CHAPTER XII
CACTUS
Twisted, deformed, and stretching thorny hands To mock the golden beauty of the South, Embodied Evil, set in glowing lands Like some black curse within a lovely mouth, The sullen cactus, lone and brooding, stands. Yet Earth, All-Just, All-Wise, All-Tender, deems Her crippled offspring worthy still to bear The crown of perfect blossoms: as beseems, Some dark misshapen souls, in secret wear The splendid Flower of their silent Dreams!
It was, of course, the tall cactus, to the left of the house, whichset me to singing. For a long time it had affronted me. Pallid,sickly, abnormal, flowering suddenly into crimson blossom, it was forme, an actual blot on the lovely landscape gardening of the Palms. Butone day I said something of this to Bill, and he said,
"It may start out in ugliness, but it's rooted in strength and ends inbeauty, doesn't it?"
This gave me "furiously to think." In an early letter to me, RichardWarren had said something very much the same, not, however, apropos ofcactus plants. And here was my matter-of-fact, mocking husbandpreaching the same doctrine of "beauty everywhere." After that, Itried to make friends with the uncouth cactus, and, as so oftenhappens, grew quite attached to it. Nights, it stood like a sentinelghost, its deformities softened, and its flowers courageous and gayin the moonlight. My growing sense of comradeship with Bill wasmaterially increased at that half-minute remark of his. We were reallyquite friendly, by that time, playing together like two children, notmuch older than Peterkins, and the rather ironic attitude toward mewhich I had so resented, seemed to lessen, or at least to be lessnoticeable.
If it hadn't been for Peter--or, if it hadn't been for me--and if Billhadn't said--
Anyway, our even, sunny life and relationship came to an abrupt end.
On a day when Bill elected to golf with Mr. Howells--Mercedes haddeveloped wonderfully as a gallery of one!--I chose to stay at homeand attend to a number of small neglected duties. The day before wehad spent near Mariano, with one of the secretaries at the AmericanLegation and his wife. We had had a delightful day, in a mostfascinating house, all cool, wide patios, and flat roofs, over whichthe palms waved. It seemed to me as if I were not in Cuba or evenSpain, but somewhere in the Far East. At tea-time, the wife of theChinese Minister called, a tiny lady, exquisite and low-voiced,looking far too young to be the mother of seven sturdy children, asshe proudly assured me she was. To hear her talk of "my boy in Yale"seemed positively absurd. It was, as I have said, a delightful day,but tiring, and I was content to stay at home when the next daydawned, very hot and still.
Peter rode in the morning and chased, hatless, about the grounds inthe afternoon. He had made many friends among the _muchachos_. I sawhim at luncheon and then, not until after tea. Something, perhaps thevery oppressive atmosphere, made me restless and out of sorts. Istarted about half-past four, to walk aimlessly toward the gates andencountering Peter and Wiggles invited them to accompany me.Afterwards, it occurred to me that Peter seemed very quiet. He walkedalong beside me, his hands in the pockets of his sailor-suit, withnone of his usual flow of general misinformation. But I waspreoccupied more so than I had been in weeks. Father had been in mythoughts all day, and back in my brain there were otherthoughts--vague and unformed, but curiously disturbing. I was besetwith a desire, a longing for something--I knew not what. It was,perhaps, a species of Spring-fever, of wanderlust, which seized uponme and set me to walking now over-fast, now languidly.
We had gone perhaps a half a mile when a strange little sound escapedfrom Peter's lips. For the first time I looked at his little mouth, awhite line stood out against the dark red color.
"It's the heat," I said to myself, and asked him anxiously,
"Do you feel very warm, Peterkins?"
His answer was almost inaudible, and he drooped wearily against myside, as we stood there in the white road, with the distant fringe ofmountains almost dancing under quivering waves of heat.
Wiggles, panting, looked at us anxiously, his scrap of a tonguebetween his crooked teeth.
"We'll go right home," said I, feigning an unconcern I did not feel.
I took his hand and was terrified at the burning touch of it,realizing that the child was ill, perhaps seriously so, and that wewere half a mile from home.
Something like despair came over me. It was out of the question thatI could carry Peter--he was a tall boy for his age and very heavy. Itonly remained to put my arm about him and to coax him along, a slowand painful task.
