CHAPTER II

Doctor Denton came in this morning.

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

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

"Good morning, Miss Carroll!"

"Good morning, Doctor Denton!"

After a few professional inquiries as to the state of health in which the morning had found me, and my satisfactory answers,--silence! I watched him stride restlessly about my room, until I could stand it no longer. 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 proverbial stone. Exhausted by my efforts, I leaned back among my pillows and closed 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 opened my eyes. This was a mistake, for in so doing I met that steel-blue glance 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 his finger 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 his fingers, and leaned forward to lay it carefully across my nearest braid. Gravely considering the effect, he replied,

"Not as a steady diet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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, for suddenly he rose and leaned over me.

"Let me make you more comfortable," he suggested. And slipping a steady arm beneath my shoulders--there's more strength concealed in the slim length of him than one would imagine--he held me closely, while with the other hand he pounded my pillows and settled them firmly 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 care much 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, "you called 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 Doctor McAllister back again, Doctor Denton?"

I do not know that my tone implied all that I felt, but I saw the steel-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 party voice. "You will find it really worth while."

The creature is, after all, occasionally understanding. He smiled forgivingly at me and held out his hand for the book. But I hadn't meant that.

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

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

This I ignored.

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

"The devil he did!"

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

"I beg your pardon, Miss Carroll. I am apt to be a trifle--," he paused, and considered me narrowly, "eh--jumpy. And I didn't know my Uncle 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 reassured him 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 of doors."

Father and I stared at him.

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

"McAllister--" began father, doubtfully.

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

I looked grateful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Against my will I admitted it would be glorious--the outdoors part of the 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 of astonishment to the other as the morning progressed.

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

I hate him!

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

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

GREEN HILL July 3

Diary, I dreamed a horrid dream last night. I dreamed that I stood with Richard Warren on some high wooded place--in my dreams, Diary, I can 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 my name, over and over. "_Mavis! Mavis!_" But as the mist cleared before my eyes, someone said far off, "Ethereal!" and laughed. And as I looked, I saw, not Richard Warren, Poet and Dreamer of Dreams, but William Denton, Surgeon and Scoffer. It all sounds so foolish, Diary, written down, but it was really quite dreadful. Sarah, who must have heard me call out, for in my dream I wrenched my hands away and screamed, appeared at my bedside, like a familiar ghost. How I welcomed her, innumerable tightly plaited braids, and all! Breathe it not in Gath, but in this unpleasant fashion does Sarah achieve her crinkled 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 have so 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. Sammy Simpson, Jr., who adds the arduous duties of expressman to those of milk purveyor, staggered upstairs under the burden of them. Into this very room, with his own hands, ably chaperoned by Sarah, he brought them. 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 your folks found old man Thomas hanging to the rafters of his own barn this morning!"

Sammy, in deep disgust, "Oh, him!"

Sarah, sharply, "Suppose you think a hanging aint nothing worth mentioning, 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," he continued with satisfaction, "that Paw's cut down. He never did have much 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 tow forelock, doubtless a legacy from ancestors who now sleep quietly across the ocean. Sarah bustled him out of the room, as one shoos chickens, and I lay back on my pillows and laughed. There is more to Sammy's melancholy than meets the eye. I seem to see Rosie Allan's fine Yankee hand in this. However, sooner or later I shall solve the mystery, for all Green Hill comes, now and again, to this peaceful room.

I've peeped into my new books, and nibbled at something which starts out by acting like a peach and ends up by becoming an apricot. And now I 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 my window--I am only grateful that they were not under my bed! Doctor Denton, who arrived this morning with Doctor Mac in tow, unbent sufficiently to present me with a small silk flag. I was coldly sweet to him, but warmly so to his companion. It's nice to have Doctor Mac at home--language, beetle-brows, and all! He was led into the room by his 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 medical standpoint--and before the two of them departed, it was practically settled that I should begin the massage so that the out-of-doors campaign might be started.

I informed Doctor Denton that I had a letter from his uncle, to which he 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. May your 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 next White Mountain post will bring forth, I know not.

GREEN HILL July 5

Diary, I am afflicted with the morning-after sensation. I wish I had not written to Mr. Denton. What will he think of me? And yet, it seems almost justifiable, after all. For surely I am quite bed-ridden enough not to have my impulses questioned or to be accused of a sentimental, ulterior motive. And it is certainly patent to the most out-and-out sceptic that I shall have to get all my Romance vicariously.

