CHAPTER XIII
After a long time, I heard a knock at my door.
"May I speak with you, Mavis, just for a moment?" said my husband.
I steadied my voice with an effort.
"I can't imagine that you have anything of interest to tell me," Ianswered, "Isn't it time you went to Havana to meet Mr. Penny?"
There was an exclamation, and suddenly the door was flung open andBill came in.
"Look here," he said, "we've got to have this thing out once and forall."
I was standing, my wet handkerchief in a tight, hard wad in my hand.
"Please leave my room," I said coldly.
"Not till I've said what I want to. I'm sorry you found out--about thebook. I was going to tell you--later. But now that you have, we can'tignore it. It was the merest coincidence that I met you before yourfirst letter came. And I was deep in it, before I realized that youwere bound to dislike me, as I really am,--and then I couldn't tellyou. Things you said in your letters made it absolutely impossible forme. And for reasons of my own, I had preserved my incognito verycarefully. Only Uncle John knew, and Wright and my Mother--and--yourFather--"
Father! And his mother! The little "red-haired, blue-eyed" lady whohad written to me: to whom I had confided my admiration for her son!
Minute by minute, shame was flooding me: shame and a terribly tiredfeeling.
"Does your mother know--?" I asked.
"That we are married? No," he answered, "I had reasons for not tellingher just yet. She knows I am in Cuba, of course. You have never askedme about my people so I hardly thought it worth while to mention herto you--under the circumstances."
"I'm sorry it has turned out as it has," he said, after a pause. "Youdon't understand--"
I could agree with him there.
"I'm afraid not," I said.
He lifted his shoulders ever so slightly, a gesture of defeat.
"Please--" he said, but something in my eyes stopped him. His facegrew very hard.
"I think," he said, "that you are making a mountain out of a molehill.A range of mountains. Because I wrote a few verses that struck yourfancy: because you did not like the actual, flesh-and-blood author:because I preferred to hide behind my nom-de-plume, and because youchoose to honor Richard Warren with your friendly regard--" heshrugged again, "and because, perhaps foolishly, I want to be likedfor what I am, and not for what I set down on paper--I preferred toplay what I fancied was a very charming little game--and now youaccuse me of having cheated."
"I have nothing of the sort," I answered. "But did it not occur toyou, during your 'little game' that you were playing with an opponentwholly innocent of the fact that she was playing blindfolded, and thatthe cards were--stacked?"
We both heard the car drive up to the front door.
"Well," he said, "my cards are on the table now, Mavis."
"The car is waiting," I said. "You had best go. As far as I amconcerned, the game is over. Richard Warren, as I knew him, neverexisted,--only a very clever young doctor who amused himself at myexpense. Here," I said, turning to the open drawer, "are your letters.Take them, please. They would make good reading of the type which iscalled 'light fiction.'"
"Careful," said Bill, under his breath, and his hand shot out andcaught my arm, "careful, Mavis! You are going just a little too far."
I twisted my arm away.
"And you--?" I asked furiously, "and--_you_?"
"I beg your pardon," he said, and the clear flame of anger leaped intothe steel-blue eyes.
The door closed behind him. I stood for a moment, quite still, rubbingthe bruised place on my arm which his fingers had made.
Richard Warren's letters lay on the floor. I caught them up, hurriedto the living room. There was a burning log on the hearth, and underBill's hostile eyes, as he gathered up his hat and gloves, I put thesheets in the fire.
They writhed, shot high in flame, and blackening, fell to ashes.Something in me cried out at that--they had been so dear, so dear.
"Have you my letters?" I asked him, rising and dusting off my hands.
"No," he replied, "I never keep letters."
It was the one redeeming fact that had come to my knowledge that day.I mentioned this, and went past him, into my own room again.
It seemed to me that, in an hour's space, I had lived many years andgrown very old.