We had covered the first half of the distance when I heard a carbehind us, and turned hopefully to hail it. And when the long greenbody shot clearly into sight, I was suddenly faint with relief. Bill,coming back early from the club! Bill, at the wheel, his hat off, andthe wind blowing his dark hair.
The car stopped.
"Mavis! It's too hot for you and Peter to be out. I didn'tplay--what's the matter?"
I lifted Peter in my arms.
"It's Peter, Bill," I said. "He's--ill."
In two minutes I was in the back seat with the half-delirious boy inmy arms, and Bill was urging the car to her utmost speed, and we weresuddenly home.
Between them, Bill and Sarah got Peter into bed. I was too frightenedto be of any use. I kept thinking of the little Reynolds boy who haddied of fever in that very house ... and of Peter's mother. But Ididn't dare think of her long, because I could see her eyes so plainlyas they looked when she said,
"You'll take good care of Peter for me, won't you, Mavis?"
Good care of Peter! For a week I had hardly thought of him. I kissedhim mornings and nights, gave him his lessons, listened to hischatter, not really heeding. And I had been away so much, drunken withmy new freedom, my strength, blooming like a plant in the climate thattried so many other people sorely: utterly wrapped up in my ownsensations and impressions.
I went softly into the room Peter shared with Sarah. It was adifferent boy tossing on the bed, with that curious flush, the gropinghands, talking incessantly, incoherently.
Bill, bending over him, looked up as I came in. His face was strangeto me too. No, not quite. I had seen that intense, almost grim, lookon that face once before--as I came out of a dark hour of agony andlooked, for the first time, into two steel-blue eyes.
"Oh, what is it?" I asked very low. "Is he dangerously ill?"
"A touch of sun," he answered. "Yes, he's pretty sick."
There was nothing I could do. All that night I went in and out of theroom, glad if they would let me bring them little things: water, aglass, a spoon.
It made matters worse to find Nora praying loudly in the kitchen, andSilas, his lean face all broken up into soft lines of anxiety andsorrow, watching up with her.
The news spread, in some indeterminable fashion. During the night, anumber of the men on the plantation came to the door to ask for news.Peter had endeared himself to half Guayabal--
About three o'clock in the morning, worn out, I went into the bathroomfor something for Bill. As I did not reappear with it he came to lookfor me presently, and found me, huddled against the wall, my hands atmy throat, an abject picture of cowardice and fright.
I was not alone in the room. A few yards away from me, on the tiledfloor, a spider was sprawling, regarding me with almost human,terribly malicious eyes. The creature was as large as a tea-cup,black, horribly spotted with red, it's many legs twitching withvicious life.
"Are you ill?" Bill asked as I pointed with a shaking hand to thespider, which at the sound of another step had taken itself quickly toanother corner of the room.
My husband put his arm about me, and conducted me safely to my ownroom,
"You poor child!" was all he said, and closed the door into thebathroom. A few minutes later I heard him occupied in there, with whatseemed, or sounded, like a golf-club. There was a scuffle. Once Iheard Bill curse, and then finally silence.
Presently, my door opened and Bill came in.
"I've disposed of your visitor," he s
aid, quite cheerfully. "Nastymess. And Peter is better. He'll be all right, I'm sure, only we shallhave to be very careful of him after this. And now, I want you to goto bed or I shall have another patient on my hands."
I went to bed; but not until the rain came, about five, and Peter'sroom became quiet, did I fall into a troubled sleep.
It was past noon before I woke. Sarah looking very tired came in withsome coffee and the assurance that Peter was out of all danger and wassleeping quietly with the fever broken.
"Oh, Sarah," I said, "you haven't had any sleep."
"Dr. Denton sent me to bed at five," she answered, "but he never tookhis own clothes off until about eight. I slept in the guest room, theother side of Peter's, and when I woke, about seven, again, I got somecoffee for him from Norah. And he left me with Peter then, and wentinto his own room."
"Is he asleep now?" I asked getting out of bed.
"No, for I heard the water running in his bath, half an hour ago."
While I was dressing I heard Bill in Peter's room. Heard too, withwhat gratitude, Peter's own normal voice, weak but sane again.
