Guayabal, Cuba—and Heaven knows what date.Father, dearest—We have enjoyed your letters so much, and I am glad that you have Uncle John to bear you out in your statements that you are almost well and strong again, otherwise it would seem too good to be true. What a fright you gave us all, you dear Daddy.It is perfect here: if only you were with us I would be the happiest girl in the world. Peter is all better again. I hope I shall never live through another night like the one when we nearly lost him. Bill is wonderful with children—I never saw such patience and tenderness and sanity.We see quite a lot of Mercedes. I am sure she would enchant you, she is so pretty. But I should be jealous, you know, if she ever adopted you as a second father, as she threatened to do when I showed her your picture. Your picture, by the way, is the next thing to the flesh and blood you! I talk to it by the hour.Bill has confessed the Richard Warren hoax! Quite involuntarily. I must admit surprise, but of course I am terrifically proud of him. And you knew all along, you wretch, and never told me!It was amusing of you to scold me for not going to the races. But crowds—the bare idea of them confused me so. However, Bill insisted upon reading that part of your letter and carried me off, on your authority, if you please, to sit for hours in a funny little box and watch the people and the horses and smell the track and disgrace myself by rising suddenly and shouting as my horse came in!I won twelve dollars and am very haughty about it!I think if I had ever seen a horse-race while I was ill, could such a thing have happened, I would have died. Such sheer, wonderful poetry of motion! Bill laughed at me and promises me more thrills when the racing season is on in New York. He says the Cuban race horses are a "lot of junk"—but he doesn't realize what it meant to me. No one can realize what it means to me, to be unfettered, to walk, to feel well, to be hostess in my own (borrowed) home,to be like other girls! It is no longer a miracle, of course. Nothing is, for very long, except perhaps—life. And I look back on all my invalid years with amazement: it seems a dream, a fantasy, remote and impossible. It is as though I had always lived—as now,—reallylived, Daddy dearest!My letters are terribly long! And I write you much oftener than you me. We all send our love. Peter and I go further—we send kisses.Stay safe. Stay well, and write to your happyMavis.
Guayabal, Cuba—and Heaven knows what date.
Father, dearest—
We have enjoyed your letters so much, and I am glad that you have Uncle John to bear you out in your statements that you are almost well and strong again, otherwise it would seem too good to be true. What a fright you gave us all, you dear Daddy.
It is perfect here: if only you were with us I would be the happiest girl in the world. Peter is all better again. I hope I shall never live through another night like the one when we nearly lost him. Bill is wonderful with children—I never saw such patience and tenderness and sanity.
We see quite a lot of Mercedes. I am sure she would enchant you, she is so pretty. But I should be jealous, you know, if she ever adopted you as a second father, as she threatened to do when I showed her your picture. Your picture, by the way, is the next thing to the flesh and blood you! I talk to it by the hour.
Bill has confessed the Richard Warren hoax! Quite involuntarily. I must admit surprise, but of course I am terrifically proud of him. And you knew all along, you wretch, and never told me!
It was amusing of you to scold me for not going to the races. But crowds—the bare idea of them confused me so. However, Bill insisted upon reading that part of your letter and carried me off, on your authority, if you please, to sit for hours in a funny little box and watch the people and the horses and smell the track and disgrace myself by rising suddenly and shouting as my horse came in!
I won twelve dollars and am very haughty about it!
I think if I had ever seen a horse-race while I was ill, could such a thing have happened, I would have died. Such sheer, wonderful poetry of motion! Bill laughed at me and promises me more thrills when the racing season is on in New York. He says the Cuban race horses are a "lot of junk"—but he doesn't realize what it meant to me. No one can realize what it means to me, to be unfettered, to walk, to feel well, to be hostess in my own (borrowed) home,to be like other girls! It is no longer a miracle, of course. Nothing is, for very long, except perhaps—life. And I look back on all my invalid years with amazement: it seems a dream, a fantasy, remote and impossible. It is as though I had always lived—as now,—reallylived, Daddy dearest!
My letters are terribly long! And I write you much oftener than you me. We all send our love. Peter and I go further—we send kisses.
Stay safe. Stay well, and write to your happy
Mavis.
Sunset Lake,Somewhere in CanadaWe have no calendar here, my small, enchanting daughter, and so there are no such things as dates, only nights and days and splendid undivided hours.I was happy to have your letter. And you must not worry about me—I feel twenty years younger and, so John says, look it. You will not know your old Dad when you see him.I miss you, my dear. This is our first separation. I could not stand another. I hope that you have persuaded Bill that my home must still be your home, when we are all together again. At first it seemed unwise, two young things starting out in life, saddled with the presence of a third person. For I am a third person now—it is right that I should be. But I am very selfish. I want to enjoy my girl, this new, wonderful manifestation of her. And there is roomin the old house for us all: you may tinker with it as you please, add where you will, and I will keep from under your feet. I am certain that Bill will have all the practice he needs to keep him from getting rusty—even in Green Hill. And good old Mac is quite ready to abdicate in his favor. How splendidly it has all worked out! Never a day passes that I do not thank God for your health, for your happiness, and for my own reprieve.Give my love to my son-in-law. I will answer his letter shortly. Tell Peter I've a present for him—we've a guide up here who is a genius with a pen-knife and a scrap of wood.And inform Sarah that the last snap-shot of her you sent me is a marvel! She's entirely too rejuvenated for Green Hill.To you, my child, the tenderest affection of your devotedFather.
Sunset Lake,Somewhere in Canada
We have no calendar here, my small, enchanting daughter, and so there are no such things as dates, only nights and days and splendid undivided hours.
I was happy to have your letter. And you must not worry about me—I feel twenty years younger and, so John says, look it. You will not know your old Dad when you see him.
I miss you, my dear. This is our first separation. I could not stand another. I hope that you have persuaded Bill that my home must still be your home, when we are all together again. At first it seemed unwise, two young things starting out in life, saddled with the presence of a third person. For I am a third person now—it is right that I should be. But I am very selfish. I want to enjoy my girl, this new, wonderful manifestation of her. And there is roomin the old house for us all: you may tinker with it as you please, add where you will, and I will keep from under your feet. I am certain that Bill will have all the practice he needs to keep him from getting rusty—even in Green Hill. And good old Mac is quite ready to abdicate in his favor. How splendidly it has all worked out! Never a day passes that I do not thank God for your health, for your happiness, and for my own reprieve.
Give my love to my son-in-law. I will answer his letter shortly. Tell Peter I've a present for him—we've a guide up here who is a genius with a pen-knife and a scrap of wood.
And inform Sarah that the last snap-shot of her you sent me is a marvel! She's entirely too rejuvenated for Green Hill.
To you, my child, the tenderest affection of your devoted
Father.
