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, which set me to singing. For a long time it had affronted me. Pallid, sickly, abnormal, flowering suddenly into crimson blossom, it was for me, an actual blot on the lovely landscape gardening of the Palms. But one 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 in beauty, doesn't it?"
This gave me "furiously to think." In an early letter to me, Richard Warren had said something very much the same, not, however, apropos of cactus plants. And here was my matter-of-fact, mocking husband preaching the same doctrine of "beauty everywhere." After that, I tried to make friends with the uncouth cactus, and, as so often happens, grew quite attached to it. Nights, it stood like a sentinel ghost, its deformities softened, and its flowers courageous and gay in the moonlight. My growing sense of comradeship with Bill was materially increased at that half-minute remark of his. We were really quite friendly, by that time, playing together like two children, not much older than Peterkins, and the rather ironic attitude toward me which I had so resented, seemed to lessen, or at least to be less noticeable.
If it hadn't been for Peter—or, if it hadn't been for me—and if Bill hadn'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 had developed wonderfully as a gallery of one!—I chose to stay at home and attend to a number of small neglected duties. The day before we had spent near Mariano, with one of the secretaries at the American Legation and his wife. We had had a delightful day, in a most fascinating house, all cool, wide patios, and flat roofs, over which the palms waved. It seemed to me as if I were not in Cuba or even Spain, but somewhere in the Far East. At tea-time, the wife of the Chinese Minister called, a tiny lady, exquisite and low-voiced, looking far too young to be the mother of seven sturdy children, as she 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 day dawned, very hot and still.
Peter rode in the morning and chased, hatless, about the grounds in the afternoon. He had made many friends among the muchachos. I saw him at luncheon and then, not until after tea. Something, perhaps the very oppressive atmosphere, made me restless and out of sorts. I started about half-past four, to walk aimlessly toward the gates and encountering Peter and Wiggles invited them to accompany me. Afterwards, it occurred to me that Peter seemed very quiet. He walked along beside me, his hands in the pockets of his sailor-suit, with none of his usual flow of general misinformation. But I was preoccupied more so than I had been in weeks. Father had been in my thoughts all day, and back in my brain there were other thoughts—vague and unformed, but curiously disturbing. I was beset with a desire, a longing for something—I knew not what. It was, perhaps, a species of Spring-fever, of wanderlust, which seized upon me and set me to walking now over-fast, now languidly.
We had gone perhaps a half a mile when a strange little sound escaped from Peter's lips. For the first time I looked at his little mouth, a white line stood out against the dark red color.
"It's the heat," I said to myself, and asked him anxiously,