Mavis of Green Hill

  CHAPTER II

  Doctor Denton came in this morning.

  He has been in every day since that horror-night, and we preserve anarmed neutrality with one another. I had even grown rather to likehim, not for himself so much as for the engaging way his hair grows,and for the sensitive, spatulate fingers of the born surgeon. Butafter his visit of this morning, my little liking has retreated, asthose crocuses which leave warm earth prematurely are sent shudderinginto nothingness by the breath of an inimical frost. Here's whathappened.

  The roses started, and finished it. My room is quite full of themtoday; everywhere I look is just a blur of color. I think that Earthis particularly lavish this season. When father brought Doctor Dentonin, and left us to what he fondly termed a "nice chat," the followingconversation ensued.

  "Good morning, Miss Carroll!"

  "Good morning, Doctor Denton!"

  After a few professional inquiries as to the state of health in whichthe morning had found me, and my satisfactory answers,--silence! Iwatched him stride restlessly about my room, until I could stand it nolonger. Then I said briefly,

  "Lovely day, isn't it?"

  Came a growl, which translated I took to signify, "Hot!"

  I know now just how water feels, trying to wear away the proverbialstone. Exhausted by my efforts, I leaned back among my pillows andclosed my eyes.

  Presently Doctor Denton came, and drew a chair close to the bed.

  "Your roses are wonderful," he remarked conversationally.

  Here was a subject on which I cannot fail to become eloquent. I openedmy eyes. This was a mistake, for in so doing I met that steel-blueglance which always disconcerts me.

  "They are," I said, and let the opening pass.

  "I'd like to see some there," he continued, very rudely pointing hisfinger at my face.

  I put my hands hastily to my cheeks.

  "Now," he announced with satisfaction, "that's more like!"

  Diary, it _was_ stupid of me to blush!

  "You do not admire pallor?" I asked politely.

  "Certainly not the pallor of ill-health," was the professional answer."It may be poetic, but it is hardly--practical."

  "You do not admire poetry?"

  Doctor Denton ceased twirling one of my loveliest roses between hisfingers, and leaned forward to lay it carefully across my nearestbraid. Gravely considering the effect, he replied,

  "Not as a steady diet."

  I slipped my hand under my pillow and closed it down hard over acertain volume.

  "I do not suppose that surgery and poetry are particularlycompatible," I volunteered, with indifference.

  He lifted the rose from my braid and regarded it _silently_. When helooked up, I was astonished to see a light in the Alaskan eyes whichI never dreamed could live in so cold a climate.

  "You're all wrong," he answered; "there's a tremendous amount ofpoetry in surgery,--beauty, too, and limitless romance."

  I didn't know those words were in his vocabulary. A trifle stirred byhis tone, I made a little _moue_ of scepticism.

  "Instruments--and white coats--and ether," I was beginning, when heinterrupted me.

  "And beyond them all," he finished, on a deeper note, "the poetry ofhealing!"

  I fell silent. Somehow that view of things had never occurred to me.Where one might see poetry, I saw only pain.

  Perhaps my face showed something of what I was remembering, forsuddenly he rose and leaned over me.

  "Let me make you more comfortable," he suggested. And slipping asteady arm beneath my shoulders--there's more strength concealed inthe slim length of him than one would imagine--he held me closely,while with the other hand he pounded my pillows and settled themfirmly again. Something slid to the floor and lay there.

  "Oh!" I said, as he stooped to recover it.

  I put out my hands, but he was turning the book over.

  "Poetry?" he said pleasantly, and raised an eyebrow. I didn't caremuch for his tone.

  "Have you read it?" I asked belligerently.

  "_The Lyric Hour_? No. Do you care, then, so much for rhymesters?"

  "For this one," I answered, annoyed to confession.

  "That explains it!"

  "Explains what?"

  "The night you were ill," Doctor Denton went on calmly to reveal, "youcalled me 'Richard.'"

  I felt the hot color rise to my cheeks again. "Well?"

  "Nothing. Only--my name happens to be Bill."

  "It would be," I remarked.

  "Just what do you mean by that, Miss Carroll?"

  But I only smiled angelically, and asked, "When do you expect DoctorMcAllister back again, Doctor Denton?"

  I do not know that my tone implied all that I felt, but I saw thesteel-blue eyes grow very dark, and,

  "Thank you!" said Doctor Denton stiffly.

