Mavis of Green Hill Part 49

"New York first. Uncle John's, or, if you'd rather, a hotel. Your Dad will meet us. We'll ship Sarah on to Green Hill with Peter, to get the house in order and to look after the boy until the Goodriches return.

When is it--ten days? And after you've gone on that shopping orgy you threatened me with, I'll have one of the men bring my car down from Green Hill and we'll motor. Would you like that?"

"Oh, Bill, where?" I asked, skipping a little, and collapsing up against his side as the boat rolled.

"Cape Cod, I thought, if you'd care about it. There's a dear old inn at Provincetown--I know you'd love it. We could go there, for a week or so--it's so early yet we'd have the place to ourselves. And then, early in May, back to Green Hill and settle for the summer. What do you think?"

"I think you're a darling!" I answered, brazenly, and with just the effect I had calculated. And after we had told each other several times that no one in the world could be as happy and as much in love as we were--and firmly believed it, too I--Bill said suddenly,

"I cabled Mother from Cuba--and wrote her. She will meet us in New York."

"For heaven's sake," said I, "do you think she'll like me?"

"Can't tell," said Bill, solemnly, "she's odd. But, after all, it isn't as if you were a stranger. You've corresponded with her, you know, and she made you some bed-socks. That's a bond."

"But that was Richard Warren's mother," I said, not quite convinced.

"She's mine too. Funny, isn't it? I think you've committed bigamy."

"Is she really little and blue-eyed and red-haired?" I asked, "or was that poetic license?"

"Honest truth. She's the prettiest thing in the world--except you. And I've written her all about it."

"Did she know that I didn't know you were you?" I asked somewhat incoherently. But he understood. That was one of the nice things about Bill--recently, anyway. He was the Person Who Understood.

He nodded.

"Yes, but she didn't know everything--not that we were married."

"Why?" I asked, curiously.

He smiled down at me, very big, very protective.

"Why, you see," said Bill gently, "she knew that I loved you. And she'd got to love you too. After all, she has a weakness for me, and an unbounded faith in my choice. And so--well, I didn't want to disappoint her--didn't want her to know how matters stood--that we weren't quite happy. So I waited. After a while, I grew afraid that she would have to be told after all--"

"Please, don't," I said hastily. "What did you write her?"

"Cabled first: 'Married Mavis. Meet us in New York at Uncle John's as soon as you can.' And then, I wrote and sent it by someone who was sailing sooner. She will break the trip from California in Chicago, she has cousins there. I hope the letter will catch her."

"I've never had a mother," I said, the least bit wistfully.

"You have one now," said Bill.

Cuba had long since disappeared. I closed my eyes for a second to keep the memory of all we had left clear and vivid. The Palms--the cane, as it had looked before the fire, emerald-green and graceful--the red soil of Guayabal and the long, white roads--the mountains in the distance--the palm-trees, straight as arrows, with their rustling tops--my own orchids, little lavender balloons--peac.o.c.ks and ox-carts--naked brown babies creeping in the sun--sunlight on adobe and thatch--and Arthur, screaming raucously for his morning coffee.

No, I would never forget.

The trip pa.s.sed like a dream. Peter found some American children to play with on the boat, and romped with them under the watchful eyes of a correct English nurse. Sarah, with Wiggles, kept to her cabin. And Bill and I, exchanging polite plat.i.tudes with the people at our table, were left very much to ourselves. And the voyage was calm, totally unlike the one we had taken so many months before.

It was on the boat that I read some of Richard Warren's new poems, part of the new volume. And, sitting in a sheltered corner of the deck, I watched my husband write the dedication across a white sheet of paper:

"To my wife."

"I'm very proud," said I, a little tremulously. "They are beautiful.

Wright knew. He said they were bigger and finer than the others. But,"

I added, "after all, I fell in love with _The Lyric Hour_, Bill."

"But these," said Bill, "are your own."

And so they were.

"Now," he said, "suppose you show me what you were so careful to hide from me in Cuba?"

"Did Wright--?" I began indignantly, "What do you mean?"

"No, Wright didn't. But I guessed. Have I written for nothing all these years? I'm a sleuth when it comes to a fellow-craftsman.

Besides, there's this--"

He drew a crumpled sheet from his inner pocket. I s.n.a.t.c.hed at it.

"That old thing!" said I, with scorn. "Where did you find it?"

"I couldn't account for your inky little hands and your fits of abstraction," he answered, "solely by an explanation of your love for letter-writing and your dislike of me."

"Where did you find it, Creature?" I demanded again.

"In Wright's pocket. Old coat, on a chair--I was looking for a match."

"Doesn't sound plausible," said I, spreading out the blotted paper.

Bill read with me, over my shoulder.

AFTER SUNSET

Carved in dull ebony, one somber row Of straight palms, etched in sudden, sharp relief, Against a molten-copper afterglow....

Oh, Hour of Enchantment, past belief, When down the garden paths the peac.o.c.ks go, In plumed splendor and with stately tread.

Across the shadowed valleys cool winds blow, From where the smoke-blue mountain rears its head.

Beyond the world's rim, slips the ghost-wan Day, To draw Night's curtain close about her bed And set a star to light her to her rest, While Evening, shaking free her dusky hair, Lures every weary bird to seek its nest, And, kissing shut the tired eyes of care, Lulls Earth to peace upon her gentle breast.

"I didn't mean you to know," I said, as he took the verse away from me again and put it back in his pocket.

"But you told Wright," said he.

"That was different," I answered, firmly.

"Mad?"

"N-No!"

He slipped his arm around me.