Mavis of Green Hill

by Faith Baldwin

  CHAPTER XXI

  The boat pulled slowly away from the docks. Standing at the rail, Icould plainly see the brilliant feather on Mercedes' little Frenchhat, nodding in the breeze. A fleck of white was in her hand, nowfluttering frantically, now at her eyes. Wright, beside her, wasgesticulating like a semaphore, and not far away, Silas was straininghis keen eyes to catch the last glimpse of his Sarah. Presently thedocks faded into a vari-colored blur, and Bill pulled me away from therail.

  "Good-by, Cuba!" I said, waving my hand for the last time, as Iturned.

  "You're not crying?" he asked, teasingly.

  "No," I dried my eyes a little defiantly, "but I have loved it so.Color and warmth and sunshine," I said, watching the soft pastelshades of the shore line, where Morro Castle stood, dazzling in thelight, its stone feet set in blue waters, "and I hated to leave,somehow--"

  "We'll go back," said he. "No, don't go below. Sarah will unpack andsettle for you. I bribed the steward to give us these chairs. Sitdown, darling, and let me tuck you up."

  Obediently, I sat, and he sprawled his long length beside me, cuppinghis pipe in his hands, to shield the match flare from the wind.

  "But," I argued, "it won't be like going back to 'The Palms.' I'llhate the nasty people who are going to buy it--do you suppose they'llbuy Arthur, too?"

  "Do you want him?" asked Bill.

  I turned my hand so that the light fell on the big, new diamond on myfinger. Bill had bought it in Havana, two days after the fire. It wasmy engagement ring, he said, and I had gotten up more than once in thelast few nights to admire it by candle or moonlight. It was like adrop of dew. I told him that when he gave it to me, and he had added"on a white flower," and had kissed the finger he slipped it on.

  "Want Arthur? I think not. He'd be the scandal of Green Hill, andperhaps he'd not thrive away from Guayabal--"

  "Shall I buy 'The Palms'?" asked Bill, pushing his cap back from hisforehead, so that the sun fell across his face.

  "Are you crazy?" I demanded.

  "Possibly."

  He slipped his hand under the rug across my knees and took mine.

  "What do you think?" he asked, gravely.

  "I think you are," said I. "Such extravagance! Delusions of grandeur.But, anyway, I'd rather we built our own house--"

  "So would I," said Bill, with satisfaction.

  "Couldn't we add to the Green Hill house?" I asked, "an office foryou--and more rooms? Do you mind?" I said. "So much of me is in thathouse. I don't want to forget those years--. And I was born there. MyMother came there as a bride--and I think Father will want us to livethere always--unless," I added careful, "you have other plans, DoctorDenton?"

  Bill laughed.

  "No. When we get home, if your Father is willing, I'll turn you loosewith painters and carpenters and decorators--as long as I may alwayssmoke, even in the 'best parlour' and as long as you don't banish meand my bottles to the garage--for we'll have to have a garage, youknow, and I've spoken to Silas about that little house in the garden.There's lots of room."

  "Chintz," I said dreamily, "creton,--lots of it--and anotherfireplace--and oodles of bookshelves. Bill, may I dig in the gardennext summer?"

  "I shouldn't wonder," he answered cheerfully. "You're reallyremarkably strong--beyond my wildest hopes. I was amazed to see howsoon you recovered from the effects of the fire--"

  I looked at the little scars on my hands. They would go, eventually, Iknew. Bill had said so. I was a little sorry.

  "Were you?" I asked. "But I had a very good doctor, and wonderfulmedicine--"

  He kissed me, to the horror of a passing elderly couple.

  "Then," said I, straightening my cap, "you'll practise in Green Hill,after all? People will say you'll be burying yourself there--"

  "Let 'em," said Bill. "I shall have time, at last, for all the thingsI want to do. Time, ambition and encouragement. We'll have alaboratory--away from the house, so your little nose won't be offendedand turn up even more--"

  "It doesn't," said I, one hand to the insulted feature.

  "It does. Don't contradict. I love it!--A laboratory," he went on,"and I can work again on that cancer-cure--"

  "Oh, Bill," I said, "isn't it wonderful? To think that perhaps youcan bring a blessing to all the world, and I may help--a little--"

  We were silent for a while--such a comfortable, understanding silence.

