Mavis of Green Hill Part 21

Nothing seems to matter very much. Father.... _Father_....

January 21

William--he has asked me to call him that--came to me this morning, and for the first time in days we talked together for more than a moment.

"You are frightened," he said to me, "and nervous. You need not be."

"Why--why are you marrying me?" I asked him suddenly.

"Why are you marrying me?" he countered.

"Father," I said, and stopped.

He nodded.

"I, too," he said simply.

All at once I realized what a tremendous sacrifice he was making. I tried, very poorly, to tell him.

"Not at all," he a.s.sured me, "I am perfectly clear as to what I am doing. And my own motives. I shall be, after all," he added, "perfectly free--except perhaps outwardly."

There was something in his voice.... I got to my feet.

"Very well," I said, "it is understood that we are both free? Except perhaps outwardly?"

I do not think he liked it.

January 21

This afternoon, at four, I was married to Dr. William Denton, in the room next door to Father's. They let me see him right afterwards; and he put his dear thin white hand on my forehead and smiled.

William has moved over to the house to be near Father, and after the grave congratulations of our few friends, we were alone together in the quiet house. Married. And as far apart as Pole from Pole. Diary, you who have guarded my girlhood so jealously, it is Good-by now. I have come to the end of the chapter. And there will be nothing in my future life that I shall want to record. There is only this:

Uncle John brought me today a letter. From Richard Warren. I opened it ten minutes ago, alone in my room. It was a short letter. It asked if he might come to me; it said that he had loved me all these months; it was signed, "Your Lover, Richard Warren."

It came too late, dear Diary. I will lay it among your pages, with my dreams and my hopes and my sorrow.

Good-by. With a very steady hand, I, by some mysterious alchemy of the Law and the Church, Mrs. William Denton, write this last word on your pages.

_Finis_

CHAPTER VIII

The last word had been written in my Diary. Wearily, I stood erect and brushed the loosened hair from my eyes. The house was very still; in all 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. That was not I--that white-faced girl, with the frightened eyes and shaken mouth.

"Mavis...."

I saw the mirrored eyes grow dark, the tremulous mouth straighten into lines of control before I left my curiously impersonal scrutiny of myself and opened the door for my husband.

"Well?"

"Your father is awake," said Bill, very tall and broad-shouldered on the 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 am quite strong enough to be with him now."

"As you wish," he answered gently. "But I think you over-estimate your strength, my dear."

I walked past him into the hall.

"Sarah has prepared the guest room for you," I said. "It is next door to father."

"Thank you."

He walked with me to the door of the sick-room, stood aside and let me enter alone. Father was still conscious, he knew me, tried to raise his hand. I put mine over it and sat for the rest of the afternoon by his bed. Sometimes he seemed to sleep, and I watched him with a pa.s.sion of sorrow and love unlike anything I had ever known. All his defences were down, all his barriers of reserve. He was like a child, and, I thought, quietly happy and at peace. It is difficult to set down on paper how I yearned over him as the slow hours dragged by. But when Sarah came to relieve me and I rose, stiff and cramped from long sitting, I was conscious that, somehow, I had come to grips with myself, had seen for the first time what I owed to my father, had realized fully his sacrifice and his unfailing thought of me. It was as if we had talked together, we two, a long intimate hour. And I knew then, as never before, that I owed him not duty nor obedience, for those are unloving words, but tenderness and endless grat.i.tude. If before he left me forever, my marriage was the one thing to bring him peace, then no matter how mistaken his love for me had been in that instance, I had been more than right to do for him as he wished. The fact that in so doing I had probably ruined two lives, was of minor consideration.

Two days went by. On the evening of the second, the doctors held out very little hope that my father would live through the night. I watched with them until morning. I had no tears left. I had come to a place where no tears were, a place too deep to be stirred by emotion or even grief.

As the dawn came in, pale and cold, Dr. McAllister turned from the bed and took his hand from father's wrist. He looked old and grey--dear Doctor 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 say sharply, "Look to the la.s.sie, Bill!" and felt strong arms around me.

Before I lost complete consciousness I remember putting up my hand to brush 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 my own bed. My husband was sitting, his hands between his knees, beside me.

For a moment I stared at him. Then, as knowledge flashed through me like a terrifying tide,

"Father?" I questioned, very low.

"He's all right, Mavis," said Dr. Denton quietly. "The danger is past--thank G.o.d!"

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.