Mavis of Green Hill

by Faith Baldwin

  CHAPTER III

  SOME LETTERS

  WOODLAND HOUSE SUMMIT, N. H.

  Dear little Mavis:

  Of course I know Richard Warren. He is a very nice person to know! And he will be more than glad to hear from you, I am sure. By all means write to him. I wish I were twenty-odd and a Poet, instead of fifty-even and a Publisher! However, I shall take the second best, and play go-between.

  Whenever you wish, I will further your schemes and preserve your incognito, you Designing Person!

  Affectionately JOHN DENTON

  July 6th

  FROM A ROSE-GREY BOWER July 7th

  To you-- A Maker of Songs:

  With your _Lyric Hour_ close beside me, and a picture of you in my imagination, I can feel little hesitancy in writing to tell you, as best I can, all that your poems have meant to me. I am, briefly, a "shut-in," in whose whole limited life books must necessarily play a greater part than in the active world of the well person.

  Not long since, through Mr. John Denton, your verses came to me. Straight into my hands they came, and from there into my heart. They are singing there now. And for this, my little note carries you real gratitude. It must go to you, however, without name or sign. I'd rather that you stayed a little "unreal." For when names and addresses begin to play their part, then convention steps in to lay forbidding hands on the lips of friendly impulse,--even here in my castle, from which the outside world is almost banished, and which I shall never leave.

  Thank you more than I can say for the loveliness of your songs.

  Very sincerely yours, ONE DISTANT READER

  NEW YORK CITY July 12th

  Dear Stranger-Lady:

  I have your letter, and have asked our mutual friend to forward my reply to you. I am so glad that you did not allow Mrs. Grundy to enter that rose-grey bower of yours, which sounds so attractive. I am sure she would find the color scheme most unbecoming!

  I am so glad that you care for my book. It is my first, and I have a weakness for it. I am afraid I do not sing for the many, but for the few. Time was, when I had hoped to be minstrel for all the world, but that is past now. And I am content with what I do, if it can call forth letters like yours.

  Will you not write me again, and tell me as much of yourself as you care to? Or am I asking too much? I hope not, for your letter has given me such pleasure. It has made a little happy spot for me along the way, an oasis in that Desert of Loneliness which all of us know so well.

  It is hard to think of you as really "shut-in." Somehow, I make a different mental picture of you.

  If you will let me write to you, you will have to bear with _hearing_ me tell of my dreams. But I am sure you could not treat them other than gently. And perhaps we can make for each other a little rendezvous of pen and ink, where we may meet and talk awhile.

  Yours very gratefully, RICHARD WARREN

  FROM A SECLUDED SPOT July 14th

  Dear and Friendly Unknown:

  Thank you for your letter. I shall be glad to share my quiet days with you.

  You ask me about myself.

  Well, first of all, there's Father; and second, there is Sarah. In order to rightly visualize Father, you must imagine all the strength and gentleness in the world, made man. And to be truly aware of Sarah, you must picture an aging fairy, who brings you just what you want on trays and things, before you know you want them; who creeps in to tuck you up before you realize you are about to grow chilly. Father is big and grey and brown; Sarah is like New England, just before spring; very reticent, and most tender beneath a wintry exterior. She has been nurse and servant, mother and friend to me, since that day when, after the doctors had agreed that there was no open door through which I might escape into health again, they brought me back here to live out the rest of my life. And of course no category would be complete without a mention of Peter, who is quite the most delightful lover that ever a girl could have.

  Then there's our cottage, a small red edifice, rather weather-beaten. It is close to the hills; I think that they care for it, in so friendly a manner do they regard its very windows. In spring it is very intimate with the apple blossoms, which toss rosy sprays into the crystal air to break about its feet. In summer, as now, the roses pour white and red and golden wine on the doorstep. In autumn, the gayest leaves come drifting by to settle on the verandah, and even the snow seems to like it, so high and white does it heap itself about the doors.

  Inside, the very best of the house is in my room. Father calls it the "Heart of the Home." If it is that, it beats in grey and rose, and lovely old blue. Grey in the walls and floor, and rose and blue in the cretonnes of curtains and mahogany furniture. All day long I lie in a four-poster bed, which belonged to a great, great, grandmamma, and is stationed in a big bay-window. I can look out over the hills, which in fancy I am always climbing. Many people come to see me here. They bring me their troubles and their joys, and I suffer and am glad with them, vicariously. One by one you shall meet them as our correspondence continues. For indeed, I hope it will. But with just one condition. Never by hook or crook or dark wiles, must you procure my name from our "postman." For then the spell will break, and I will vanish like the apparitions in the fairy stories.

  That blot is where I stopped to look at an absurd cow which wandered slowly across my line of vision, over the road and into the orchard. Such an amusing and defiant tail! So melancholy an eye!

  It has been raining this morning, and now there is palest sunlight through veils of mist. Somewhere, a bird is being very happy about something. Through an open window comes the fragrance of growing, rain-wet things. Surely you, city-bound, miss half of life.

  I hear Sarah approaching. That means luncheon. So I must leave you, Poet. This is such a charming game, solitaire with an unseen partner, that I am loath to lay aside the cards.

  Poet, good afternoon!