It's a nice day. Peter-who-lives-next-door came in this morning to display an infinitesimal, bandaged thumb. He "sat on a firecracker," he said, which seems to have had an odd reaction. Peter has been so busy growing up of late that every time he hurtles into my quiet room I am convinced that I can see him sprout. He has a cupboard love for Sarah, but I think that his affection for me is simon-pure. Little boys are awfully dear. I have a proprietary interest in Peter. The night he was born I watched the lights of the house next door until my eyes closed of themselves. And ever since he was a round, big-eyed baby, he has had the freedom of this house. Today, he sat upon my bed and informed me that he was "goin' visitin'." I gather that his mother, Mrs. Goodrich, has a school friend who is spending the summer some forty miles away, at a small hotel. I asked Peter if he were eager to go.

"And leave me?" I asked plaintively.

"I'll be home soon," answered Peter, evasively. "An' Aunt Lily's awful nice--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 almost pain; and now I find myself envying her a school friend! Girls, young women, are almost as strange to me as men. Those I know in Green Hill are charming creatures and very sweet to me. They come to me with their knitting, their sewing, their love affairs. But a community of interests is not ours. As they chatter on, I can only wonder wistfully what it must be like to golf and swim, ride and play tennis, picnic and dance; to do all the "every day" things which they take so much for 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 put it, became instantly the best of friends. I wish I liked John Denton's nephew better. I am forced to agree with father that he has many splendid qualities. But only my mind agrees. Once or twice, when father has been particularly expansive on the subject, I have caught him looking at me in a puzzled fashion, and have realized that my tone has been about as enthusiastic as a Yale adherent when Harvard is making a goal. (Yes, Diary, I read the papers and ask quite intelligent questions!) When Dr. Denton is the subject in question between my father and me I am polite, very just, but unemotional. He arouses in me a feeling of rebellion and plain "cussedness." Perhaps it is a case of "Dr. Fell." I do not know, for until recently Dr. Fell has always seemed a rather maligned and misunderstood character to me. But not now. And yet, digging further in the soil of spontaneous antagonism, I am forced to confess that my dislike is deeper and even more illogically rooted. It is not pleasant to meet a strange young man, when one is flat on one's ridiculous back, with no personality other 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, it affronts me. This is not a pretty confession, but, after all, was I not intended for other uses than that one? It is small comfort to consider that my "history" is tabulated and filed in many an imposing medical office, and that one misguided wretch once wrote an article about me for the _Medical World_.

Other girls have pleasanter publicity to look back upon; thrilling scrap-books of clippings from local papers, little prosaic bits of paper that despite the bored phraseology of a reporter are just so many shining feathers from the wings of Romance. They run something like this: "Miss Ella Smith has returned to college." "Miss Ella Smith was the hostess at a very charming dinner dance last evening in her residence on Elm Avenue. This affair, which marked the debut of one of Green Hill's most popular members of the younger set, was etc., etc." "The announcement of the engagement of Miss Ella Smith to Howard Anderson, son of the president of the Washington Park Bank, was made yesterday at a luncheon given for Miss Ella Smith by Mrs. Arthur Jones." 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 (née Ella Smith), a son, Howard Anderson, Junior."

And after that, of course, the white-bound _Baby Book_. My mother kept one of me. Absurd pictures are in it, a lock of yellow hair, and all sorts 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 initial effort of speech a direct sign of abnormal brilliancy on my part, as the dictionary meaning of my christian name is "European song thrush or throstle."

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

I am terribly restless of late. I think that both father and Sarah have noticed it. But they have said nothing. In winter, I lie almost dormant, but Spring breeds a fever in my blood, and Summer sets me frantic with the longing to be up and out and away. But of all the hours, I love the one, toward twilight, before sunset, when the light is long and level, and a mellow golden. A breeze springs up and whispers gently in the trees, and I come nearest of all then to a sense of peace and quietude. This hour is, I think, of all summer hours the one most significant of her. In winter, one does not find the 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 the fireflies on the grass below my window, in pretty competition with the high, still light in the sky. Good-night! If I have been cross and rebellious in this writing, forgive me. It's only in books that a shut-in is angelic all the time! And even if I do write down my revolts and teacup revolutions in a book, I am still very far from being a heroine!

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