I slipped on a frock hastily and went in to them. Of the two, Ithought that Bill looked the worst, very white and drawn.
After luncheon when Wing had disappeared in the pantry, Bill told methat Peter had had a very close call.
"I don't like to blame anyone, of course," he said, with knittedbrows, "but if Sarah didn't have sense enough--well, Silas has livedin Cuba long enough to have known that the heat yesterday wassufficient to knock out a strong man, much less a little boy, if hebecame over-tired."
"I'm afraid it was my fault," I answered, slowly, "Peter was ridingall morning and romping all afternoon. And then I took him for awalk--"
"Did you know then that he had been playing hard all day?" Bill askedme.
"Why, yes," I said honestly, "but I was thinking about something else,and--"
Bill's hand went out in an impatient gesture.
"Didn't _you_ feel the heat?" he asked.
"I suppose so," I answered, "but I had been in the house all day--"
"And Peter hadn't!" he finished for me, somewhat irrelevantly, Ithought.
I was silent.
"It's incredible," said my husband, with extreme irritation, "that youshouldn't have noticed."
"But--" I began, and stopped. It was true. I hadn't noticed; and itwas equally true that the fact was incredible.
Conscious of my guilt, I was still able to be resentful of myhusband's tone.
"Do you think for a minute--" I began indignantly, with no clear ideaof how I was going to finish: so perhaps it was just as well that Iwas interrupted.
"I don't think anything at all," he said, "but I _know_ that Ishouldn't have gone away. Had I known the day was going to turn outsuch a scorcher, I would have stayed."
His tone implied that what he should have known was that I was not fitto be trusted alone. I didn't like the implication, and I said so.
After which, at the end of ten minutes, I had positively flounced fromthe room, after the manner of our grandmothers, and left him sittingthere.
I didn't see him again until dinner. It was not a particularly joyfulmeal.
During the rather silent progress of dinner, I had the grace to berather ashamed of some of the things I had said. In the cooler lightof reason, I looked on a number of the statements I had made and foundthem unconvincing.
Our sporadic conversation was of trivial things. Not until Wing haddeparted kitchenward, and Bill lighted his after-luncheon cigarette,was our late unpleasantness alluded to.
"Mavis," said my husband, with a hint of the old, ironic smile I hadnot seen in many weeks, and which immediately alienated me from him,"I'm afraid that we were both a little tired and over-wrought thismorning. And for anything I said which may have offended you, I amquite ready to ask your pardon. However, it is, perhaps, just as wellthat I understand the way you feel about me. I am, admittedly then, a'brute': and I have 'presumed' to criticize you, unfairly and withoutcause--or so you have said. Let that pass. The most important thing isthat you are becoming bored with this solitary confinement, and it sohappens that it is within my power to offer you more congenialcompanionship. I had a letter this morning from Wright Penny--yourecall him, do you not? He is in Santiago, and proposes to come toHavana and run out to see us. If it is agreeable to you, I shall wirehim to come on prepared to stay, and to return North with us when wego. Would you like that?"
Seven times seven little devils entered into me then, and I clasped myhands on the table and made my eyes round with pleasure.
"I would be delighted," I said, sincerely enough. "I liked Mr.Penny--what little I saw of him. And I am sure that he would be acongenial house-guest."
"Our first," remarked Bill, with a wholly wicked grin. And I felt asif we had slipped back several months, to a time when enmity was theonly possible thing between us, and our weeks of pleasant comradeshipwere the shadow of a dream.
There must be, I thought, a very real antagonism for one another inour natures: for otherwise, so deep and unspoken a breach could nothave been made in ten minutes of foolish anger.
"Wright says," Bill continued, "that he hesitates to intrude upon our'happy honeymoon hours.' A pretty alliteration. It is not necessary, Ihope, to inform him of his mistake."
"He may have eyes--" I suggested.
"Being a poet," he objected, "he is probably myopic."
I ignored this.
"I must find him some pretty girls to play with," I said idly.
"Mercedes," said Bill, "might fit the case."
I was conscious of a sudden flare of anger.
"Bobby Willard's little sister," I said, "seems more Mr. Penny's type.She is very gentle and lovely."