I think, perhaps, that the hardest task I had, during the lazy days in Cuba, was writing to Father. There were times when the irony of the situation moved me to something very like laughter. A bitter form of mirth, and one I never thought to know. As carefully as any novelist, I built up my little fictionary happiness, evolved my plot, drew my characters, retaining enough of truth, and committing seven times seven sins of omission. It seemed to me, at times, that it was not I who wrote, but another Mavis, a happy Mavis, living in a tropical dream, companioned and at peace,—the Mavis I might have been—if—
What tears my guardian angel must have shed! What blotted pages must have soiled the ledger!
I wondered very often, if lies we tell to spare others are counted lies in the heavenly books. After all, surelywe are not judged by earthly standards, there must be a larger vision and a more tolerant viewpoint. And sometimes, where the truth ended and where falsehood began, seemed hidden from me: times when the dream seemed real and reality a dream—
CHAPTER XV
Sometimes I think it would be sweet,To go out, as a candle in the wind,Whose little flame flares up, in brilliance fleet,To light the secret corners of the mind,And calls to being for a heart-beat's space,Long-buried loves and dreams illuminate;The household furniture of that small placeWhere Life has dwelt; old, half-forgotten hate,Young, brave belief: dim-colored hopes, and fears,The driftwood memories: grey ghosts of pain,Which haunt us down the long, relentless years,All salient, living, vivid, once again,In that last, eager, leaping ray of light,Which snuffs out in the passing of a breathFrom windows open to the healing Night,Swift-blown from the quiet Wind of Death....A throbbing moment, wherein all things cease;A sudden plunging into kindly gloom;A blessed darkness and a perfect peace;And utter silence in an empty Room.
I had gone, with my writing things, to heap pillows on the lawn beneath that curious tropical "Sabre" tree, which is entirely covered with thick, wicked spikes, magnified and dangerous thorns. This tree wears smooth with age, they say—like a number of human beings, perhaps!—and the natives hold it in superstitious awe, believing it to be the tree which formed the Cross. They will not cut one down or in any way deface it.
Lying prone, elbows propped on my gay cushion, my chin in my hands, I contemplated the last verse I had made, considered a title, decided on "Ultimus," and then, weighting the sheet with a round, yellow orange, I rolled over on my back, and crossing my arms beneath my head looked up at the sky.
It was a wonderful morning, cloudless, perfect, not too oppressively warm. And it was the first breathing spell I had had in several days. The business of having as a house guest an eligible young bachelor, of charm and astonishing vitality, was a little wearing. And I was glad when the day came on which Wright concluded that an hour or so in the saddle, with Bill as escort would be both beneficial to his constitution and instructive mentally.
Quite aside from the arduous task of exhibiting Havana and environs to a tireless young man, the effort of "keeping up appearances" had really begun to tell on me. Wright was particularly keen-sighted, and I more than once fancied that he had caught a glimpse of the black waters under the thin verbal ice upon which Bill and I so carelessly skated.
My husband and I had not been alone together since the arrival of his friend. I had seen to that. When we were not in Havana, or at the country club, there were people at the "Palms." And to insure perfect satisfaction for everyone concerned, I had asked Mercedes Howells to bring a bag, and spend a few days in the country. She had accepted with alacrity, and there remained to me but a few hours of comparative peace before she descended upon the household.
I looked across at the mountains: purple blue they were, clear-cut against a marvelous sky. The air was very still.I could hear Arthur shrieking from the house. He had learned a number of fine, full-bodied Cuban-Spanish oaths lately, and was employing them in his most wheedling manner on Nora.
The ox-carts went by on the road below. A bird swayed on the bourganvilla vine and sang. Down in the palm-grove I saw the flick of a peacock tail, and the orchids, themselves like lavender birds, in the distance, flowering from the smooth palm trunks.
My eyes closed and I slept.
When I awoke, someone was sitting cross-legged beside me, whistling "Sally in our Alley."
I saw puttees and riding breeches, a hand holding a cigarette, and finally a blonde countenance which was turned upward to the sky.
"Hello," I said. "How long have you been here?"
"Hours," he answered. "Mavis Denton, you talk in your sleep, you do, somethin' awful!"
I sat up abruptly.
"What did I say?" I demanded.
"First you snored some—"
"I don't snore!"
"You do,—Bill told me so. 'Wright,' he says to me, 'don't you never marry a girl who snores.'"
There was no use arguing with Wright in a silly mood.
"Go on," I said, resigned to heaven alone knew what eccentricities of speech and disclosure.
"I'm going. First you snores a bit, as I remarked before I was so rudely interrupted. Who raised you, anyway, Mavis? Don't you know little girls must never contradict, interrupt, or otherwise distract old gentlemen? Well, after the snore—musical, it was—'Bill!'you says, entreating-like—'Bill,' you says, right out loud. And then, just like a movie heroine, 'Never!' you shouts, 'Never!', and you clinched your hands and ground your teeth as no lady had oughter!"
"I never heard of anything so silly," I said, "You're making it all up!"
Wright laughed.
"I'm not, truly," he said, "although perhaps I have rendered it in a slightly more lurid manner than you did. But it's true, and I'm going to ask Bill what it's all about, so there!"
"Don't you dare!" I said.
"All right, I won't, if you will promise me never to blush again like you have been doing for the last three minutes. It is very disturbing, to a struggling poet who has long sought fresher similes for Dawn and all that sort of thing. You provided the simile, all right, but who in time could rhyme with Mavis?"
At the mention of poetry, my hand unconsciously went toward the sheet of paper beside me. The orange rolled away and the wind provokingly caught the paper and fluttered it.
"What's this?" said the audacious youth beside me. "Ha! I see Bill's fine Italian hand in this—"
He picked up the paper, regardless of my pleas, and scanned it with a practised eye.
"Your writing. Amanuensis now, eh? Hm—that doesn't sound like Bill. Wait a moment, I never saw such illegible calligraphy. At least one member of a doctor's family ought to write so a fellow can read it—"
He laid the paper down.
"Bill didn't write that," he said, suddenly serious, "who did? You, Mavis?"
I nodded.
"Why, you little wretch," he cried out, delightedly. "Bill never told me a word—"
"He doesn't know," I said. "No-one knows. Please don't tell him. I had thought of some day showing what I had done to Uncle John Denton. But I've decided not to, now. I didn't mean anyone to know—"
Wright picked up the paper and read the verse again. I watched him, in a curious mental state. Part of me resented bitterly that even so good a friend should have dragged out to the revealing light of day, my wistful secret of song: and yet, another part of me, back in my brain, said dully, "It really doesn't matter—now."
"I'm a better critic than I am a poet," said Wright, after a time. "I think you have a gift, Mavis. This," he flicked the paper with a thumb and finger, "has grace and delicacy. It's not good, of course,—not according to—well, say, Bill's standards,—but it has promise. I won't tell Bill, if you'd rather not, although I think he would help you a great deal—and I'm sure he'd go quite out of his head with excitement. May I see, sometime, anything else you have? Only, for the love of Mike, what's the idea of being so morbid? Haven't you happier things to write about, child?"
I put my hand over his,
"Sure you won't tell?" I begged.
"I swear, by all the Muses," he replied, "Bill shall never know, from me."