  "Aunt Mavis," said Peter, appearing suddenly on deck, "Sarah has goneto bed!"

  "Is she ill?" I asked, viewing the water, which was like blue glass.

  "Not yet," said Peter gravely, "but she says she's taking no chances!"

  "Poor Sarah!" I said, as Bill laughed. "Stay here with your uncle,Peterkins, and I'll go and see if I can do anything for her."

  When I returned, I found my young charge and my husband hangingperilously over the rail, watching the antics of the flying-fish.

  "Aren't they pretty?" I asked, joining them, "like tiny, coloredaeroplanes."

  We watched for some time in silence, and then Peter growing sleepy,for we had gotten up very early that morning, Bill tucked him into arug in a chair, and we left him asleep almost instantly, to walk thedeck until luncheon.

  "I've got a scheme," said Bill. "Want to hear?"

  "Uh-huh!" said I.

  "New York first. Uncle John's, or, if you'd rather, a hotel. Your Dadwill meet us. We'll ship Sarah on to Green Hill with Peter, to get thehouse 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 youthreatened me with, I'll have one of the men bring my car down fromGreen Hill and we'll motor. Would you like that?"

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

  "Cape Cod, I thought, if you'd care about it. There's a dear old innat Provincetown--I know you'd love it. We could go there, for a weekor 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 doyou think?"

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

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

  "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, itisn't as if you were a stranger. You've corresponded with her, youknow, 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 wasthat poetic license?"

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

  "Did she know that I didn't know you were you?" I asked somewhatincoherently. But he understood. That was one of the nice things aboutBill--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. Andshe'd got to love you too. After all, she has a weakness for me, andan unbounded faith in my choice. And so--well, I didn't want todisappoint her--didn't want her to know how matters stood--that weweren't quite happy. So I waited. After a while, I grew afraid thatshe 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 assoon as you can.' And then, I wrote and sent it by someone who wassailing sooner. She will break the trip from California in Chicago,she has cousins there. I ho
pe 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 keepthe memory of all we had left clear and vivid. The Palms--the cane, asit had looked before the fire, emerald-green and graceful--the redsoil of Guayabal and the long, white roads--the mountains in thedistance--the palm-trees, straight as arrows, with their rustlingtops--my own orchids, little lavender balloons--peacocks andox-carts--naked brown babies creeping in the sun--sunlight on adobeand thatch--and Arthur, screaming raucously for his morning coffee.

  No, I would never forget.

  The trip passed like a dream. Peter found some American children toplay with on the boat, and romped with them under the watchful eyes ofa correct English nurse. Sarah, with Wiggles, kept to her cabin. AndBill and I, exchanging polite platitudes with the people at our table,were left very much to ourselves. And the voyage was calm, totallyunlike 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 thedeck, I watched my husband write the dedication across a white sheetof 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 hidefrom me in Cuba?"

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

  "No, Wright didn't. But I guessed. Have I written for nothing allthese 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 snatched 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 ofabstraction," he answered, "solely by an explanation of your love forletter-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 peacocks 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 meagain 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.

  "Mavis," he said very softly, "Mavis with the amber hair and the deepbrown eyes. Mavis, child and poet and--all mine."

  "You're not laughing?" I asked anxiously. "I mean, about the verses?"

  "Laughing?" he raised his head from my hair. My cap had fallen off,and it blew in wildest confusion about my face and his. "I'm very farfrom laughing. I'm proud and happy. But," said he, with a change oftone, "to steal my thunder! You'll be dabbling in my pill-boxes yet! Isuppose I may as well reconcile myself to being known as 'the husbandof Mavis Denton.' Appalling outlook!"

  "Is it?" I asked impishly.

  "Well--in that sense at least. 'Husband of The Poetess.' It wounds mymasculine pride."

  "It shouldn't," said I, triumphantly, "if it ever happened--which, ofcourse, it won't. But I will be quite content to be known as RichardWarren's wife--"

  "You dear! But, of course, you have a better disposition than Ihave--"

  "I haven't! I'm a petulant, snappish, mean--"

  "You're the loveliest thing God ever made!"

  And so on, ad infinitum.

