Mavis of Green Hill Part 15

New York City September 22d

Dear Lady:

Have I offended you in any way?

Yours-willing-to-be-penitent-if-necessary RICHARD WARREN

THE CASTLE September 25th

Dear Poet:

Certainly not! But when one is slowly and forcibly being resurrected, one has little time for letter writing. Shall I tell you the program which has been laid out for me? But first of all, I must tell you that I am actually able to sit up for a few moments each day. And after I grow stronger and more daring, a chair is to be subst.i.tuted for my bed, and then a wheel chair; and maybe after that a real live automobile! And finally, so I have been promised, I am to learn to walk! Fancy being such a baby! But this very morning, the Biggest, most Expensive, Busiest Specialist in the country--who knew me eleven years ago when he was not quite so big or expensive or busy--came to our little house, and after a prolonged Examination told us that there was no reason on earth why I should not recover wholly and absolutely. It will take time, he said, but it is certain. And I need undergo no knife, or painful treatment. I am only to mind, and not be in too great a hurry.

I feel as if, link by link, the fetters were falling. I hardly dare think ahead--to the day when the great round world shall be mine again. To the day when I shall go to all the places I only know from books and pictures. I want to go to the theatre. I want to see a horse race! I want to sail in a boat! And I want to walk and walk and walk! And, Poet, I want to fly!

I must never be very athletic, they say. Probably I shall never ride or skate, or even drive a car! I don't know--it doesn't matter, of course. But I do hope that I may dance! I've dreamed of dancing. You know, in my dreams, I am always strong and well.

You are happy with me and for me, I am sure. And sometimes I think that your letters and your friends.h.i.+p have given me courage and faith which otherwise I should not have had. It must be a beautiful world, and life must be a wonderful thing, if poets can live and make us see beauty through their clear eyes.

I am very grateful to you. And all through the perils and adventures of being reborn, I shall be glad to feel that you are thinking of me, and holding your thumbs. Will you, please?

Do you know a painter-poet named Penny? At least, that is his real name. He writes under a slightly more suitable cognomen, but I have been unable, in our brief acquaintance, to drag it from him. He seems a very nice person indeed, and made a long call on me this morning.

Wiggles wags.

Yours, in at least the fifth heaven, ME

GREEN HILL September 25

Diary, Dr. Denton brought the Penny-man to see me today. Perhaps as a flesh-and-blood flag of truce. At all events, it was more than an amusing experience. I was out-of-doors, propped up in my now very ambitious position, feeding Wiggles tea biscuits, and reading _The Lyric Hour_ for the millionth time. When the two men appeared, I was declaiming aloud, slightly drunk by the most marvellously blue-hazy day, and feeling tremendously strong and happy. After the introductions,

"I've brought you good medicine, Miss Carroll," said Dr. Denton, indicating his embarra.s.sed friend. "A real live poet! The only one in captivity! Eats out of the hand. But--I warn you he is modest. The proverbial violet is brazen compared to Wright. And he won't lionize worth a nickel, and I am sworn to silence concerning his prowess with the pen, and even his nom-de-guerre."

Mr. Penny--isn't it a dreadful name!--and combined with Wright, too!--sat down limply in the chair beside me.

"Please," he said, pleasantly and plaintively, "don't pay any attention to him."

"I never do," I said in my sugariest tones.

Dr. Denton lowered his inches to the ground, and there, sprawled like a starfish, regarded me brightly.

"She's truthful," he a.s.sured his friend. "She never does. And you've no idea how she dislikes me. That handicaps you at the start, Wright, old fellow. Doesn't it, Miss Carroll?"

I considered Mr. Penny's amiable, blonde countenance judicially.

"It might," I agreed.

"You see?" This from the Creature in a piercing stage whisper.

"But it doesn't!" I finished, smiling brilliantly at Mr. Penny, who appeared slightly confused.

Catching at a straw, which happened to be the beloved _Lyric Hour_, the Unknown--I simply can't call him Penny all the time--it's too ridiculous!--picked up the book, which was lying beside me, and immediately gave the most theatrical start I have ever seen. I've never seen plays, of course, but I have read them, and know stage directions when I see them in the flesh. This was a particularly good example of "confronted with the tell-tale revolver, Sebastian starts violently...."

"Richard Warren," read the Stranger aloud, with a very poor affectation of indifference.

"Yes," I said, "do you know him?"

The Penny turned a beautiful crimson.

"I've read the book," he faltered.

My back may be weak, but my eyes are good. And the glance that pa.s.sed between Dr. Denton and his friend did not escape me.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, old man," said the former soothingly, "particularly as it appears to be Miss Carroll's chief literary diet."

"Is it?" asked my guest, rather excitedly, I thought.

"I adore it!" I answered, with all the schoolgirl fervor I could muster. And it rang true, Diary, for it is!

Dr. Denton looked at me keenly.

"Lucky book!" he said lightly, while Mr. Penny added almost under his breath,

"Lucky author!"

He has nice, doggie, brown eyes, and very fair hair. I smiled into the former and longed to stroke the latter; it was so very smooth and s.h.i.+ning.

"Won't you tell me about your own work?" I asked, beguilingly.

"Yes, do," urged Dr. Denton politely.

The Unknown blushed some more.

"I--I--" he began somewhat wildly, "please, let's not. I'm very new at the game, and...."

His voice trailed off, and he sat hunched up in his chair, looking at me most pitifully. I was honestly sorry for him, although not a little intrigued; and most inexplicably suspicious.

"Here's Wiggles," I said, "let's talk about him. Isn't he a duck?"

Wiggles, very sleek and beautiful, jumped gaily into my visitor's lap and they became firm friends at once.

"Why," I said, watching them, "he acts as if he knew you!"

Mr. Penny looked up quickly.

"I've one much like him, at home," he said. "Perhaps your puppy recognizes that. All my clothes are very doggy," he added, with a perfectly charming smile.