Mavis of Green Hill

  CHAPTER XVII

  "What are you two girls whispering about?" asked Wright, coming upbehind us on the glassed-in porch of the Country Club.

  "It is none of your affairs," responded Mercedes with dignity, "but asyou are so rude as to ask, I will tell you that the last affair of theseason is to be held at the home of Consuelo Mendez--a ball--nextweek. And I have asked Mavis if she will let me steal you for theevening--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 Wrightpolitely, "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 sureyou'd have a wonderful time. I shan't go, of course, although SenoraMendez has been gracious enough to include me in the invitation. AndBill declares he is too old for such festivities. But I have toldMercedes she may have you--"

  "And welcome?" suggested Wright, tragically.

  "I shall stop on at 'The Palms' till then," said Mercedes--"Mavis hasasked me. And if you will come into Havana with me the day of thedance, my Mother will be very glad to have you stay with us over thatnight. For it will be a late party, of course--too late for you toreturn to Guayabal."

  "Bully," said Wright with enthusiasm, "I'd love it. What does onewear?" he asked anxiously.

  "Low neck and short sleeves," answered Bill, appearing from the lockerrooms.

  "Wright thinks," said Mercedes pensively, "that at an affair almostentirely within the Spanish-Cuban set, the gentlemen appear attired as_toreodores_."

  Wright looked aggrieved.

  "Not at all," he contradicted, "only the Anglo-Saxon fashions for menare utterly devoid of beauty. I wish I had lived some time back--inthe 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 farfrom unshapely calf, in tweed knickers. "If my extremities show aslight tendency to bow, it is merely a sign of physical strength, andmany 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 adiscussion--in Madrid!"

  "She would never have had the opportunity," I whispered back.

  "To return to the Mendez ball," said Wright, raising his voice, withintent. "I thought a simple flower in my hair or thrust into mywaistcoat...."

  "You _are_ an ass!" remarked Bill, yawning.

  "Perhaps," conceded Wright pleasantly, "but it is a quality whichkeeps 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 takenothing 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 somethingslip--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 alittle, she let me see the book. It is very wonderful," she ended,with that utter lack of self-consciousness in expressing her emotionsand opinions, which, after one was used to it, was rather endearing.

  "Well, then, as you're among friends, Billy, I repeat, what aboutyourself?"

  "I have my profession," Bill answered quietly. "I am a doctor--and Ilove it. It is, perhaps, my vocation--to heal and to mend, and tohelp. 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. Thatis, perhaps, the mission of poetry, and applies to the poet as well asto his audience. Poetry is, for me, the language of dreams: theceaseless search for beauty: something common to all men. For thepeasant dreams as well as the inventor: the man of science, as wellas the financier and the college professor who thinks of education assomething bigger than is contained between the covers of a text-book.And from the soil, the shop, the laboratory, the office and theschool-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 theengineer didn't dream, the bridges would not be swung over the boilingrivers of strange countries, or the railroad tracks laid through thevirgin jungle and the ageless desert--"

  I had a curious sensation, listening to that even, low voice. It wasas 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 inbrick and stone: materialized into steel: founded in a huge officebuilding. The grim reality of war stands for dreams sometimes. Manyinarticulate poets have gone singing to the bayonet thrust. Once, ahandful of people dreamed of Liberty; and the United States was theirexpression 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 amoment I forgot the feud between us: forgot that we were very soon togo our separate ways: forgot a number of things that I had known and Iremembered 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 somethingunspoken, unnamed, intangible, as if, too, for the moment, we wereclosely knit together, completely _en rapport_.

  "Well," said Wright easily, swinging the conversation back to itsstarting place, "It's all very well to talk. And perhaps you are moreserious than I, Bill. Mind, I don't altogether admit it--but you tuneyour 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 somewhatexotic pen-name had long since come into my knowledge and I had seensome of his magazine verse.

  "You've a gift," said my husband, "not lightly to be disregarded. Butyou're too versatile--you paint better than you write, and there's alot in the old parable of the talents. And, by George, you've nohonest right to your talent if, in some way, you do not use it for thegood 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. Realizingthat it would be late before we reached home, I rose, reluctantly. Forthere had been a spirit around the table which could not easily berecaptured--and I regretted its passing.

  "The tourists have practically all left," said Mercedes, on the way tothe car. "Very few are here still. And the residents have alreadybegun to go North."

  "You'll practise again this year?" asked Wright of Bill, as the cardrove 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 rareas good poets, but the combination is remarkable."

  "I should think," said Mercedes, with candour, "that you would beawfully jealous...."

  "Grateful lady patients?" asked Wright.

  She nodded.

  "I've not had the opportunity yet," I answered. "Since I've known himBill hasn't had many pati
ents except me--"

  "Quite a serious case," remarked Wright solemnly, "one that demandsincessant 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'tdecent--for a doctor. I can't help it that my late lamented uncle madetin-pans successfully--and that I was his only living relative. Hedidn't approve of me at all," he concluded modestly, "and he thoughtmy verses immoral, but he couldn't leave it all to charity, youknow--"

  "I've never lacked having more money than I needed," said Bill, as wedrove through the hot, quiet night, "but I've been glad of it. If itdidn't provide me with an added incentive to work, it at leastallowed me to do a good deal that I otherwise could not have done."

  "The Denton Free Clinic, for instance," said Wright. But Bill did notanswer.

  For just a second I was hurt that he hadn't told me. And then Iremembered how little I knew about the man who was my husband.

  Mercedes, in the front seat with Bill, asked him a question. Under thecover of their voices Wright said to me,

  "I shouldn't chaff Bill like that. I don't suppose that there isanother medico of his age in New York who has done so muchcharity-doctoring. There are districts where the people haveabsolutely 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 thesethings by chance. But he had a streak in him--even at Princeton--thatmade him different from the rest of us. And men who were with him atJohns 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 yoursignals, Mercedes!"