"Know what?" asked Bill, appearing disconcertingly around the tree.
I snatched my hand from Wright's and felt myself grow scarlet. We must both have looked guilty, forWright's guileless blonde face reflected my embarrassment.
"Secret!" said Wright, firmly.
"Oh, I see."
Bill glanced from one to the other of us, to the paper in Wright's hand, and then considerately walked off.
"Lunch is ready," he remarked, over his shoulder. "Been calling you for about ten minutes."
Wright helped me to my feet.
"Close call," he said.
"Hush!" I said, for my husband was still within ear-shot.
"Is he always like that?" asked Wright, anxiously, as we went toward the house.
"Like what?" I asked, in all innocence.
"Positively green-eyed with rage if you are alone for half a minute with another man—even so harmless a specimen as myself?"
"Don't be silly," said I, with finality.
"I'm not, and if he is going to be jealous as all that, why don't you get to him first before he can accuse you, and demand that he cease baying at the moon with that human leopardess who vamps around these diggings?"
"She'll be here this afternoon, on a visit," I announced, laughing. "Why don't you monopolize her yourself?"
"I never went in for that kind," said Wright with firmness. "I might get scratched. Gentle and soft-spoken, that's my type. Besides, Miss Howells is going to look just like her mother, and that's a warning to any man!"
That afternoon Mercedes arrived. Her bag proved to be a trunk, and within an hour of her arrival, she had charmed the kitchen, made eyes at Silas, called Wrightby his first name, hurt her finger—with resultant medical attention, and confided to me that she "hated men!"
After which, she departed in the direction of the palm-grove with "Billy" and "Wright."
I went to her room and viewed her gowns, hanging, like flowers, in her innovation steamer-trunk. After which, I went to my own room and took stock of my chiffon and satin armor.
Bill came back at tea time.
"Wright is reciting poetry to Mercedes on the stone bench under the orchids, and sketching her between verses," he announced, "but I crave more material food."
"You might have stayed on," I suggested, passing him the sandwiches, "and made the recitation competitive."
"Competitive," he remarked, choosing a ripe, red disk of tomato, flanked with thin circles of bread, and biting into it reflectively, "calls for numbers. I don't enjoy being part of a mob-scene, or a mass-meeting."
"Here comes the Meistersänger," I said, as Wright came up the steps, with Mercedes unnecessarily on his arm.
Selecting chairs, cups, plates and food, our guests joined us around the wicker tea-wagon.
"He is not a nice young man at all," said Mercedes frankly, exhibiting a rather clever little pastel of herself, "this Wright. He says to me the most beautiful poetry, so sad and so lovely, all about unrequited love and dead girls floating in moonlit pools, and when, touched to the heart, I weep a little, he laughs and says it is wonderful how much tragedy one can turn out at fifty cents a line!"
She opened ocular fire on her host as she spoke, and Bill responded nicely.
"I'm sure," he said gravely, "that Wright will have plenty of happier inspiration now."
And said Wright to me, under his breath,
"In all justice, one must concede her a certain amount of beauty. I don't think she's going to look like her mother after all."
"Whispering's rude," said Mercedes severely, "isn't it, Billy?"
So the conversation became general again.
At six, Bill drove over to the neighboring plantation to fetch Peterkins, who had spent the day there with the Crowell children, back to supper. When he returned, he looked rather serious.
"What's up?" asked Wright idly, from the canvas verandah swing.
"Nothing much," he answered, "that is, not yet. Run along to Sarah, Peter,—there's a good fellow."
But I knew that something was wrong, and after the child had left us, I asked quietly,
"Tell us, Bill, please!"
"Crowell's been having some trouble with the natives," he answered, frowning. "It may blow over—and it may spread. They're like a lot of sheep. But I feel responsible to Reynolds, even if Silas is in charge. The people have a healthy respect for Silas, and they trust him,—but—"
"What sort of trouble?" asked Wright, practically.
"Oh, threats—and little gatherings—and demonstrations. They are always restless, and the slightest thing sets them off. Crowell discharged one of his surliest men the other day. Unfortunately, the chap is related to half Guayabal. We've some of his cousins and brothers and uncles on this place, I suppose! Anyway,this Miguel person has been going about trying to incite the people to open enmity against the resident Americans. Of course, it probably won't amount to a hill of beans, but you never know where you stand."
"Haven't they just finished a comic-opera revolution here?" asked Wright. "Seems to me I read something about it."
"There are always uprisings," answered Mercedes, covering a yawn, "generally in the eastern districts—nearer Santiago. They are like children, these people."
She turned, with a shrug which dismissed the subject, to Bill.
"Come," she urged prettily, "play my accompaniment for me. I want to sing you some of the old songs my little, Spanish grandmother taught her grandchildren."
We had a little while before we need dress for dinner, and so Bill followed her obediently into the living-room, and presently, her light, sweet voice floated out to Wright and me on the verandah.
"Sings well, doesn't she?" said Wright.
But I was not attending.
"Doesn't Bill seem worried to you?" I asked, more casually than my mental state warranted.
"Who? Bill? Why no, I don't think so," he answered, absently. "He's probably put all this native business out of his head by now. Bill's not an alarmist. Wonder what that song is—quaint, isn't it?"
But I was not satisfied, and after dinner, I deliberately found an opportunity, contrary to custom, to speak with my husband alone.
"About the Crowell plantation," I said, "is there any danger to them from the natives—to us?"
"There is always more or less danger," he answered,with the formal courtesy which had recently characterized all of our infrequent, unattended encounters, "but I do not think we need worry. Still, I shall forbid Peter to go out in the fields, or beyond the house alone, and I must ask you also to be careful. I'm sorry to curtail your freedom—but, if you don't mind—?"
Perversely, I suddenly "minded" very much.
"I won't run any risks," I answered, with mental reservations.
"There you two are again! Sneaking off, whispering, heads together! Aren't you just a little tired of twosing by now?"
It was Wright, coming up behind us. I thought I detected a little, cynical gleam in Mercedes' eyes, and laid my hand defiantly on Bill's arm.
"Areyoutired?" I asked him gaily.
He laid his free hand over mine.
"Do men tire of life?" he counter questioned, gallantly, and I knew a swift admiration for his histrionic powers. For his voice went a little deep, quite suddenly, and the hand over mine shook.
"Nice answer," said Wright critically, "quite emotional, but open to argument. Of course men tire of life. Some of them commit suicide, some of them drink, others get married! The remedy is entirely according to temperament."
"Horrid man!" said Mercedes, pouting. And answering amiably, "Am I not?" Wright guided her to the bridge table, having persuaded her at dinner that, with him as partner, she could trump his ace to her heart's content.
As we followed them, Bill said, very low,
"Remember—not to go out alone, Mavis."
"I'll remember," I answered, non-committally, and we sat down to the cards.
It was interesting to observe that Mercedes, her previous assertions to the contrary, played a much better game than any of us, excepting, perhaps, Bill.