  I felt somewhat ashamed, and tried to make amends.

  "Please read _The Lyric Hour_, Doctor," I urged, in my prettiest partyvoice. "You will find it really worth while."

  The creature is, after all, occasionally understanding. He smiledforgivingly at me and held out his hand for the book. But I hadn'tmeant that.

  "Oh!" I said, hastily. "Not my copy!"

  "As precious as all that?" he asked, putting his rejected hand in hispocket.

  This I ignored.

  "Tell Mr. John Denton to send you out a copy," I suggested. "He sentus this one."

  "The devil he did!"

  I looked my surprise, and my visitor laughed. He has a very nicelaugh, considering.

  "I beg your pardon, Miss Carroll. I am apt to be a trifle--," hepaused, and considered me narrowly, "eh--jumpy. And I didn't know myUncle John went in for ethereal chaps."

  Ethereal! The word, on those lips, was an insult! I glared at him,rather conscious that I must look like a sick kitten.

  Father came in, providentially.

  "How is she, Doctor?" he asked. Which was absurd, as I had reassuredhim concerning my welfare not two hours earlier.

  "Rather scrappy--lots of fight left," answered our guest, rising.

  I was speechless.

  "I think," said Doctor Denton, "we shall have to get her out ofdoors."

  Father and I stared at him.

  "Why not?" he continued, looking from one of us to the other. "We'llcommence by building her up a bit, and trying massage for those unusedmuscles. Then a little later it should be quite easy to carry hercomfortably downstairs and settle her on a cot under the trees for alittle while each day."

  "McAllister--" began father, doubtfully.

  "Oh, I'll talk with him," cut in Doctor Denton cheerfully. "He will beback next week," he added, turning deliberately to me.

  I looked grateful.

  "How perfectly splendid!" I said, with a ring of real enthusiasm in myvoice. "I've missed him so much!"

  Father looked mildly surprised at so much fervor, and I am sure thecreature concealed a smile.

  As he departed with father to "talk things over," Doctor Denton turnedat the door.

  "Less poetry, Miss Carroll," he admonished, parentally.

  "That's what I tell her," said father, surrendering to the foe. "Thechild reads too much. It makes her fanciful and--"

  "Doesn't take her mind off herself," suggested the doctor, nastily. Iwonder, Diary, what he meant?

  "We'll take away her books," he went on, "and give her sunshine andfresh air and green trees, in their place."

  Against my will I admitted it would be glorious--the outdoors part ofthe program.

  "You see," he turned to father, "doctors are rather like gardeners. I,for one, am interested in roses."

  "Roses?" echoed my parent, who seemed to pass from one stage ofastonishment to the other as the morning progressed.

  "Roses!" repeated Doctor Denton, firmly. "There's a particularlypretty white one that I am anxious to cultivate. I believe with careand sunlight it could be urged to bloom quite deep pink--permanently."He looked at me as he said this last. Then, with a polite "
Goodmorning, Miss Carroll!" he left the room.

  I hate him!

  But Diary, wouldn't it be altogether wonderful if we could be takenout-of-doors together?

  I wonder what that doctor person did with the flower he stole from myvase?

  GREEN HILL July 3

  Diary, I dreamed a horrid dream last night. I dreamed that I stoodwith Richard Warren on some high wooded place--in my dreams, Diary, Ican always stand--with my hands close in his. I couldn't see his face,but I knew him, somehow, and his voice was in my ears, just saying myname, over and over. "_Mavis! Mavis!_" But as the mist cleared beforemy eyes, someone said far off, "Ethereal!" and laughed. And as Ilooked, I saw, not Richard Warren, Poet and Dreamer of Dreams, butWilliam Denton, Surgeon and Scoffer. It all sounds so foolish, Diary,written down, but it was really quite dreadful. Sarah, who must haveheard me call out, for in my dream I wrenched my hands away andscreamed, appeared at my bedside, like a familiar ghost. How Iwelcomed her, innumerable tightly plaited braids, and all! Breathe itnot in Gath, but in this unpleasant fashion does Sarah achieve hercrinkled morning coiffure! She tucked me in, secured a flapping shade,forced a potion of hot milk down my unwilling throat, and left me. So,finally, I slept again, to dream no more.

