Mavis of Green Hill Part 5

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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, with real horror, "that's dreadful!"

Sammy s.h.i.+fted 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 d.i.c.kens!"

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 G.o.dfather. 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 ma.s.sage 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 pa.s.sion for _Alice_, and her unchanging _Wonderland_? My own copy is worn and dog-eared. But this _Alice_ is fresh and smiling--the ill.u.s.trations 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 pa.s.sion 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.