So, after all, it had been from choice and not lack of knowledge, that she had not joined the game the night of the dinner. Which looked as if someone else had been manoeuvering besides myself. But I forgave her. She was so pretty that one could not expect her to always play quite "according to Hoyle."
CHAPTER XVI
I arrived in the kitchen the following morning, to discuss luncheon with Norah, and found the entire kitchen-force massed at the screened-door, watching Mercedes coquetting with Arthur. There was a temptation to draw an analogy between the brilliantly-plumaged, addle-pated bird and the decorative girl who stood at the cage-door, poking her white fingers perilously through the wiring and cooing to him in softest Spanish. It must be admitted, that weeks of painstaking effort on my part to win Arthur to a display of friendliness toward me, had resulted in nothing. But ten minutes with Mercedes had proved his undoing: the bird was positively maudlin. I came out to the cage, and at once the half-closed orbs of Arthur underwent an unflattering change. He opened them to their widest and bleakest and said, hoarsely sarcastic, "Pretty darling! Darling! Bow-wow-wow! Carramba!" at which Mercedes exclaimed delightedly,
"Oh, isn't he clever! Who taught him that?"
"The swearing, or the pet names?" I answered, stooping to say goodmorning to Wiggles, "I haven't the remotest idea."
"Billy?" suggested my guest, touching her perfectly dressed hair with highly manicured finger-tips.
"Possibly," I answered. "He invariably barks and then swears at me, before luncheon."
"Billy or Arthur?" inquired Mercedes with interest.
I laughed.
"Have you seen either of the men this morning?" I asked. "I heard them go out early."
"They went to Crowell's," she answered. "I saw them off. They will not be back before tea, Billy told me."
I tried to look as if I had heard these plans before, and merely forgotten them for a moment.
"How nice!" I said, insincerely, "We will have a nice, long day together—with no disturbing male element," I added maliciously.
"I will like that too," said Mercedes, with great unexpectedness. "You never let me talk to you alone, Mavis, and" she finished with a funny little undercurrent of wistfulness in her pretty voice, "I have no friends my own age—women friends, I mean."
I had grown to be a little annoyed at my guest, but somehow, her simple statement opened up a vista before me which I had not dreamed existed. The child seemed, after all, hungry for companionship. It was out of the question that she should find it with her own indolent mother, who treated her as if she were half plaything and half infant; or with her father, whose attitude toward her was a curious commingling of affectionate despotism and anxiety: and the basis on which she met all her many men-satellites was not one guaranteed to produce comradeship.
I put my arm through hers and took her into the kitchen with me. After my inconsiderable domestic task was completed, we went out on the verandah together, armed with sewing. Mercedes sewed beautifully, an art which her early convent education had taught her, and I took a real aesthetic pleasure in watching the smooth, dark head, bent over the fine linen in her lap.
"What are you making?" I asked her, idly.
She exhibited the very feminine garment: exquisitely embroidered and sewn with the most exact and even of tiny stitches.
"I wish I could sew like that," I said, enviously, "but I should think you would ruin your eyes."
She raised to mine the tremendous pools of liquid darkness in question.
"But no," she said. "All Spanish girls are clever with the needle. The Sisters taught me when I was very young."
I had been, with the Howells, to one of the convents near Havana, and I recalled now the sweet, patient faces of the nuns, and the marvelous work they showed us. Some of it lay in one of my trunks now, a present to Mrs. Goodrich from Bill and me. The thought of Mercedes behind the austere cloister walls was incongruous.
"Were you long with the nuns?" I asked her.
"Seven years," she answered, and then, amazingly, "I was very happy there—for a long time I wanted to take the veil, but Father was simply horrified at the idea."
I was somewhat horrified myself.
"I can't imagine it," I said flatly.
"Why?"
I didn't answer for a moment, and she went on,
"But I know why—you think me very light and frivolous, do you not, Mavis?"
"It would be difficult," I answered cautiously, "to imagine you as a nun!"
"They are good women," she said, and was silent.
Suddenly I realized that I knew very little more about this girl than I had known on the boat coming down toHavana, and yet, I had been with her almost constantly ever since.
"Didn't you care for college?" I inquired, rather diffidently.
Her great eyes lighted up.
"It was wonderful—in some ways—" she said slowly, "so many girls, of all classes, gathered together. At first I could not understand. At home, you know, one is very careful whom one knows. It is changing a little now. I remember I was scandalized, my first months at college, to find that the President of the Senior class was a waitress in one of the campus houses—actually waiting on the table! It was too incredible! I wrote home, and Mother begged Father to send for me at once. She was even more shocked than I! But Father laughed, she said, and told her it would do me good. He said it was high time that a little of my American blood came to the fore. Later I learned that this girl, the Senior President, had practically worked her way through the four years of college. She was the daughter of a very poor man—a peasant, we would call him. And yet there was hardly a girl in that great college who would not have given everything she had for the respect and admiration and love which that quiet, plain-featured girl had won and held from students and faculty alike."
"You too?" I asked.
"I, too," said Mercedes simply. She bent her head a little lower over the white fabric in her lap and went on, not quite clearly. "I was not very popular. Some liked me, yes. They even asked me to their homes for the shorter vacations. But they liked me because I was 'different': because it was 'smart' to say that they had a Spanish-American girl as a friend: or because I waspretty and bright and did not care much to study. But I made no real friendships."
I was, by now, very interested. Here was a cross-section of life that I had no knowledge of. A feeling of sympathy stirred in me: this gay, alien little creature, with the blood of two widely dissimilar nations warring in her, coming fresh from her convent to the democratic freedom of an American college. I said,
"Tell me a little about it all, Mercedes. I only know college-life second hand, for, as perhaps Bill has told you, I was a helpless invalid for eleven years. But I was fortunate in my friends, although I had few of my own age, and in a Father who was my greatest playfellow and my most understanding comrade."
The quick, facile tears rose to the big eyes. She pulled her chair a little closer and laid her warm, vibrant hand on mine.
"I didn't know," she said. "I'm so sorry. Billy told me that you had been ill—but I didn't dream.—You're wonderful, Mavis," she said, "delicate and lovely as an orchid. I always feel clumsy and too highly-colored beside you. And you have been so kind and sweet—"
I grew very remorseful: my feelings toward Mercedes Howells had been anything but "kind and sweet." They had been distinctly critical and almost unfriendly. For the first time, I did not resent her easy use of my husband's given name: for the first time I realized the old truth that to know people is to like them.
I gave the narrow, high-bred hand a little squeeze.
"Don't be silly, child," I said lightly. "And tell me more about your American impressions."
"You sound just like the reporter who came on the boat, my first trip North," said Mercedes, with a littlegiggle. "Such a nice young man! But the things he put in the paper about me! 'Beautiful Spanish-American heiress screams with delight at the first glimpse of her father's country.' I didn't really scream," she explained conscientiously, "but I talked more than I should have. Father wrote me quite an angry letter about it. He is very well known," she added, without pride, "and it annoyed him. He says no woman can hold her tongue, anyway! But how was I to know that the nice young man was a reporter?"