  This morning a note came to me from Mr. Denton. So nice a man to haveso wretched a relation!

  NEW YORK CITY July 2d

  My dear little Mavis:

  Your good father is so poor a correspondent that I have struck his name from my letter-list. But you are always considerate of a lonely old man. Therefore I write to inform him, through you, that I am leaving this asphalt wilderness presently, for the White Mountains. Perhaps when my vacation there draws to a close, I may drop down to see you before returning to the 'demnition' grind. I shall look forward to a pleasant visit with you, and a quarrelsome time with your father, to whom, despite his neglect of me, I beg to be remembered.

  I am sending you some books and some exotic fruit, hoping to tempt your literary and physical palates, respectively.

  My nephew writes me that he has seen you. I envy him! But I am more than sorry, my dear, that your first encounter should have taken place under such unfortunate circumstances. I shall be grateful to you for any kindness you care to show him, for he has not had a very happy, albeit successful, career, and he is far from his Western home and his people.

  Remember me to your elderly and amiable handmaiden, whose beaten biscuit I recall with such felicity.

  Write me now and then, Mavis, and if I can in any way be of service to you, you have but to command me.

  Faithfully and affectionately your friend, JOHN DENTON

  P.S. How did you like _The Lyric Hour_?

  This afternoon the fruit and books arrived. Quantities of both. SammySimpson, Jr., who adds the arduous duties of expressman to those ofmilk purveyor, staggered upstairs under the burden of them. Into thisvery room, with his own hands, ably chaperoned by Sarah, he broughtthem. We had a little conversation. It ran something like this.

  Mavis: "Good afternoon, Sammy!"

  Sammy: "Afternoon, Miss Mavis!"

  M----: "How is everyone at home, Sammy?"

  S----: "Pretty fair, thank you."

  M----: "Anything exciting happen in Green Hill lately, Sammy?"

  S----: "Nothin' in perticular, Miss Mavis."

  Here Sarah made a remark.

  "Why, Sammy, you told me yourself, not ten minutes back, that yourfolks found old man Thomas hanging to the rafters of his own barn thismorning!"

  Sammy, in deep disgust, "Oh, him!"

  Sarah, sharply, "Suppose you think a hanging aint nothing worthmentioning, Sammy!"

  To which the youth, defensively,

  "Well, it kinder slipped my mind."

  "Why, Sammy," I here ejaculated, with real horror, "that's dreadful!"

  Sammy shifted to his other foot for a change.

  "Yes'm," he remarked. "Paw found him. That's the third man," hecontinued with satisfaction, "that Paw's cut down. He never did havemuch luck."

  Sarah looked triumphant. I, making a miraculous recovery, inquired,

  "I wonder why he did such a thing--Mr. Thomas, I mean?"

  "Wife druv him," volunteered Sammy cheerfully.

  I tried to appear shocked, but Sarah answered with bitterness,

  "Couldn't stand living with himself any longer, like as not."

  But Sammy, ignoring her, turned to me and said with conviction,

  "Wimmen, Miss Mavis, is the dickens!"

  Here the conversation ended. Sammy departed with a tug of his towforelock, doubtless a legacy from ancestors who now sleep quietlyacross the ocean. Sarah bustled him out of the room, as one shooschickens, and I lay back on my pillows and laughed. There is more toSammy's melancholy than meets the eye. I seem to see Rosie Allan'sfine Yankee hand in this. However, sooner or later I shall solve themystery, for all Green Hill comes, now and again, to this peacefulroom.

  I've peeped into my new books, and nibbled at something which startsout by acting like a peach and ends up by becoming an apricot. And nowI will write to my Fairy Godfather. For I have a Great Idea, Diary,which I will not confide to you until it has taken shape.

  GREEN HILL July 4

  We've been celebrating today! Even unto firecrackers under mywindow--I am only grateful that they were not under my bed! DoctorDenton, who arrived this morning with Doctor Mac in tow, unbentsufficiently to present me with a small silk flag. I was coldly sweetto him, but warmly so to his companion. It's nice to have Doctor Macat home--language, beetle-brows, and all! He was led into the room byhis younger colleague, and brought to my bedside, with an air of"Eureka! Behold my handiwork!"

  Doctor Mac is very much pleased with my appearance--from a medicalstandpoint--and before the two of them departed, it was practicallysettled that I should begin the massage so that the out-of-doorscampaign might be started.

