GREEN HILL
June.
Has it seemed long to you, little Diary? Yet it is just a year since
my first entry was made. I'm writing now in my room with the windows
wide. Bill has just called up to me that my pink rose-bush is in
flower. I must go down and see. I can hear Mother on the lawn talking
to Mrs. Goodrich and Father and Peter. Or is it Wiggles? She employs
almost the same tone toward both of them. And Sarah, a good ten years
younger than last year, is out where the new cottage is soon to be.
She has the builder with her, and I know that they are disagreeing. It
will be a boon to Sarah to have the Simpson tribe--as much of it as
are carpenters--working on her house for her. A pretty revenge!
"A new Doctor has come to Green Hill!" Just a year ago--Diary--and
since then so much has happened. So much sorrow and happiness, loss
and gain. It is hard to believe that it is I who write, Mavis of Green
Hill.
The people have been so good since I came home: so glad for me. They
tell me I look a different person--and why not, pray? For I am strong
and well and most divinely happy, Diary, and it is pleasant to be able
to write that down for you--after all the despondencies I did not
spare your pages.
There's the new house to build--and this one to remodel in the
Fall--and the garage already under way. It will be ready for Silas to
putter about in by the time he comes North. And in August we are to
expect Mercedes, which means Wright, of course. I have been able to
persuade the Howells that Cuba is all very well, but Mercedes must be
married from my house--and they have consented. I think that Mr.
Howells is glad that it will be so.
The reviewers have been kind to Bill's new book. It was rushed through
and appeared early this month. The secret has been let out, of course,
and the poor villagers of Green Hill are mightily embarrassed at
having harbored a famous poet for so long without knowing it. And they
get the name quite confused. It's "Doctor Warren" half the time!
My dear old Dr. Mac has been to see us more than once. We've had
wonderful evenings, in the late June dusk, a happy family, lacking
nothing, content with just living and loving--
Mother and Dr. Mac are such friends. She actually flirts with him, in
her Dresden China way, and he growls. But he likes it. I am sure he is
half in love with her already--he couldn't very well help being.
Bill's here--his hand on my shoulder, smelling nicely of damp, new
earth!
"Go away!"
"Why?"
"I'm writing!"
"So I see--but what, little wife?"
"The end of a story."
And under his eyes, Diary, I have turned back your pages and drawn a
thick, black line through that pitiful entry made on my wedding
day--drawn a thicker, blacker line through that sombre little word
"Finis."
"Kiss me, William Denton!"
And now, with his kiss on my lips, I have turned back to what I have
just written and am writing, letter by letter, with a steady hand and
a high heart, between laughter and tears, two firm, exultant words:
THE BEGINNING