I had a vision of Mercedes, hands flying, eyes everywhere, babbling and bubbling for theNew York Press. It was too amusing. No wonder Mr. Howells had been 'annoyed.'
"Go on," I said encouragingly.
"The girls I went home with," she said, after a while, "they lived in wonderful houses and had such beautiful clothes. But I didn't like them, somehow. You see, at home we are very strictly brought up. After a girl is out, she has some freedom, of course, and, after she marries, it is quite different—she can do as she likes. And until Father had insisted upon my being educated in the States, my Mother had had all the care of me. And I was brought up as the Spanish girls are, as my Mother was in her own Madrid. These American girls I visited thought of nothing but good times. They spoke no language but their own—"
"How many do you speak, Mercedes?" I interrupted, curiously.
"English, Spanish, French, of course," she answered, "and a little smattering of Italian and German. I had governesses until I was ten, and then I went to the convent. And much emphasis was laid on languages."
I suppressed a gasp, and she went on.
"It was from them—my college friends—that I learned that it is easy to deceive one's parents. And that it is quite right and proper to have as many cavaliers as one can. 'Scalp-hunting' they called it—"
I thought of Mercedes' not inadept efforts along the line of scalps, and thinking, asked,
"But haven't Spanish girls—and girls all over the world—very much the same ambitions along that line?"
Mercedes knitted her brows, and as she looked at me, I was startled, for, for the first time, I saw in her a very definite resemblance to her father. There was a strength of jaw there, to which the rounded, soft chin had blinded me: a certain Northern keenness in the Southern eyes.
"Why yes," she answered, "but it is—to marry that they—shall I say—hunt? But it was not that with my New York friends. They had no desire to marry: many of them told me that they would hate being tied down, that they disliked children. No, it was not to marry—but merely to play and to be amused—"
I laughed.
"It's the motive then," I said, "that makes the difference in your eyes?"
"Of course," she said frankly. "To marry, to have a family, to be mistress in one's own home, that is—"
"The legitimate ambition of every woman," I concluded for her.
"Si, Senora," she answered, laughing in spite of herself.
"But," I argued, "you must have met other American girls whose interest was not solely centered in the fine art of flirtation."
"I understood them—those you speak of, even less!"said Mercedes guilelessly. "My roommate was such a one. She wanted to be an engineer just fancy! And she was so pretty too!"
"An engineer!" I ejaculated, for even to my American mind this was an unusual ambition for my sex to harbor. "And she had no use for men, too?" I asked.
"That was just it," said Mercedes, in obvious wonderment. "She had any number of men friends: corresponded with them, saw them at dances: they even called upon her at college. But a flirt she was not. They were her friends, she said. And she was like another boy with them. I went to her home once, a little town in Massachusetts, and I could not understand her at all. She was like a sister to her mother, a son to her father, and a comrade to her dance-partners. It was too amazing!"
There was the whole thing in a nutshell, I thought. She could understand but not condone the promiscuous flirtations of her American sisters: but the girl who was comrade to a man, and friend, and who looked on him as such, and not as an extra "scalp" or a possible husband, was beyond her comprehension.
"But," I argued, "returning to the butterflies, surely, Mercedes, you have quite as much freedom now as any American girl. And, forgive me, my dear, but you employ it in much the same manner."
Her glance was mischievous and rather child-like.
"That has only been since my return home," she said. "Mother is not pleased, but Father says, 'let her go ahead.' And—as to what you say, I am trying very hard to be American now."
"Not the comrade sort, such as your mechanical roommate?" I suggested.
She regarded me in amazement.
"But most of the men I meet are Cubans," she stated. "Do you thinktheywould understand it—if I could be like that little Mary Adams?"
I considered, shook my head.
"Of course not," she said, answering her own question. "They would laugh and shrug—and be, perhaps, disagreeable. They can accept such a manner in an American girl. They do not like it, or comprehend it, but some of them have learned their lesson. And they must respect it. But—in a Spanish girl—it would be unthinkable. Besides," she added frankly, "I couldn't—"
She was right. Temperamentally unfit, emotionally too highly developed.
"And—as to the flirting," she said shyly, "I—I like to attract people. I like to make them laugh and say nice things. And perhaps my American friends have taught me something of their methods."
"And your motive—?" I asked.
She stretched her graceful arms wide. Her hair had a blue sheen in the shaded light of the verandah and her skin was magnolia-white.
"I haven't any!" said Mercedes frankly.
"Not even a small gold band in the perspective?" I said.
She looked down at her ringless hands: at the heap of fragrant linen lying in her lap.
"This is to be part of my trousseau," she answered, indirectly, "part of what you call a 'Hope Chest.' All girls of my class sew a great deal and lay it all away until they marry. And, after all, I am not like my New York cousins, for where they say 'perhaps—when I get tired of playing,' I say, 'someday, when I meet the right man.'And so, you see, I am not like my Mother's people either—not quite. For they say, 'someday when my parents are satisfied—and let us hope it will be soon!'"
I didn't wonder that Bill—that the men found her charming. The mixture of innocence and sophistication, the innate and the acquired worldliness was really delicious.
"Do you talk to many people like this?" I asked curiously.
"Of course not," she answered, wide-eyed. "I know of no one who would understand. There are times," she admitted, with a little sigh, "When I really do not understand myself."
At the luncheon table I found myself looking at Mercedes, half as if she were a stranger, half as if she were an old friend.
"I envy you and Bill, Mavis," she said, once, when Fong had left the room, "you have so much to make you happy. He's a very lucky man."
I smiled. It was not a subject on which I wished to be interrogated.
"And you," she went on, "are a lucky girl. He's awfully fine, that husband of yours."
She played for a moment with her tea-spoon, and looked at me, rather pathetically.
"I like the way American men are with their wives," she said, "I wish I could have met a Billy—"
I might have responded that, in a few months' time, my husband would be legally free to take an interest in such remarks, but I refrained.
"You must have met a number of men, in two years," I said.
"Not Billies," she answered firmly, "awfully young they were, and—" she paused.
Fong came in just then, and the conversation took a more discreet turn. After luncheon, siesta-ing in the two big swings down among the palms, I brought up the subject again.
"So, after all," I said, "the 'right man' must be an American, Mercedes?"
I had not calculated on the effect of my idle words. A vivid scarlet spread to the roots of the black hair.
"On the boat," she answered, "we talked, your Bill and I—and since then, also. And I have learned a little of the reverence for women that your fine men have: a little of the way they guard and protect them—not by bars and bolts and commands, but by love and chivalry and thoughtfulness. I have seen that too, in my Father, a little. But, after all, my Father married Mother, and so, it is different with him. And he has never talked to me as he would to the daughter, perhaps, of an American wife—"
I thought of my own Father and knew a swift pang of pity, for this rather rudderless little craft.
"It was through Billy that I got to know you," Mercedes went on—"he was always talking about you. And you—you always held me off—"
Something very warm and sweet crept into my heart, and I put my hand out, across the space between.
