CHAPTER VIII
The last word had been written in my Diary. Wearily, I stood erect andbrushed the loosened hair from my eyes. The house was very still; inall my life I had never been so utterly alone. I turned from my desk,and, as I did so, caught a glimpse of my face in the wall-mirror. Thatwas not I--that white-faced girl, with the frightened eyes and shakenmouth.
"Mavis...."
I saw the mirrored eyes grow dark, the tremulous mouth straighten intolines of control before I left my curiously impersonal scrutiny ofmyself and opened the door for my husband.
"Well?"
"Your father is awake," said Bill, very tall and broad-shouldered onthe threshold. "I have been trying to persuade him to have a nurse,but he won't listen to me."
"Sarah is better than any hospital graduate," I answered, "and I amquite strong enough to be with him now."
"As you wish," he answered gently. "But I think you over-estimate yourstrength, my dear."
I walked past him into the hall.
"Sarah has prepared the guest room for you," I said. "It is next doorto father."
"Thank you."
He walked with me to the door of the sick-room, stood aside and let meenter alone. Father was still conscious, he knew me, tried to raisehis hand. I put mine over it and sat for the rest of the afternoon byhis bed. Sometimes he seemed to sleep, and I watched him with apassion of sorrow and love unlike anything I had ever known. All hisdefences were down, all his barriers of reserve. He was like a child,and, I thought, quietly happy and at peace. It is difficult to setdown on paper how I yearned over him as the slow hours dragged by. Butwhen Sarah came to relieve me and I rose, stiff and cramped from longsitting, I was conscious that, somehow, I had come to grips withmyself, had seen for the first time what I owed to my father, hadrealized fully his sacrifice and his unfailing thought of me. It wasas if we had talked together, we two, a long intimate hour. And I knewthen, as never before, that I owed him not duty nor obedience, forthose are unloving words, but tenderness and endless gratitude. Ifbefore he left me forever, my marriage was the one thing to bring himpeace, then no matter how mistaken his love for me had been in thatinstance, I had been more than right to do for him as he wished. Thefact that in so doing I had probably ruined two lives, was of minorconsideration.
Two days went by. On the evening of the second, the doctors held outvery little hope that my father would live through the night. Iwatched with them until morning. I had no tears left. I had come to aplace where no tears were, a place too deep to be stirred by emotionor even grief.
As the dawn came in, pale and cold, Dr. McAllister turned from the bedand took his hand from father's wrist. He looked old and grey--dearDoctor Mac, but his eyes were radiant.
"He'll pull through!" he said simply.
All about me was a singing darkness. Through it I heard a voice saysharply, "Look to the lassie, Bill!" and felt strong arms around me.Before I lost complete consciousness I remember putting up my hand tobrush something wet from my face. Tears? Not _my_ tears.
"Don't cry," I said childishly. "It hurts father to see people cry."
When I woke again it was bright daylight. I was in my own room on myown bed. My husband was sitting, his hands between his knees, besideme.
For a moment I stared at him. Then, as knowledge flashed through melike a terrifying tide,
"Father?" I questioned, very low.
"He's all right, Mavis," said Dr. Denton quietly. "The danger ispast--thank God!"
I put out my hand, gropingly, and he took it firmly into his.
"Cry now," he said gently. "It will help."
Then, in a rush, came the healing, peace-giving tears.
* * * * *
It was not until ten days later, when father, marvellouslyrecuperating, sat up for the first time and demanded his "children"about him that I faced the fact that what was done could not beundone, and that I was confronted by the finality of marriage.
"Well, you two," said father weakly, but with a tiny glimmer ofmischief in his eyes, "it looks as if I had hurried you before thealtar under false pretences. What are you going to do about it--nowthat I've fooled you by living?"
Beneath his half-laughter, I heard a note of anxiety, of doubt. Andthe resolution rose up strong and compelling within me that never, aslong as I lived, should father know what he had done. It was the onlyway in which I could pay my debt.
"Play the game, Mavis," I said to myself, and smiled straight intofather's eyes.
Bill, sitting beside me, drew a long breath. Was it relief? I glancedat him quickly and knew that for one moment we agreed.
"You old matchmaker," I said, "were you so afraid that I would neverfind a husband? Was it quite necessary to frighten us all to pieces inorder that I should wear a wedding ring?"
Father laughed.
"Then," he asked, "It's all right--with you two?"
I turned to Bill and saw him nod once before I spoke.
"It's all right," I said, "and we're all happy."
"Thank God!" said father under his breath.
I could not bear the look on his face, and slipped blindly, withoutexcuse, from the room.
It was the following week that John Denton came down to be with us,and hatched his plans with father. They called us in, Bill and me, andlaid their schemes before us.
"We have decided," said father, very thin and pale in his armchair,"that children are best left alone, without old people to disturbthem. I'm quite all right. In two weeks I shall be younger and betterthan I have been in twenty years. And I want you and Bill to go away,Mavis. It's time you had your honeymoon, cloudless and solitary, asall honeymoons should be. Old John here has been talking his camp inCanada to me, for an hour steady. And I'm persuaded. I'll get youinfants out of the house, and then John and I and that marvelousman-servant of his who is cook and nurse and valet in one person willtravel by easy stages and spend a month rusticating in the big woods.
"Can't we go too?" I begged, in a sudden panic.
"You can _not_!" said Uncle John and father in one breath.
I turned a little helplessly to my husband.
"They don't want us!" I said.
"And we don't want them!" he answered smiling. "You and I are going toCuba. Just as soon as you can get ready. I've been talking to yourfather and he agrees with me that the absolute change will do you allthe good in the world."
"Cuba!"
"Exactly. There is a perfectly good plantation there just waiting forus."
"But...." I said, sparring for time, "I couldn't leave Sarah."
Father laughed outright. "You baby!" he said, caressingly.
"You won't have to," said Bill. "She needs a rest as much as you do.She's coming along--and so is your friend Peter. We can't leave himbehind, and Mr. Goodrich has to sail for Spain sooner than heexpected. I saw him this morning."
I was too amazed for words. And over my defenceless head the affairwas settled. Canada for father and Uncle John; Cuba for Sarah, Peter,Bill, and me. A thousand protests, the old rebellious anger at havingmy life settled and ordered for me, rushed over me again. But father'seyes were on me and I choked back my resentment.
"Cuba it is!" I said, forcing a smile.
And so, after the maze of packing, of sending Sarah to New York forsummer clothes--in the dead of winter!--after the farewells and theblessings and the thought-deadening hurry and bustle--Cuba it was.