  The lazy, happy trip over, we sailed importantly into New York oncemore. Father and Uncle John were on the dock, two bronzed, happy men,and it was late that night before I got to sleep, in that same,old-fashioned room, my head in a perfect whirl. How we had talked andlaughed, questioned and answered! From the twinkle in Uncle John'seyes, the tenderest, most quizzical twinkle, I half-suspected that heknew more than I had thought. He didn't say so, but if he didn'tknow--well, he had developed perfectly miraculous powers of teasingsince I had left. But he was a dear. And it was so amazing to sitthere and listen to him and Bill discuss the new volume, and to putmy little, critical oar in now and then, while Father sat by, my handin his, a look of the most wonderful content on his face. They hadgreat difficulty to persuade me to go to bed. It was fascinating tolinger in the smoky old room, with its rows and rows of books and itsuntidy, comfortable, masculine atmosphere. After I had three timesrefused to leave them, Bill unceremoniously picked me up and carriedme up the stairs, kicking, and losing my slippers on the way.

  Did I say that a wire was waiting for me when I reached Uncle John's?

  "LOVE TO YOU BOTH," it read. "WILL BE WITH YOU WEDNESDAY AT THELATEST," and it was addressed to me, and signed, "MOTHER." Wednesdaywas two days off. I spent the intervening time in the outrageousshops, Bill stalking uneasily behind me, deferred to by the lithe,wonderfully coiffured, purring Goddesses who paraded mannequin afterpretty mannequin before my startled eyes. I think, however, that Billwas a little more embarrassed than I.

  "How they live," he said to me, seriously, on one occasion, "I don'tsee. I should think they'd spend most of their time in a pneumoniaward!"

  We drove in the Park one afternoon. It was gay with Spring flowers andpretty girls. We had a hansom, because I had read about them in books.Coming back, through the falling dusk, with the lights of the citytwinkling out, yellow and beckoning, and the great, massive bulk ofthe Plaza, illuminated like a birthday cake, just ahead, I suddenlyconceived an affection for New York. But I didn't want to live there.

  "Next time we come," said Bill, "in the Fall, perhaps, I want to takeyou to the theatres and to the gayest restaurants, and concerts. Why,you funny child, your eyes are as big as saucers!"

  Our lean horse stumbled just then, and the hansom gave a seasicklurch. I felt as people mounting camels must feel. When the horse andI had somewhat recovered, I answered,

  "I'd love it! And you'll teach me to dance--sometime?--May I?"

  "Well," said Bill gravely, "I'm not much of a dancer--too big and allthat. I always step on the dear things' feet. But you may, I think,and we'll take lessons together, if you like--"

  "I'd adore it!" I said.

  My husband drew me close--,

  "You baby," he said. "Sometimes I think I have been selfish, tying youdown to a cross old husband before you've had your good times--"

  "Don't want any good times without you!" I said, obstinately.

  "All right," said he. "We'll have them together. I'll renew my youth!"

  "Don't be absurd! You're a mere infant!"

  "Second childhood," he said, "you've been an elixir of youth to me; oflife itself."

  "You do say such nice things," I sighed. "That comes of being a poet!"

  "Poet be hanged!" said Bill. "It comes of being inlove--with--you--with you--"

  That was a very nice drive. After all, the hansom has advantages. Onecan sit awfully close, and hold hands under the shiny, wooden apron.

  Wednesday Mother came.
I called her that right off. She was thedearest thing, with such curly red hair and eyes the color of Bill's,only a different shape. She was littler than I even, with hands andfeet that were wholly ridiculous. Father was immediately enchantedwith her. The four of us had a long talk, all one soft Spring day,interrupted by Uncle John, and by getting Peter and Sarah safely offto Green Hill. And then, while I was resting, she had her talk withher son, and came to me later, after I had gone to bed.

  She curled up beside me in a wonderful blue negligee which made herlook like a girl. And we talked--and talked.

  "You're the nicest thing that Bill has given me," I said, happily,before she left, "and Bill's the nicest thing you could give me. Youdon't feel," I begged, "that I am taking him away from you--?"