"I'm sorry," I said, "awfully sorry, Mercedes,—you see, perhaps I wasn't quite used to girls."
"You'll really be my friend now?" she asked, naïvely: and I was conscious that I spoke the whole truth as I answered,
"I am your friend, Mercedes,—never doubt it."
Our hands clasped on that, and within ten minutes, her quiet breathing told me that she slept. I lay awake a little longer, thinking very hard. So Bill had really seen the best of her after all. He had not told me, for I had never tried to know, even second hand. He would have let me go on believing the girl to be heartless and silly, and admiration-loving, nothing else. It was not fair! And then I stopped to realize that I had notwantedto believe her anything else. Before I fell asleep, I had absolved Mercedes Howells from deliberately trying to flirt with my husband. She would have been my friend more than his, had I wished her to be. Failing that, she had turned to the person, who, oddly enough, had apparently comprehended her little complexities. I looked over at the serene face, the heavy, white lids, with their weight of dark lashes, folded over the big eyes. A little smile curved the lovely, full mouth, and she slept, as a child sleeps, one hand under her soft cheek.
It was very still. The palm leaves rustled faintly over my head, and the sunlight fell hot and golden through the trees. My eyes closed in spite of myself, and with a very tender impulse toward my new friend, I turned on my side and slept.
CHAPTER XVII
"What are you two girls whispering about?" asked Wright, coming up behind us on the glassed-in porch of the Country Club.
"It is none of your affairs," responded Mercedes with dignity, "but as you are so rude as to ask, I will tell you that the last affair of the season is to be held at the home of Consuelo Mendez—a ball—next week. And I have asked Mavis if she will let me steal you for the evening—provided you have no objection. It will be amusing, I think, and you will meet many pretty girls."
"As to that, I would not have to leave Guayabal," said Wright politely, "but I am honored that you implore my escort—"
"Implore!" said Mercedes with scorn.
"Be careful," I warned. "She'll withdraw her invitation. And I'm sure you'd have a wonderful time. I shan't go, of course, although Senora Mendez has been gracious enough to include me in the invitation. And Bill declares he is too old for such festivities. But I have told Mercedes she may have you—"
"And welcome?" suggested Wright, tragically.
"I shall stop on at 'The Palms' till then," said Mercedes—"Mavis has asked me. And if you will come into Havana with me the day of the dance, my Mother will be very glad to have you stay with us over that night. For it will be a late party, of course—too late for you to return to Guayabal."
"Bully," said Wright with enthusiasm, "I'd love it. What does one wear?" he asked anxiously.
"Low neck and short sleeves," answered Bill, appearing from the locker rooms.
"Wright thinks," said Mercedes pensively, "that at an affair almost entirely within the Spanish-Cuban set, the gentlemen appear attired astoreodores."
Wright looked aggrieved.
"Not at all," he contradicted, "only the Anglo-Saxon fashions for men are utterly devoid of beauty. I wish I had lived some time back—in the satin knee-breeches and lace cuff period."
"But you're bow-legged!" objected Bill insultingly.
"I am not," said Wright indignantly. "Observe!" He thrust out a far from unshapely calf, in tweed knickers. "If my extremities show a slight tendency to bow, it is merely a sign of physical strength, and many years spent in the saddle and on the base-ball diamond."
Said Mercedes to me, in an aside.
"Now, you know, my Mother would never have listened to such a discussion—in Madrid!"
"She would never have had the opportunity," I whispered back.
"To return to the Mendez ball," said Wright, raising his voice, with intent. "I thought a simple flower in my hair or thrust into my waistcoat...."
"Youarean ass!" remarked Bill, yawning.
"Perhaps," conceded Wright pleasantly, "but it is a quality which keeps me much in demand."
"You will never," said Bill deliberately, "get very far in your work, old man. For one thing—you have too much money: for another, you take nothing seriously."
"How about yourself?" asked Wright, a little stirred.
Bill glanced at Mercedes, but she smiled at him and nodded.
"I have found out about you, Billy," she said, "So go ahead and talk."
"Who told you?" demanded my husband, not very angrily.
"Partly Wright—I wormed it out of him, after he had let something slip—and, more recently, Mavis."
"Mavis!" said Bill in astonishment.
I did not meet his eyes.
"Why not?" asked Mercedes. "She is bursting with pride in you, naturally.Cela va sans dire!So, after I had probed and begged a little, she let me see the book. It is very wonderful," she ended, with that utter lack of self-consciousness in expressing her emotions and opinions, which, after one was used to it, was rather endearing.
"Well, then, as you're among friends, Billy, I repeat, what about yourself?"
"I have my profession," Bill answered quietly. "I am a doctor—and I love it. It is, perhaps, my vocation—to heal and to mend, and to help. And equally, perhaps, poetry is my avocation."
"Dictionary definition of avocation is 'diversion,'" said Wright, triumphantly.
"And the definition of diversion is 'recreation'!" I put in.
"Exactly," said Bill, "re-creation. To create anew—to refresh. That is, perhaps, the mission of poetry, and applies to the poet as well as to his audience. Poetry is, for me, the language of dreams: the ceaseless search for beauty: something common to all men. For the peasant dreams as well as the inventor: the man of science,as well as the financier and the college professor who thinks of education as something bigger than is contained between the covers of a text-book. And from the soil, the shop, the laboratory, the office and the school-room great songs have been sung,—not all of them in words!"
"The financier dreams?" said Wright, incredulously. "Not much!"
"If he didn't, he wouldn't be where he is," answered Bill. "If the engineer didn't dream, the bridges would not be swung over the boiling rivers of strange countries, or the railroad tracks laid through the virgin jungle and the ageless desert—"
I had a curious sensation, listening to that even, low voice. It was as if, for the first time, I had heard Richard Warren speak.
"I guess you're right," said the other man, after a moment of silence.
"Of course I am," answered Bill. "And so, the poets dream dreams too, and try to interpret other men's dreams: those which are built in brick and stone: materialized into steel: founded in a huge office building. The grim reality of war stands for dreams sometimes. Many inarticulate poets have gone singing to the bayonet thrust. Once, a handful of people dreamed of Liberty; and the United States was their expression of that dream."
Someone drew a deep breath. It was I, perhaps.
Bill looked over at me, shaking the ash from his cigarette. And for a moment I forgot the feud between us: forgot that we were very soon to go our separate ways: forgot a number of things that I had known and I remembered only the songs that Richard Warren had sung for the world.
"It was a dream, too," said Mercedes, "which made Cuba free!"
We were grave, as, together, we four had never been through the sunny, idle days. I had the oddest feeling that between us all lay something unspoken, unnamed, intangible, as if, too, for the moment, we were closely knit together, completelyen rapport.
"Well," said Wright easily, swinging the conversation back to its starting place, "It's all very well to talk. And perhaps you are more serious than I, Bill. Mind, I don't altogether admit it—but you tune your lyre to a deeper key than I do mine. I can't claim to be a poet: a versifier, yes...."