When I heard the car drive off, I went out on the verandah with Peterand played with him for a time before I dressed. I wanted to look myprettiest for Mr. Penny. And I blessed a kindly Providence that he wasto interrupt my wholly impossible _menage-a-deux_. And onedetermination I made: as soon as I returned to Green Hill, I wouldtake steps to be free again. Father would soon get used to the idea:it would hurt him, of course, but someone is always being hurt.Travel--perhaps Father would take me to the Continent. But never againto the tropics. I had had enough of their soft, friendly ways andtheir treachery. When it was necessary that Uncle John Denton be toldof the predestined fiasco of my marriage, I for one, would not shirkit. Bill was his nephew, but I was the daughter of his dearest friend,and he had cared for me since I was a baby. Sometimes, quite recently,I had fancied that he had cared, too, for my mother. But at allevents, he would not be angry with me when he knew. Of that much I wascertain.
It was a very cordial and sparkling hostess who met her guest and herhusband at the door. I had put on the little white voile which, of allmy daytime frocks, I thought the most becoming. I had dressed my hairhigh and thrust a wonderful orchid through my mauve belt. My cheekswere burning and I had a moment of stage-fright as I heard the wheelsof the car on the drive. It would not be easy to carry it off, to hidemy hurt and my shame--but pride helps wonderfully, always, in anysituation, and I was quite satisfied with the girl who looked back atme from the long mirror in the living-room, as I passed it on my wayto the verandah. But although all the stains of crying had gone frommy eyes and left them bright, they were different eyes than the oneswhich had read the first lines of Uncle John's letter. Brown eyes, andbig--but with all the dreams washed from them. Perhaps it was betterso.
"A very hearty welcome, Mr. Penny," I said, smiling, as our slight,blonde guest untangled himself from his bags and jumped to the step,"it's good to see you again."
"For heaven's sake, Mrs. Denton," he expostulated, not heeding mygreeting, but taking both my hands in his, "don't ruin my firstimpression of this ripping place and of this miraculous You by pinningthat awful label on me. Do you think," he begged, "that you couldmanage 'Wright'?"
"In fair exchange for 'Mavis,'" I answered, smiling.
"You're on!" he said, dropping my hands after a vigorous clasp, "thatis to say, if Bill has no objection."
Bill turned from a colloquy with Wing and Silas and waved benevolentlyin our direction.
"Not an objection," he answered gaily. "Mavis has me trained. Her wordis, naturally, my law."
If that was the tone he wished to adopt, I was convinced that here, atleast, was a game which two could play.
"Bill is a very satisfactory husband," I confided to Wright,pleasantly. "He and I have discovered the best basis possible formatrimony."
"What's that?" asked Wright, as we went into the living-room. "Lord,you lucky people, what a wonderful house!"
"Isn't it?" I said, and then, answering the question, "A mutualplatform of Liberty, Independence and--"
"Love!" said Wright, triumphantly.
"How did you guess it?" asked Bill, following his guest.
I laughed, a little hysterically, and bade Bill show Wright to hisroom. After which, with a sense of having scored, I waited for the mennear the dining-table, luncheon having been announced.
"We're late today," I said, as we all sat down. "I postponed thesacred meal a little to allow you to arrive."
"It's only one-thirty," objected Wright, looking at his watch.
"I know, but one does things differently in Guayabal," I said,explaining our usual routine.
"Some life!" said the n
ewly initiated. "Suits me. Let's stay on hereforever. I imagine," he went on, turning to include us both in hisremark, "that nothing could have been more perfect for the _lune demiel_."
Bill was silent, but I agreed hastily.
"And now tell us about Santiago," I said.
The recital occupied most of the conversational part of the mealpleasantly enough.
"See my pretty senoritas?" asked Bill, passing the cigarettes.
"Cuban?" inquired Wright, taking one. "That's good--I've developed apassion for them. No, not a senorita. All I saw were at least ninetyand weighed a ton."
"I've got just the girl for you!" said Bill and I, simultaneously.
Wright laughed.
"The same one?" he asked, with interest.
"No, our tastes differ," I answered, "the one I have in mind islittle and round and brown-haired. She's delightful."
"And mine," said Bill, "is just the right height, just the rightshape, and as dark-haired and creamy-skinned as a Spanish princess.She is half Spanish, too, which means--temperament."
