shops, Bill stalking uneasily behind me, deferred to by the lithe,
wonderfully coiffured, purring Goddesses who paraded mannequin after
pretty mannequin before my startled eyes. I think, however, that Bill
was a little more embarrassed than I.
"How they live," he said to me, seriously, on one occasion, "I don't
see. I should think they'd spend most of their time in a pneumonia
ward!"
We drove in the Park one afternoon. It was gay with Spring flowers and
pretty girls. We had a hansom, because I had read about them in books.
Coming back, through the falling dusk, with the lights of the city
twinkling out, yellow and beckoning, and the great, massive bulk of
the Plaza, illuminated like a birthday cake, just ahead, I suddenly
conceived an affection for New York. But I didn't want to live there.
"Next time we come," said Bill, "in the Fall, perhaps, I want to take
you to the theatres and to the gayest restaurants, and concerts. Why,
you funny child, your eyes are as big as saucers!"
Our lean horse stumbled just then, and the hansom gave a seasick
lurch. I felt as people mounting camels must feel. When the horse and
I had somewhat recovered, I answered,
"I'd love it! And you'll teach me to dance--sometime?--May I?"
"Well," said Bill gravely, "I'm not much of a dancer--too big and all
that. I always step on the dear things' feet. But you may, I think,
and we'll take lessons together, if you like--"
"I'd adore it!" I said.
My husband drew me close--,
"You baby," he said. "Sometimes I think I have been selfish, tying you
down to a cross old husband before you've had your good times--"
"Don't want any good times without you!" I said, obstinately.
"All right," said he. "We'll have them together. I'll renew my youth!"
"Don't be absurd! You're a mere infant!"
"Second childhood," he said, "you've been an elixir of youth to me; of
life itself."
"You do say such nice things," I sighed. "That comes of being a poet!"
"Poet be hanged!" said Bill. "It comes of being in
love--with--you--with you--"
That was a very nice drive. After all, the hansom has advantages. One
can sit awfully close, and hold hands under the shiny, wooden apron.
Wednesday Mother came. I called her that right off. She was the
dearest thing, with such curly red hair and eyes the color of Bill's,
only a different shape. She was littler than I even, with hands and
feet that were wholly ridiculous. Father was immediately enchanted
with her. The four of us had a long talk, all one soft Spring day,
interrupted by Uncle John, and by getting Peter and Sarah safely off
to Green Hill. And then, while I was resting, she had her talk with
her son, and came to me later, after I had gone to bed.
She curled up beside me in a wonderful blue negligee which made her
look like a girl. And we talked--and talked.
"You're the nicest thing that Bill has given me," I said, happily,
before she left, "and Bill's the nicest thing you could give me. You
don't feel," I begged, "that I am taking him away from you--?"
"I love you," she answered, the laughter gone from her eyes, and her
face very sweet to see, "for yourself--for Bill too, but most of all
for yourself. I have wanted this since he first wrote me about you. I
have prayed for it every night. You were so exactly the sort of a girl
I wanted my boy to marry--"
"But," I said, "I was just a little, bed-ridden, useless creature
then--"
"I knew that Bill would cure you," said Mother. "He always gets what
he wants--"
"Doesn't he though?" I interrupted, proudly.
"And he wanted you!"
"I love him so," I whispered against the soft lace at her breast.
She put her arms very closely around me. I don't know why I cried.
And then, she talked to me. Just as my own Mother would have
done--very gravely and tenderly for a long half-hour. When she left
my room, I lay awake a long time, thinking about her and Bill,
wondering if I could ever be to him all that she had said I would be.
I was happy, a little frightened, and so grateful--so grateful.