Mavis of Green Hill Part 33

The following night our very informal dinner took place. We had asked some other people, to make up a party of ten, and so we had quite a formidable array of "valor and beauty" around the long, refectory table. Mr. and Mrs. Howells and their daughter, the Chinese Minister and his wife, Bobby Willard and his sister Ruth, Wright, Bill and myself, all rather diplomatically placed, made up the group. It was a rather amusing, and incidentally, an excellent meal. Over the ma.s.sed orchids on the table, I could see Wright almost feverishly attentive alternately, to Ruth Willard in pale-blue on his left, and to Mercedes, in an amazing frock of black lace, a cl.u.s.ter of orange flowers at her girdle, seated between him and my husband. At my end of the table I had Mr. Howells and the courteous gentleman from the Orient. And Mrs. Howells, at Bill's right, watched indolently her daughter's radiant progress and applied herself, mutely, to the business of eating. In consequence, Mercedes, during the greater part of the meal, drove tandem; and it was really pretty to watch--only, by the salad course, it had grown monotonous.

After dinner we had two tables of bridge. Fortunately, I played rather a good game, Father having taught me patiently, in order to provide one more time-killer, during my shut-inism. As we were ten, two were left to play the piano, to sit out on the verandah, to stroll about the grounds. I had cleverly manoeuvered that Wright and Ruth be left, but something went wrong, and Bill, announcing that he did not care to play, was joined by Mercedes, who insisted that the only rule she knew was "not to trump her partner's ace." I fancied, however, that she was well equipped with the finesse instinct.

"And even that I often forget," she said, laughing. "Me, I have so little use for rules!"

So it eventually and naturally came about that Bill and Mercedes stayed out of the game, joined now and then by whoever was dummy.

For a while they remained at the far end of the room, at the piano--Bill, black and white in his dinner clothes, dreaming over the keys, Mercedes, leaning on the piano, her huge orange feather fan at her lips, singing s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 the flicker of fire light which shone over the two and danced on the mahogany case of the Steinway.

Later, they went out: Wright followed them presently, in his momentary freedom 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 over my shoulder, and to whisper,

"Is that the girl Bill picked out for me? What does he take me for, a lion-tamer?"

"Hush!" I said, conscious of Mrs. Howells' proximity. But she was criticizing her husband's last play and did not hear us.

It was twelve o'clock before our guests left. Mercedes, in a gorgeous black 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 exclamations and italics.

Wright, bidding me good-night, remarked, with mock gravity,

"I'm going to buy a whip and a gun tomorrow, Mavis! That Howells girl needs a dressing down."

"Dressing down?" I asked, not a little maliciously, recalling with inner amus.e.m.e.nt, Mercedes' somewhat revealing gown.

But if Wright did not understand me, as I hoped he would not, my husband did, and his inevitable "Meow!" followed me into my room and lingered there for some time.

War to the knife--!

CHAPTER XIV

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,--really _lived_, 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 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 room in 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 pa.s.ses that I do not thank G.o.d 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 sc.r.a.p 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, surely we 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 s.p.a.ce, Long-buried loves and dreams illuminate; The household furniture of that small place Where 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 pa.s.sing of a breath From 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.