  "I love you," she answered, the laughter gone from her eyes, and herface very sweet to see, "for yourself--for Bill too, but most of allfor yourself. I have wanted this since he first wrote me about you. Ihave prayed for it every night. You were so exactly the sort of a girlI wanted my boy to marry--"

  "But," I said, "I was just a little, bed-ridden, useless creaturethen--"

  "I knew that Bill would cure you," said Mother. "He always gets whathe wants--"

  "Doesn't he though?" I interrupted, proudly.

  "And he wanted you!"

  "I love him so," I whispered against the soft lace at her breast.

  She put her arms very closely around me. I don't know why I cried.

  And then, she talked to me. Just as my own Mother would havedone--very gravely and tenderly for a long half-hour. When she leftmy room, I lay awake a long time, thinking about her and Bill,wondering if I could ever be to him all that she had said I would be.I was happy, a little frightened, and so grateful--so grateful.

  CHAPTER XXII

  The entire household saw us off on our motor trip. Uncle John beaming,Mrs. Cardigan and the maids waving hands and aprons, Mother smiling atus through a mist. She was coming to Green Hill as soon as we weresettled, and help me with my first housekeeping. She had demurred atfirst when I begged her to: had said that "young people were betteroff alone." But I, and then Bill, when he found how much I reallywanted her and finally Father had overridden all her objections. Ididn't tell my menfolk that it was delightful to have someone to whomyou could talk "Bill" by the hour, and who never grew tired oflistening and encouraging and interrupting with paeans of praise ofher own.

  "What will she think of Mercedes?" I asked, as we rolled through thecity, out toward the sunshine and open spaces.

  "She'll like her," said Bill. "Mother's a judge, and she adoptedWright long ago."

  "Those two wild children," I said, tolerantly.

  The maddest cablegram had come to us just before we left. I was stillconvulsed by it:

  Mercedes willing wedding in fall out of my head with happiness everything wonderful thank you a thousand times will see you very soon most marvelous girl in the world sends her love so do _I_.

  "WRIGHT"

  "I suppose they expect us to be surprised," I said. "Ostriches!"

  "I always knew you were a matchmaker," said Bill, "you certainlystaged the whole thing well."

  "I had her out to amuse you, not Wright," said I, with partial truth.

  "Oh, you did, did you? 'The best laid plans'--. Didn't you know that Ihaven't had eyes or ears for another woman since that first night youinsulted me--"

  "'Doctor Jumpy!'" said I, in delighted recollection.

  "If it weren't that I have to drive the car--" said Bill.

  "Perhaps, later, you could stop--" I suggested.

  He stopped in the midst of the still considerable traffic. And then wesped on again, leaving a breathless, open-mouthed policeman struckinto stone, behind us.

  "Boston," said I to Bill, after we had been there for two hours, "isthe darnedest place!"

  "What's the matter with it? Cradle of American culture andeverythin'."

  "Reminds me of Havana," I said.

  "Havana! You're insane!" Bill laid his fork down and gazed at me inamazement over the table in the Copley Plaza.

  "Because it's so different," I said, "but the streets aren't muchwider, so there. And after all, I think I could fall in love with theCommon, and even Back Bay. There's something very solid about it all."

  As we left the city and went on through the lovely Massachusettscountry, I became more and more enamoured of my own unknown NewEngland. And Bill, delightful companion, grew positively instructive.I learned a little history by the way, and we poked around andexplored, in a very leisurely manner.

  Wellesley, dignified and gracious, fascinated me. We went up to thecollege and spent a happy half-day there with one of the professorswho had been a school friend of Bill's, no, our Mother's. But Icouldn't help thinking of Mercedes! My bright, tropical bird, caged ina classroom, filing to chapel with hundreds of other girls, part of acrowd. I determined to go some day to Vassar and see her Waterloo formyself.

  Pride's Crossing filled me with envy. I liked the beautifully keptlawns and the wonderful, garden-encircled houses. But I fell so deeplyin love with Gloucester, even the fish, that Bill despaired of evergetting me away.

  "Wait till you see Salem!" he said, "I'll probably have to tuck a doorin the back-seat. You'll want one, I know. Jolliest doors in theworld."