"Very interesting," said Wright. "Bring 'em both on. But I likeamber-colored hair and brown eyes myself. Did you corner the market onthe combination, Bill?"
"Of course," answered Bill gravely, "there aren't two like Mavis. Thatmould was broken."
"Lucky for me," agreed Wright, sighing. "I want to stay a carefreebachelor. I'm susceptible enough, Lord knows,--and very guileless. Butmy appearance protects me, as well as a certain modesty, not to saytimidity, of manner. I've not your looks, nor your way with thewimmin, you handsome bridegroom," he concluded affectionately, smilingat Bill.
"Do tell me," I asked, leaning back in my great, carved chair, quiteconscious that it served as an effective background for my hair,"about Bill's past. I can't get a word out of him on the subject."
There was a spark of admiration in the glance Bill shot me--aninvoluntary tribute.
"Wait till we're alone," whispered Wright, mysteriously. "I could atale unfold--! Enough to turn your hair grey. Broken hearts all overthe place--he just stepped on 'em. Anonymous letters, begging for alock of hair or an old glove! There have been times when your husband,Madame, has been forced to assume a disguise!"
"You colossal idiot," said Bill amiably.
"Don't listen to him, Mavis," urged Bill's best friend. "Listen to meinstead!"
"I'm willing to be convinced," I answered. "And now that you're bothon your second cigarette, shall we walk about the place a little?Bill," I went on, turning to him, very sweetly, "would you mindrunning to my room and getting my big, lavender shade hat--? It'sright on the bureau."
For a moment I thought that he would shake me. I knew he wanted to.But, instead, he swung obediently away and took his revenge in acareless "All right, dear!" as he went off.
"Isn't he a peach!" mused Wright aloud, watching admiringly thebroad-shouldered figure across the room.
"You've known him long?" I asked, in order to avoid answering.
"Roommates at Princeton," he replied. "Those were the good old days!There never was a more popular man in college than old Bill! I baskedin reflected glory all the time. He was always the King Pin among us,whether it was football, or writing skits, or drumming the piano."
"You must have a lot in common," I suggested, "especially yourpoetry--"
Wright's round, blue eyes grew rounder than ever.
"He's told you!" he gasped.
"Certainly," I said, smiling to cover the pain in my heart, "did youthink he could keep it from me? Besides, I half-guessed it all thetime."
"I told Bill that," said my guest, triumphantly, and then, as Billemerged from my room, gingerly carrying the hat, as if it were aspecies of lavender lydite, "Well Richard Warren, I suppose by nowyour wife is your severest critic!"
The hat fluttered from Bill's grasp. I shrieked. But he caught itagain deftly.
"Here you are," he said, handing it to me, and went on, "My kindestcritic, you mean, but--my critic always."
"What do you think of the new book?" asked Wright of me, as stoppingonly to collect Peterkins, we went from the house, down the longavenue of palms. "I've only seen a bit, but I tell him it's betterthan the first--surer, more mature, bigger in every way."
"She hasn't seen it," answered Bill, hastily. "I don't want her to fora while yet."
"Oh," Wright nodded understandingly, "I see."
Just what he saw was beyond me, but I said, with a little sigh,
"I'm so impatient--"
"You couldn't be that," said my husband, "not even when it comes to mynew book."
"Very pretty," observed Wright, regarding us both, impartially.
"Isn't she?"
This was too much. I turned the conversation in the direction of ourcoming dinner party and to a discussion of hibiscus-bloom. But allthrough that afternoon through the banter, the sparkling surface talk,of dinner that night, through the hours before I fell asleep, I wastrying to adjust myself to the fact that it was, after all, Bill whohad written _The Lyric Hour_; who had so beautifully said so many trueand lovely things: who was a very high-hearted poet.