"You do yourself an injustice," I said warmly, for Wright's somewhat exotic pen-name had long since come into my knowledge and I had seen some of his magazine verse.
"You've a gift," said my husband, "not lightly to be disregarded. But you're too versatile—you paint better than you write, and there's a lot in the old parable of the talents. And, by George, you've no honest right to your talent if, in some way, you do not use it for the good of your fellow-men."
"That's what I tell him," broke in Mercedes, in a little earnest note, and blushed a rosy red.
The links were almost deserted, and the tea-hour long past. Realizing that it would be late before we reached home, I rose, reluctantly. For there had been a spirit around the table which could not easily be recaptured—and I regretted its passing.
"The tourists have practically all left," said Mercedes, on the way to the car. "Very few are here still. And the residents have already begun to go North."
"You'll practise again this year?" asked Wright of Bill, as the car drove off, and I heard my husband answer,
"That depends very much on Mavis."
"Is he to poetize or administer pills?" asked Wright, turning to me.
"Both, I hope," I answered casually. "Good doctors may not be as rare as good poets, but the combination is remarkable."
"I should think," said Mercedes, with candour, "that you would be awfully jealous...."
"Grateful lady patients?" asked Wright.
She nodded.
"I've not had the opportunity yet," I answered. "Since I've known him Bill hasn't had many patients except me—"
"Quite a serious case," remarked Wright solemnly, "one that demands incessant medical attention."
Bill laughed.
"If Mavis can stand for irregular hours and cold meals," he said, "I'll start in again when our vacation is over."
"You needn't rub it into me that I don't have to work for a living," said Wright. "Look at you, taking a year off, careless-like. 'Tisn't decent—for a doctor. I can't help it that my late lamented uncle made tin-pans successfully—and that I was his only living relative. He didn't approve of me at all," he concluded modestly, "and he thought my verses immoral, but he couldn't leave it all to charity, you know—"
"I've never lacked having more money than I needed," said Bill, as we drove through the hot, quiet night, "but I've been glad of it. If it didn't provide me with anadded incentive to work, it at least allowed me to do a good deal that I otherwise could not have done."
"The Denton Free Clinic, for instance," said Wright. But Bill did not answer.
For just a second I was hurt that he hadn't told me. And then I remembered how little I knew about the man who was my husband.
Mercedes, in the front seat with Bill, asked him a question. Under the cover of their voices Wright said to me,
"I shouldn't chaff Bill like that. I don't suppose that there is another medico of his age in New York who has done so much charity-doctoring. There are districts where the people have absolutely canonized him."
"He never tells me about that side of it," I said.
"I don't suppose he would," answered Wright. "You get to know these things by chance. But he had a streak in him—even at Princeton—that made him different from the rest of us. And men who were with him at Johns Hopkins could tell you tales—"
"Bridge tonight?" said Mercedes.
I jumped. My thoughts had been very far away, filling in gaps.
"You'll have to play with me," said Wright. "I understand all your signals, Mercedes!"
"But you don't profit by them," she answered, as we came within sight of the house.
I played a wretched game that evening. I couldn't keep my mind on the cards. It was off—back at the Country Club again, listening to a poet talk of poets: it was wondering a little about the "Denton Free Clinic": and, in consequence, I revoked twice, to the extreme amusement of our opponents.
"Haven't come to the point where you swear at your wife at the bridge-table, have you Bill?" asked Wright, as he carefully took the penalty.
"No," replied my husband, "that's a form of indoor sport I could never quite understand. It doesn't seem fair—for she couldn't swear back."
"Oh, couldn't I?" said I with ardour.
"I shan't give you the opportunity," he answered. "And now, if you please, one no trump."
The game broke up rather early. I was tired and wanted to go to bed. Wright and Mercedes, with the excuse that they were keenly interested in astronomy, walked out on the verandah. I told them good-night.
"You'll stay to chaperone the Irresponsibles?" I asked my husband.
"Gladly," he said, "and discreetly—from a distance."
There was something so comfortable and lovable about him that night that I suddenly wanted to tell him I was sorry that we had quarrelled, sorry that the barrier had arisen between us. But I couldn't. In one way, however, I might make amends. I said,
"I've grown awfully fond of Mercedes. I hope she will come North sometime—for the summer, perhaps. I think I misjudged her cruelly for a while."
The steel-blue eyes grew warm.
"She's a very nice child," said Bill, "and I knew you'd find it out before long. You didn't give her a chance at first. But I'm glad you like her, Mavis, for you can do her a lot of good."
"How?" I asked curiously.
"Well, for one thing, you're pretty well balanced—most of the time. And for another, you have had the advantage of a unique and splendid upbringing. And foranother, you are—unless given certain circumstances—most uncommonly sweet."
He said it in a very matter-of-fact tone: and looked at his watch as he spoke—not at me. I was absurdly embarrassed.
"Are—are you a 'certain circumstance'?" I asked daringly, and escaped to my room before he could answer. I heard him start to follow me, but apparently he thought better of it. But long after I was in bed, I heard a foot-fall under my windows, the smell of a pipe drifted in through the flower-scent, and the sound of a baritone voice singing softly,
"Who is Sylvia—who is she—?"
"Is she kind as she is fair—?"
I lay for some time, listening, and finally, as the footsteps turned away and the song grew fainter, I laid my hot cheek to the pillow and slept, dreamlessly, until morning.
But when morning came, it all seemed very far away—that talk at the Country Club—and the steps below my window. Wright was in his silliest mood, and Mercedes and he kept up a running fire of foolishness. Bill was preoccupied, almost abrupt. He left us directly after lunch, on one of his now daily visits to the Crowell plantation. And Mercedes disappeared with Wright at the same time. Where they were, I do not know to this day.
I had tea alone: Peter was with Sarah, and after tea I went out restlessly and walked, stopping at old Manuel's and at Annunciata's. It was growing dark before I turned homewards again, and there was a strange lingering light in the sky which drew my attention. A great, sulphur-colored cloud, murky and ominous, not like anycloud I had ever seen. I hurried on and had reached the gates before the wind came. A rush, a tearing at trees and bushes, a tremendous sweep of hot, choking dust and air. I could hardly keep my feet, and struggled, step by step, head down, almost defenceless in the face of the storm. The wind had risen, apparently, without warning. And yet, looking back on it afterwards, I realized that, had I been a little more familiar with the vagaries of Cuban climate, I would have noticed the curious hush, the absolute stillness, expectant and breathless, which lay over Guayabal just before the storm broke. Nearing the house, I heard a tremendous crash, voices, and the sound of hurrying foot-steps. The wind was increasing in volume, and I fairly stumbled up the steps, almost falling. When my hand was finally on the door, it was wrenched open with violence, and I saw Bill on the threshold, very white, with burning blue eyes.
He caught me by the arm and pulled me into the room.
"Where have you been?" he said, furiously.
"Walking," said I, the ruins of my hat in my hand.
He made a sound in his throat, half-anger, half-impotence.