  Magnolia, Salem, Plymouth, they went by like dreams. The big hotelswhere we stayed, the water, the Spring skies, the first reticentflowers, and finally, the funny little Cape towns: Hyannis Port, withits beaches and docks, its high Sunset Hill, where we watched the sungo down red and purple over the quiet bay, and where we saw the whitesails of the fishing-crafts lift like wings against the morningsky--it was all so lovely, so new, so untarnished for me. I even lovedthe grey fog that swept in at night, like soft veils. And everywhere,serious or gay, always the perfect comrade, was Bill. I would lieawake in the mornings listening to him splash in the shower orwhistling to himself in his room, not calling out good morning to himfor five whole minutes, just happy at having him so near.

  But Provincetown!

  We came into it on a wonderful, clear morning, into that sleepy,little town, girdled with sand, on the edge of the wide, blue bay.Some of the cottages were open, even as early as it was in the season,and the little streets were bright with people. Our Inn was close downon the beach, a dark-red, rambling building, built half a centurybefore, and beautifully remodelled for modern purposes. There wereships' lanterns and clocks within, a wide, glassed verandah on whichone consumed quantities of delicious food and salt air, a ship's ropefor the banister of the stairway which led, steeply, up to the secondfloor. Beyond the landing was my room, with three great windowsfronting the bay. One could almost have flung a stone into the waterfrom them.

  The room was in rose-color, like my own room at home, and cool, dullgreen. Counter-pane, chair cushions, curtains, and dressing-tablerioted with delightfully impossible roses, and the whole room smelledof salt and sun and the little lavender and rose-leaf bags I found inbureau-drawers and on closet-shelves. And my bath was big and white, atiled, immaculate room, with cross-stitched towels and washrags,sweet-scented soaps and a dazzling array of bottles andtoothbrush-mugs.

  "How can I clean my razor on this?" demanded Bill, appearing in myroom with a little towel held at arm's length. He surveyed the silkenbaskets of flowers designed upon it, with an air of deep concern.

  "Oh, but you mustn't!" I said, snatching it from him in dismay.

  "Oh, but I must!" he contradicted. "Look at this beard! We leftChatham so early this morning that I didn't get a moment to shave."

  I rubbed my cheek against the square, firm chin.

  "Ouch!"

  "I told you so!"

  "Come with me," I said, with dignity, and led him into his ownbathroom, where I produced for him certain small towels, hanging undera legend "For your razor," and left him chuckling.

  Bill's room was blue and yellow, and he complained that it was far toopretty for a man. We were still arguing a
bout it when we went forth tosurvey the town. I popped in and out of shops like "an agitatedrabbit," according to Bill, and bought armsful of bayberry candles,little delicate water-colors, and about six old, brass knockers; thelast named purchases moving Bill to say that he supposed we would haveto put one on the garage and another on the hen-coop.

  The little inn was deserted save for us, the maids, an amiable andremarkable colored cook, and the adorable little lady who was ourhostess. She had a tenderness for brides and grooms! Bill recalled heras having said so on the one occasion he had lunched with her, inProvincetown, in the "dark ages before I met you, Mavis," and I thinkshe was happy to have us there. At all events, she never said so ifshe was not, and we stayed for two, wonderful weeks.

  It was too early for swimming, of course, even for Bill's ironconstitution, but we spent hours on the yellow sands, watching theboats, and the sunlight shifting over the water. Once a battleshipsteamed in and anchored not far away, and that evening there were Navymen in the porch-dining-room, quite beautiful in their uniforms, verysplendid to look at, under the soft lights of the ships' lanterns,lingering over their coffee and cigars.

  Bill scraped acquaintance with them, of course, with the consequencethat we had tea one afternoon aboard the ship, with the most cordialand charming hosts in the world. I had not been there half an hour,palpitant with excitement, before every unmarried officer present hadgotten me aside on one pretext or another and shown me the picture of"the prettiest girl in the world, Mrs. Denton!" And I will say for theBenedicts too, that their tiny cabins were filled with pictures ofwives and babies. It was a very pleasant tea-hour, but Bill hurried mehome long before I was tired of deck and guns, mascot--a frisky goatnamed "Narcissus," and the crowds of amusing sailor-boys in theirinfantile garb.

  "Haven't had you to myself for a dog's age," he growled. "What didthose men mean, carrying you off like that, with their 'Mrs. Denton,please come with me,' or 'Oh, Mrs. Denton, I've got something to showyou.' Jackasses!"

  "I thought them very nice," said I demurely, "especially that tall onewith all the gold braid and the fascinating eyes."