  I informed Doctor Denton that I had a letter from his uncle, to whichhe remarked.

  "Didn't know you corresponded!"

  Curiously enough, the news appeared to annoy him.

  Diary, here is the letter which went to the White Mountains today. Mayyour covers turn red if ever you divulge it!

  GREEN HILL July 4th

  Dear Mr. Denton:

  First of all, a thousand thanks for your letter, the books, and the fruit. But how can you prate of 'fruit' in so commonplace a fashion, and then shower me with works of art, full of delicious mystery? Sarah says she fears I shall never be satisfied with Green Hill fare again. I believe she has grounds. The books are most welcome. I've been peering at Wells, and peeking at Bennett, and holding my breath over the Barrie plays. I shall gorge myself on the printed page during the next few weeks. The dearest of all is an old friend who comes to me in a new dress. How in the world did you remember my passion for _Alice_, and her unchanging _Wonderland_? My own copy is worn and dog-eared. But this _Alice_ is fresh and smiling--the illustrations are too quaint--and I love her already. Thanks, and again, thanks!

  Yes, Doctor Denton has become a frequent visitor at the Carroll Cottage. Father likes him very much and they have lengthy arguments in the study, evenings. Sometimes a detached word or the scent of a pipe drifts up to me through the open door, and, occasionally, the two come and sit with me awhile. It was a great surprise to me to discover your nephew in our new doctor. One would never dream that you belonged together.

  I am sure that father is glad to have some one to play with. There is no question of being 'kind.' At all events, Doctor Denton does not appear to me a lonely person. On the contrary.

  _The Lyric Hour_ and I are intimates. I have never had a book mean so much to me, not even _Alice_, who keeps me alive. I wonder if you know the author of these exquisite verses? Please, if you do, do not tell me anything about him, but--do you think I might write to him? I should like to
tell him of the pleasure he has given me, and I should like to tell him through you. I'd rather he did not know my name. This may sound very foolish, as I know that writers have many letters from the public, but we shut-in people have moods. I would love to get to know him a little, on paper. Do you think he would mind? Somehow, from his book, I feel he might understand.

  Father wouldn't care, I am sure. The Queen can do no wrong! So if you have no objection to playing postman, nothing remains for me save to select a new pen and commence my letter. But I will not do that until I hear from you.

  All in this house send love, except Sarah, who, I am sure, would not think it quite proper. But she would tender her respectful regards to you, did she know I was writing.

  Gratefully and affectionately, MAVIS CARROLL

  And now, Diary, I have set the wheels revolving and what the nextWhite Mountain post will bring forth, I know not.

  GREEN HILL July 5

  Diary, I am afflicted with the morning-after sensation. I wish I hadnot written to Mr. Denton. What will he think of me? And yet, it seemsalmost justifiable, after all. For surely I am quite bed-ridden enoughnot to have my impulses questioned or to be accused of a sentimental,ulterior motive. And it is certainly patent to the most out-and-outsceptic that I shall have to get all my Romance vicariously.

  It's a nice day. Peter-who-lives-next-door came in this morning todisplay an infinitesimal, bandaged thumb. He "sat on a firecracker,"he said, which seems to have had an odd reaction. Peter has been sobusy growing up of late that every time he hurtles into my quiet roomI am convinced that I can see him sprout. He has a cupboard love forSarah, but I think that his affection for me is simon-pure. Littleboys are awfully dear. I have a proprietary interest in Peter. Thenight he was born I watched the lights of the house next door until myeyes closed of themselves. And ever since he was a round, big-eyedbaby, he has had the freedom of this house. Today, he sat upon my bedand informed me that he was "goin' visitin'." I gather that hismother, Mrs. Goodrich, has a school friend who is spending the summersome forty miles away, at a small hotel. I asked Peter if he wereeager to go.

  "And leave me?" I asked plaintively.

  "I'll be home soon," answered Peter, evasively. "An' Aunt Lily's awfulnice--but awful old--as old as Mother," added the ungallant child.

  Peter is seven. His pretty mother is twenty-eight!