"The roof of the garage has blown off," he said. "It's a nice little storm. I have been looking for you all over the plantation. No one had any idea where you were. I found Wright and sent Mercedes in the house—she's had rather a narrow escape—from a falling tree. She's all right, but hysterical—"
"I must go to her at once," I said, starting off.
The long arm shot out and I was pulled close to the tall, lean figure.
"Just a minute," said Bill. "Mercedes is all right,as I said. Sarah is with her. But I want to ask you this ... quite aside from the danger you ran, in a wind like this, why did you disobey my express wishes and go out—alone—away from the house?"
Then I remembered.
"I—" said I, and was silent.
Bill dropped my arm.
"I suppose," he said with bitterness, "it was because I asked you not to. Very well, I've learned my lesson. You knew that Guayabal is in a very unsettled state: you knew that Crowell had had trouble on his plantation: I told you there had been threats—demonstrations. I asked you not to run any risks. That is why, I suppose, when the opportunity arose, you deliberately ignored my wishes."
"You are very unjust," I said, fighting back the tears.
"I hope so," said Bill quietly, "but I'm afraid not. It seems as if we couldn't have a whole day of peace and friendliness under the same roof. I've tried my best, Mavis, to be as little in your way as possible—to make the best of a trying situation. But at every turn you manage to antagonize me and to rebel against me. I might have known—"
He turned away and lighted a cigarette with fingers which shook.
"I'm sorry," I said, steadying my voice with an effort, "if I have annoyed you. I did not go out this afternoon with such intention."
I would have stopped there, but the lift of his shoulders angered me until I finally lost all control of myself.
"I'll not be a burden to you long," I said. "As soon as we are home again I will release you from your responsibilities. I have wanted to spare Father, but I seethat I can't—you go too far. I don't know how such things are done, but it shouldn't be very difficult to obtain an annulment of our marriage. The whole thing has been a ghastly mistake ... an impulse I have regretted ever since. But it's not too late," I said, with my head held very high, "to rectify that mistake."
I walked past him into my own room. Somehow the pride that had always come to my rescue was missing now. I was just hurt—hurt, and unhappy and very lonely. To speak to me so! To look at me so, out of those steel-blue eyes! It was not just; it was not anything but deliberate cruelty!
Once having said that I would make myself free, the thing crystalized for me as it had never done before. Of course, I had meant all along to separate from my temporary husband. That was understood at the outset. But it had seemed a long way off, indefinitely vague. And now that my decision was spoken, it loomed very near. Irrevocable. I shrank, in anticipation, from the publicity of it, the questions, the prying eyes. Wright would wonder and grieve—and Mercedes—and I? I hardly knew. On Father's sorrow and self-reproach I dared not dwell. Now I had nothing left.
I rose and bathed my eyes. They were swollen from crying and my throat ached abominably. And then, with a tremendous effort, I opened my door and went out to find Mercedes.
She was in her room, shaken but quite recovered, and full of gratitude to Wright for seeing her danger and pulling her away just in time.
"Where were you?" she asked anxiously. "You weren't hurt, were you? You look dreadfully, Mavis!"
Hurt? Yes, I was hurt beyond healing. But Mercedes must not know.
"I was in no danger," I said, evasively. "I came in just as the storm was beginning."
"You heard the roof go then?" she asked. "Wasn't it awful? It is a wonder Bill wasn't killed—he was just driving the car in...."
"Bill?" I said, stupidly.
"What's the matter? Didn't he tell you? You're white as a sheet!"
She jumped up from the bed and put her arms about me.
"Mavis, are you faint? Let me call Bill!"
"Please don't," I said. "I'm all right now."
The dreadful dizziness had passed: my ears stopped singing and the room assumed its normal aspect again.
"If you don't mind," I said, "I'll lie down beside you for a bit. Please don't tell anyone. I'm nervous, I suppose, and upset."
And so, it was in Mercedes Howells' arms that I finally cried myself into calmness. And Mercedes, suddenly tender and very gentle, never asked why, and, bless her heart, never told.
CHAPTER XVIII
A day or so went by, devoid of any particular incident. If Bill and I spoke to each other at all, it was to discuss our plans for leaving Cuba. The Goodriches were returning shortly from Europe: Father sent a homesick-for-me cable from Green Hill: the weather was beginning to grow very warm: in short, a hundred and one things warned us that the Spring were better spent in the North. We fixed our departure for a day not two weeks distant, and Bill went into Havana to book our passage. Even in public we had dropped the pretence of marital banter. But Wright and Mercedes, apparently absorbed in each other, did not notice: or, if they did, kept each his and her own counsel, as far as I knew.
The lazy, sun-steeped days seemed interminable. I had, luckily, a number of things to arrange—another trunk to buy and some sewing to accomplish, with Annunciata's help. And Bill's obvious preoccupation could easily have been laid to the growing unrest in Guayabal. Mr. Crowell, an anxious, nervous, but charming person, had been more than once at "The Palms" to discuss the situation. If it had not been for my husband's sense of responsibility towards the Reynolds, I think that we should have packed up and left Cuba in short order. But he was anxious to stay on for a time longer and see Silas, and what men were loyal to their American employer, through what he hoped would prove a passing phase of revolt—or so he said.
As for me, I went through the days, weighted under a burden of uncertainty and a sorrow without name. Father's miniature, lying open on my night-table, seemed to reproach me: seemed, too, at times, to reproach himself, which was even harder to bear. "I have done my human best for you," the gentle-strong mouth seemed to say. "I have never wanted anything but your happiness, my little Mavis." And the kind, humorous eyes added, "Is it my fault that I must hear you sobbing through these long, unhappy nights?"
No, not his fault. Whose, then? I dared not ask the picture in the little leather case, for I was afraid it might answer.
"It ishisfault, Father," I would defend myself mutely. "We might have been content, even happy, in a friendly way, if it had not been for him."
"It was not for Friendship alone that I gave you to him, Daughter," the answer would come, "but for something dearer, bigger, deeper. You were so young and so alien from the world. I had thought that the man to whom we both owe everything would be the one to help you through all that first difficult time: to teach you, finally, Life's loveliest lesson. And I had hoped, prayed even, that you would one day come to be to him what your Mother was to me.... There was not much time," the beloved voice went on, very sadly, "for me to make a decision. It was hard to feel I might have to leave you ... alone ... unsheltered.... How hard, you will never know ... unless some day you are called upon to leave a child of your own...."
"Father!" I begged—"Please—"
"If the mistake was mine," said the voice which still seemed to come from that unsmiling miniature, "I canonly ask your forgiveness, Mavis. Even your Father, who loves you beyond all earthly things, was wrong to try and shape your destiny."
"No—no—" I sobbed.
I laid the minature on the table again. The voice in my heart had ceased to speak: There were only the pictured eyes, looking into mine from a little leather case. But for a long time, Father had talked to me so. I read between the lines of his letters and prayed that he should not read between the lying phrases of mine. Was it all lies? "I am happy," I told him again and again: and he, who knew me so well, was convinced, perhaps because, in a certain, curious sense, that much was true.