No matter how little of his real self he had shown me in his letters,regardless of the obvious misfit of his poems and his livingpersonality, he had written those poems: they were his. And they musthave sprung from some eternal and true fount of beauty in his nature,or else all books lied and all the poets who ever lived to gladden theworld with their songs were tricksters and jesters, with a command ofrythmical English and no more. I could not believe that. And so, Imust believe that my husband had written truly and sung faithfully,from his heart. And that is what I could not understand, could notreconcile with him, himself. He had hurt me, had wounded my pridebeyond endurance: I hated him, I wished myself free of his merepresence: but I was, in the last analysis, forced to admit his genius,and forced to acknowledge his power. Richard Warren had never existed,not the Richard Warren I had built up from a slender volume of verseand a drawer-full of letters. But William Denton did exist, verysolidly, and for me, distastefully. And William Denton had written_The Lyric Hour_.
It may not be difficult, given certain conditions, to hate a poet, butit seemed too bad.
* * * * *
The following night our very informal dinner took place. We had askedsome other people, to make up a party of ten, and so we had quite aformidable array of "valor and beauty" around the long, refectorytable. Mr. and Mrs. Howells and their daughter, the Chinese Ministerand his wife, Bobby Willard and his sister Ruth, Wright, Bill andmyself, all rather diplomatically placed, made up the group. It was arather amusing, and incidentally, an excellent meal. Over the massedorchids on the table, I could see Wright almost feverishly attentivealternately, to Ruth Willard in pale-blue on his left, and toMercedes, in an amazing frock of black lace, a cluster of orangeflowers at her girdle, seated between him and my husband. At my end ofthe table I had Mr. Howells and the courteous gentleman from theOrient. And Mrs. Howells, at Bill's right, watched indolently herdaughter's radiant progress and applied herself, mutely, to thebusiness of eating. In consequence, Mercedes, during the greater partof the meal, drove tandem; and it was really pretty to watch--only, bythe salad course, it had grown monotonous.
After dinner we had two tables of bridge. Fortunately, I played rathera good game, Father having taught me patiently, in order to provideone more time-killer, during my shut-inism. As we were ten, two wereleft to play the piano, to sit out on the verandah, to stroll aboutthe grounds. I had cleverly manoeuvered that Wright and Ruth be left,but something went wrong, and Bill, announcing that he did not care toplay, was joined by Mercedes, who insisted that the only rule she knewwas "not to trump her partner's ace." I fancied, however, that she waswell equipped with the finesse instinct.
"And even that I often forget," she said, laughing. "Me, I have solittle use for rules!"
So it eventually and naturally came about that Bill and Mercedesstayed out of the game, joined now and then by w
hoever was dummy.
For a while they remained at the far end of the room, at thepiano--Bill, black and white in his dinner clothes, dreaming over thekeys, Mercedes, leaning on the piano, her huge orange feather fan ather lips, singing snatches of Spanish songs from behind its shelter,her dark eyes glowing. It was, I was forced to admit to Mrs. Howells,playing at my table, a pretty picture, softened and romantic in theflicker of fire light which shone over the two and danced on themahogany case of the Steinway.
Later, they went out: Wright followed them presently, in his momentaryfreedom as dummy, for "a breath of air and a cigarette."
I made a Grand Slam.
Wright, returning, to take his place, paused to regard the score overmy shoulder, and to whisper,
"Is that the girl Bill picked out for me? What does he take me for, alion-tamer?"
"Hush!" I said, conscious of Mrs. Howells' proximity. But she wascriticizing her husband's last play and did not hear us.
It was twelve o'clock before our guests left. Mercedes, in a gorgeousblack and orange cloak, seemed reluctant to depart.
"I've had _such_ a wonderful evening!" she told me, "and Billy was_so_ entertaining!"
I had always disliked the schoolgirl manner of talking in exclamationsand italics.
Wright, bidding me good-night, remarked, with mock gravity,
"I'm going to buy a whip and a gun tomorrow, Mavis! That Howells girlneeds a dressing down."
"Dressing down?" I asked, not a little maliciously, recalling withinner amusement, Mercedes' somewhat revealing gown.
But if Wright did not understand me, as I hoped he would not, myhusband did, and his inevitable "Meow!" followed me into my room andlingered there for some time.
War to the knife--!