  I envy Mrs. Goodrich very much. I envy her Peter with a passion almostpain; and now I find myself envying her a school friend! Girls, youngwomen, are almost as strange to me as men. Those I know in Green Hillare charming creatures and very sweet to me. They come to me withtheir knitting, their sewing, their love affairs. But a community ofinterests is not ours. As they chatter on, I can only wonder wistfullywhat it must be like to golf and swim, ride and play tennis, picnicand dance; to do all the "every day" things which they take so muchfor granted.

  Dr. Denton came in today to see how I had recovered from "the Fourth,"and, his call coinciding with the tail-end of Peter's visit, the two,who had hitherto had but a "bowing acquaintance," as the doctor putit, became instantly the best of friends. I wish I liked John Denton'snephew better. I am forced to agree with father that he has manysplendid qualities. But only my mind agrees. Once or twice, whenfather has been particularly expansive on the subject, I have caughthim looking at me in a puzzled fashion, and have realized that my tonehas been about as enthusiastic as a Yale adherent when Harvard ismaking a goal. (Yes, Diary, I read the papers and ask quiteintelligent questions!) When Dr. Denton is the subject in questionbetween my father and me I am polite, very just, but unemotional. Hearouses in me a feeling of rebellion and plain "cussedness." Perhapsit is a case of "Dr. Fell." I do not know, for until recently Dr. Fellhas always seemed a rather maligned and misunderstood character to me.But not now. And yet, digging further in the soil of spontaneousantagonism, I am forced to confess that my dislike is deeper and evenmore illogically rooted. It is not pleasant to meet a strange youngman, when one is flat on one's ridiculous back, with no personalityother than the ugly, ignominious one of pain.

  Let us be frank, Diary. I am irritated to be looked upon as an"interesting case." It hurts my pride, it wounds my vanity, itaffronts me. This is not a pretty confession, but, after all, was Inot intended for other uses than that one? It is small comfort toconsider that my "history" is tabulated and filed in many an imposingmedical office, and that one misguided wretch once wrote an articleabout me for the _Medical World_.

  Other girls have pleasanter publicity to look back upon; thrillingscrap-books of clippings from local papers, little prosaic bits ofpaper that despite the bored phraseology of a reporter are just somany shining feathers from the wings of Romance. They run somethinglike this: "Miss Ella Smith has returned to college." "Miss Ella Smithwas the hostess at a very charming dinner dance last evening in herresidence on Elm Avenue. This affair, which marked the debut of one ofGreen Hill's most popular members of the younger set, was etc., etc.""The announcement of the engagement of Miss Ella Smith to HowardAnderson, son of the president of the Washington Park Bank, was madeyesterday at a luncheon given for Miss Ella Smith by Mrs. ArthurJones." And then, Diary, after half a column for the wedding and the"Voice that Breathed o'er Eden" accompaniment, perhaps some day, this:"Born, to Mr. and Mrs. Howard Anderson (nee Ella Smith), a son, HowardAnderson, Junior."

  And after that, of course, the white-bound _Baby Book_. My mother keptone of me. Absurd pictures are in it, a lock of yellow hair, and allsorts of dear, foolish comments. Even my first word is written there,with, I know, a vainglorious pen. The word is not startling. It is"birdie." Father has often told me that mother declared this initialeffort of speech a direct sign of abnormal brilliancy on my part, asthe dictionary meaning of my christian name is "European song thrushor throstle."

  I wonder if even a throstle would not get out of tune were itsentenced to life-long captivity?

  I am terribly restless of late. I think that both father and Sarahhave noticed it. But they have said nothing. In winter, I lie almostdormant, but Spring breeds a fever in my blood, and Summer sets mefrantic with the longing to be up and out and away. But of all thehours, I love the one, toward twilight, before sunset, when the lightis long and level, and a mellow golden. A breeze springs up andwhispers gently in the trees, and I come nearest of all then to asense of peace and quietude. This hour is, I think, of all summerhours the one most significant of her. In winter, one does not findthe day entering imperceptibly into that period of lovely transition;in winter, one has daylight and then darkness.

  Bedtime, Diary. The stars are thick tonight, and I can see thefireflies on the grass below my window, in pretty competition with thehigh, still light in the sky. Good-night! If I have been cross andrebellious in this writing, forgive me. It's only in books that ashut-in is angelic all the time! And even if I do write down myrevolts and teacup revolutions in a book, I am still very far frombeing a heroine!

  I wonder--will Mr. Denton consent to the alien role of go-between andaccomplice?