"Meow?" said my husband, with a rising inflection.
The bright color came to my cheeks.
"Not at all," I said indignantly. "I like Mercedes Howell very much.But--"
Bill raised an eyebrow, smiled at the glowing end of the cigarette inhis hand and said nothing.
He got up from the table and went toward the door.
"Have Miss Willard out here by all means," he said, "but she's milkand water. For my own amusement, in my own humble opinion, Mercedes ismore stimulating to the Tired Business Man."
He stopped to light another cigarette.
"Of course," he said, through the first breath of smoke, "Wright willnaturally suspect you of match-making. All young, happily marriedwomen have that benign tendency."
I was stricken dumb with sudden hatred, and before my lips could openagain, Bill, with Wiggles at his heels, went out into the sunshine,whistling the challenging song from the first act of "Carmen."
I went to my room and wrote a letter, which, however, I was destinednever to send, to Richard Warren.
Peter's convalescence kept me occupied for several days. He had anumber of sympathetic callers, from Annunciata to the Howells. I toldMercedes that I would expect her out often to amuse our impendingpoet, and she preened her bright plumage a little and vowed that anew man would be a "God-send," looking at Bill the while. At which,with that long-drawn "Me-ow!" still ringing in my ears, I asked herand her parents to join us at dinner the night following Mr. Penny'sexpected arrival.
On the morning of that arrival Bill tossed over to me a letter fromUncle John Denton.
"There are messages in it for you," he said, and opened his long-staleNew York _Times_.
I read the letter, and, as I returned it to the envelope, saw a secondsheet which I had not noticed. Uncle John often sent me littleenclosures in Bill's letters. Innocently I drew it out, unfolded it,and started to read.
"Damn!" said my husband without apology, reaching my side in two longsteps, "I thought I had taken that out. Give it to me, Mavis!"
But I had already read enough.
"Have you unmasked 'Richard Warren' for Mavis yet?" wrote Uncle John,"and how does she like being the wife of her favorite poet? When arewe to have the
manuscript of the new volume? You're long overdue now,you miserable creature!"
"Give it to me!" said Bill.
I handed the note to him without a word. I couldn't have spoken, hadmy life depended on it.
He followed me to the door of my room.
"Mavis!" he said once or twice.
I put my hand on the latch.
"Don't speak to me!" I said.
In my room, I sat down by the window and tried to think what it allmeant. For a time, I was incapable of directed thought. My dream cameto me, the dream I had had so long ago, that nightmare in which myunknown poet had changed to the semblance of the man I had met anddisliked on meeting, William Denton. So it was true then! After alittle, I thought of my letters, my silly, fragile girl-dreams,written for the One, mercilessly exposed to the eyes of the Other. Inmy desk drawer lay yet another letter, unmailed, thank God! A letterin which I had said I wanted him back, wanted the comfort and theunderstanding his letters had brought me once again. Fool--fool andblind! And all the time, this talented trickster had known andlaughed: had written me the friendly, lovely letters with his tonguein his cheek: had even spoken to me of love!
I went over to the drawer and took out my Diary. All lies! Some day Imust burn it. But not yet. It was like a living thing to me. Thelittle blue book fell open and certain words leaped out at me: "Diary,I have found him.... I've the heart and brain and beautiful spirit ofhim, and all day long his name makes a happy spot in my consciousness.Richard Warren! Richard Warren!..."
I closed the book and laid it back with the letters. A great sheaf ofthin, typewritten pages ... all lies....
Uncle John had been in the plot then: and Wright Penny. It was veryclear to me now.
I took from my neck the jade lucky-charm which "Richard Warren" hadsent me and flung it out of the window. Wiggles, prowling beneath,barked happily and set out to retrieve it. Even Wiggles was not mine!Nothing I had had was mine!
I laid my head on the desk and cried bitterly. It's hard to see thedreams go: to watch the castle you have builded on the shifting sandscrumble and fall. These things had meant so much to me, ill andprisoned, and had continued to make a little, inner life for me,after the physical prison doors had opened.
If only by a miracle I could have been back in Green Hill, in myrose-grey room, never to walk again, and with Richard Warren's letterscoming to me, out of the Unknown.
Then I remembered ... there was no Richard Warren.