  "Fascinating eyes! Ye Gods! Never again, young woman!" and he hustledme out of the ship's boat, across the sand and into the house, lest,as he said, "The eyes-fellow should be standing with field glasses onthe deck waiting to wave to you again!"

  When we were in our rooms again, and I had called him to hook meup--we were dressing for dinner--he came in and, fumbling with thoseclever surgeon's fingers at the hooks of my frock, swept me and thefrock suddenly and breathlessly into his arms.

  "Don't keep me waiting too long, Mavis," he said, very low.

  I put my arms around his neck and said something in his ear. And aftera moment he kissed me, very gently, and let me go. It was ten minutesbefore I realized that he had gone without completing his task oflady's maid.

  That night a full moon rose, golden and glamorous, over the bay. Billand I walked out on the sands, quite late. I had on a wooly, whitecoat over my thin dress, and had changed to more sensible shoes. Afterall, I thought, it was worth a dozen Cubas, the keen, salt air, andthe dear home country, just stirring under the breath of Spring.

  "Happy?" asked Bill, as we sat down on some driftwood logs and watchedthe ever-widening golden wake of the moon-boat.

  I leaned my head against his shoulder and nodded.

  "You've never looked so beautiful," he said, "as tonight."

  I drew his tall head down to mine,

  "Do you think so?" I whispered, and then, very softly, "I love you, myhusband--"

  Together, in the full glory of the moonlight, we walked in silenceback to the house. The lights gleamed above in my rose and greenbedroom, and the door was open between--

  CHAPTER XXIII

  GREEN HILL June.

  Has it seemed long to you, little Diary? Yet it is just a year sincemy first entry was made. I'm writing now in my room with the windowswide. Bill has just called up to me that my pink rose-bush is inflower. I must go down and see. I can hear Mother on the lawn talkingto Mrs. Goodrich and Father and Peter. Or is it Wiggles? She employsalmost the same tone toward both of them. And Sarah, a good ten yearsyounger than last year, is out where the new cottage is soon to be.She has the builder with her, and I know that they are disagreeing. Itwill be a boon to Sarah to have the Simpson tribe--as much of it asare carpenters--working on her house for her. A pretty revenge!

  "A new Doctor has come to Green Hill!" Just a year ago--Diary--andsince then so much has happened. So much sorrow and happiness, lossand gain. It is hard to believe that it is I who write, Mavis of GreenHill.

  The people have been so good since I came home: so glad for me. Theytell me I look a different person--and why not, pray? For I am strongand well and most divinely happy, Diary, and it is pleasant to be ableto write that down for you--after all the despondencies I did notspare your pages.

  There's the new house to build--and this one to remodel in theFall--and the garage already under way. It will be ready for Silas toputter about in by the time he comes North. And in August we are toexpect Mercedes, which means Wright, of course. I have been able topersuade the Howells that Cuba is all very well, but Mercedes must bemarried from my house--and they have consented. I think that Mr.Howells is glad that it will be so.

  The reviewers have been kind to Bill's new book. It was rushed throughand appeared early this month. The secret has been let out, of course,and the poor villagers of Green Hill are mightily embarrassed athaving harbored a famous poet for so long without knowing it. And theyget the name quite confused. It's "Doctor Warren" half the time!

  My dear old Dr. Mac has been to see us more than once. We've hadwonderful evenings, in the late June dusk, a happy family, lackingnothing, content with just living and loving--

  Mother and Dr. Mac are such friends. She actually flirts with him, inher Dresden China way, and he growls. But he likes it. I am sure he ishalf in love with her already--he couldn't very well help being.

  Bill's here--his hand on my shoulder, smelling nicely of damp, newearth!

  "Go away!"

  "Why?"

  "I'm writing!"

  "So I see--but what, little wife?"

  "The end of a story."

  And under his eyes, Diary, I have turned back your pages and drawn athick, black line through that pitiful entry made on my weddingday--drawn a thicker, blacker line through that sombre little word"Finis."

  "Kiss me, William Denton!"

  And now, with his kiss on my lips, I have turned back to what I havejust written and am writing, letter by letter, with a steady hand anda high heart, between laughter and tears, two firm, exultant words:

  THE BEGINNING