  "But you don't profit by them," she answered, as we came within sightof the house.

  I played a wretched game that evening. I couldn't keep my mind on thecards. It was off--back at the Country Club again, listening to a poettalk of poets: it was wondering a little about the "Denton FreeClinic": and, in consequence, I revoked twice, to the extremeamusement of our opponents.

  "Haven't come to the point where you swear at your wife at thebridge-table, have you Bill?" asked Wright, as he carefully took thepenalty.

  "No," replied my husband, "that's a form of indoor sport I could neverquite 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 youplease, 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 interestedin 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 nightthat 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 oneway, however, I might make amends. I said,

  "I've grown awfully fond of Mercedes. I hope she will come Northsometime--for the summer, perhaps. I think I misjudged her cruelly fora while."

  The steel-blue eyes grew warm.

  "She's a very nice child," said Bill, "and I knew you'd find it outbefore long. You didn't give her a chance at first. But I'm glad youlike 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 splendidupbringing. And for another, you are--unless given certaincircumstances--most uncommonly sweet."

  He said it in a very matter-of-fact tone: and looked at his watch ashe spoke--not at me. I was absurdly embarrassed.

  "Are--are you a 'certain circumstance'?" I asked daringly, and escapedto my room before he could answer. I heard him start to follow me, butapparently he thought better of it. But long after I was in bed, Iheard a foot-fall under my windows, the smell of a pipe drifted inthrough the flower-scent, and the sound of a baritone voice singingsoftly,

  "Who is Sylvia--who is she--?"

  "Is she kind as she is fair--?"

  I lay for some time, listening, and finally, as the footsteps turnedaway and the song grew fainter, I laid my hot cheek to the pillow andslept, dreamlessly, until morning.

  But when morning came, it all seemed very far away--that talk at theCountry Club--and the steps below my window. Wright was in hissilliest mood, and Mercedes and he kept up a running fire offoolishness. Bill was preoccupied, almost abrupt. He left us directlyafter lunch, on one of his now daily visits to the Crowell plantation.And Mercedes disappeared with Wright at the same time. Where theywere, I do not know to this day.

  I had tea alone: Peter was with Sarah, and after tea I went outrestlessly and walked, stopping at old Manuel's and at Annunciata's.It was growing dark before I turned homewards again, and there was astrange lingering light in the sky which drew my attention. A great,sulphur-colored cloud, murky and ominous, not like any cloud I hadever seen. I hurried on and had reached the gates before the windcame. A rush, a tearing at trees and bushes, a tremendous sweep ofhot, 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 backon it afterwards, I realized that, had I been a little more familiarwith the vagaries of Cuban climate, I would have noticed the curioushush, the absolute stillness, expectant and breathless, which lay overGuayabal just before the storm broke. Nearing the house, I heard atremendous crash, voices, and the sound of hurrying foot-steps. Thewind was increasing in volume, and I fairly stumbled up the steps,almost falling. When my hand was finally on the door, it was wrenchedopen with violence, and I saw Bill on the threshold, very white, withburning 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 littlestorm. I have been looking for you all over the plantation. No one hadany idea where you were. I found Wright and sent Mercedes in thehouse--she's had rather a narrow escape--from a falling tree. She'sall 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. Sarahis with her. But I want to ask you this ... quite aside from thedanger you ran, in a wind like this, why did you disobey my expresswishes 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 notto. Very well, I've learned my lesson. You knew that Guayabal is in avery unsettled state: you knew that Crowell had had trouble on hisplantation: I told you there had been threats--demonstrations. I askedyou not to run any risks. That is why, I suppose, when the opportunityarose, 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 wecouldn't have a whole day of peace and friendliness under the sameroof. I've tried my best, Mavis, to be as little in your way aspossible--to make the best of a trying situation. But at every turnyou manage to antagonize me and to rebel against me. I might haveknown--"

  He turned away and lighted a cigarette with fingers
which shook.

  "I'm sorry," I said, steadying my voice with an effort, "if I haveannoyed you. I did not go out this afternoon with such intention."

  I would have stopped there, but the lift of his shoulders angered meuntil I finally lost all control of myself.

  "I'll not be a burden to you long," I said. "As soon as we are homeagain I will release you from your responsibilities. I have wanted tospare Father, but I see that I can't--you go too far. I don't knowhow such things are done, but it shouldn't be very difficult to obtainan annulment of our marriage. The whole thing has been a ghastlymistake ... an impulse I have regretted ever since. But it's not toolate," 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 alwayscome to my rescue was missing now. I was just hurt--hurt, and unhappyand very lonely. To speak to me so! To look at me so, out of thosesteel-blue eyes! It was not just; it was not anything but deliberatecruelty!

  Once having said that I would make myself free, the thing crystalizedfor me as it had never done before. Of course, I had meant all alongto separate from my temporary husband. That was understood at theoutset. But it had seemed a long way off, indefinitely vague. And nowthat my decision was spoken, it loomed very near. Irrevocable. Ishrank, in anticipation, from the publicity of it, the questions, theprying eyes. Wright would wonder and grieve--and Mercedes--and I? Ihardly 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 throatached abominably. And then, with a tremendous effort, I opened my doorand went out to find Mercedes.

  She was in her room, shaken but quite recovered, and full of gratitudeto 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 stormwas beginning."

  "You heard the roof go then?" she asked. "Wasn't it awful? It is awonder 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 theroom 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 myselfinto calmness. And Mercedes, suddenly tender and very gentle, neverasked why, and, bless her heart, never told.