  Yours loquaciously, ME

  NEW YORK CITY July 19th

  Enchanted Princess:

  Your letters travel so long a route to reach me that I tremble lest sometime they should grow weary and stop off permanently, on the way. Will you not send them direct to the Yale Club? I am in and out of town all week, and will always go there for my mail. I, of course, shall have to stick to the White Mountain itinerary. But your word is law.

  I was very glad to hear about the King and the Lady-in-Waiting and the Castle. Yet it is yourself I want a pen-sketch of. On second thoughts, perhaps, unconsciously, you are making it for me.

  I live--but no, it would never do to tell you! I shall have to move in order to provide a poet with a less prosaic setting. I am desolate in having no Sarah to anticipate my wants; and--no Father. However, tucked away, where no one can steal her from me, I possess a Mother! A mother with tiny hands and feet, and the prettiest red hair in the world. This is too bewildering a shade for a Mother's hair to flaunt! She has added charm to beauty by acquiring somewhere merry blue eyes, with an Irish twinkle in them. And a kindly angel has set these jewels deftly in the sweetest face. You would love her, I know, and I am generously willing to share her with you if in return I may claim a bit of your Father. Between us we could manage to own a perfectly good pair of parents, couldn't we?

  But for the sake of my peace of mind, will you translate, interpret, or explain "Peter" to me?

  Do tell me about your visitors! Do they come to see you--I beg your pardon! I mean, do gallant knights ever gallop up to the drawbridge on coal-black chargers, and blow lustily on a silver trumpet, at the postern gate--whatever that is!--for admission? And does a certain lady ever graciously bid her varlets give them entrance? Tell me this, and what you rea
d, and what you think. And if you will whisper to me, just how many years have left you lovelier than the year before, I will confess to you that I am Way-Past-Thirty!

  Yours, RICHARD WARREN

  THE CASTLE July 26th

  Dear Merlin:

  He was an aged wizard, you know.

  Your letter has been here for several days, but I have not been very well. Now I'm all-better, and the answer goes to you.

  First of all, you may indeed have a small interest in Father. This is how much you tempt me with your description of your Mother. Will you give her my love? Mother must be a very precious person. Mine I can hardly remember. But I know she was sweet and good and beautiful. It doesn't seem possible that anyone's mother could be anything else. My Mother was very young when she died, and although the lack of her is sometimes very hard to bear, I am grateful always that her eyes closed on the sight of me, sturdy, laughing, sound! Not as I am now, a bit of human wreckage. I wonder if she knows? There are moments before dawn when I seem to feel her lean over me, and her tears are on my face. But I know that God is merciful, and because of this I think the Dear Dead may not see us. Else, how were it Heaven?

  Is it very hard to be Way-Past-Thirty? I am twenty-three--a great old age, if one stops to consider it.

  Of course I have "Gentlemen Guests"! I am not too old for that! There's Father, every day; and occasionally Sammy Simpson. Then there is Peter, who lives next door. He would be flattered at your interest. Peter is seven, and the proud possessor of a place where teeth once were. I regret to state that he employs this aperture for an immortal, if not conventional purpose. "It is quite easy," he once earnestly confided to me, "once you get the nick of it!" Peter, his mother, and his baby sister, are away on a visit, and I miss my little friend.

  I suppose my doctor comes under the category of Male Visitor. He is sixty, very crusty, but human and dear. There's another Medical Person, too. But he doesn't count.

  Good-by for a little, Merlin, Yours, THE PRINCESS

  NEW YORK CITY July 29th

  Your Royal Delightfulness:

  I am so sorry you've not been well. I can't bear to think that you should suffer pain. What plucky creatures women are! I wonder that they are created from the same clay as great, blundering, hulks of masculinity!

  When my letter remained so long unanswered, I began to fear that it had never experienced the joy of coming to you. I began to worry lest I had offended and alienated you. Indeed, Princess, I began to think all manner of dreadful things! This must never happen again, for I am sure I have a brand-new crop of grey hair! Mind now!

  Your visiting list is interesting. Sammy Simpson I approve, if only for the euphony of his name. Peter, and your grouchy physician, have charm. But who is the doctor who 'does not count'? I am always suspicious of a man when a girl says so venomous a thing about him! Do tell me! Doctors are all very well, in their way, and sometimes I think we songsters try to doctor, too, just a bit. It is of course not healing of broken bones, of wounds and fevers, that we try to bring the world, but of broken hearts, and the wounds of every day, of fevers of too much earth and restlessness. I do not suppose we can hope to cure, but perhaps we can provide, occasionally, a draught which drugs for a little into Forgetfulness.

  No, Princess, I do not think that the Dead can see us. At least, not with the eyes of earth. But they watch over us, perhaps, with a clearer sight than we may know, and see beyond today and beyond the flesh, and are content, knowing with God that all things work toward eventual Good.

  Now that we have brought the family into it, please remember me admiringly to your father.

  Yours, RICHARD WARREN

  THE CASTLE July 31st

  Dear Minstrel Man:

  Please, do you love _Alice_? I have been spending such a pleasant hour with her. Peter, returned from his travels, arrived this morning with my breakfast tray, and your letter. After we had exhausted the raptures of welcome, and Peter, his enunciation somewhat impaired by toast, had told me all there is to know about 'Auntie Perkins,' 'Uncle Perkins,' and the 'Fat Boarder,' he demanded a 'story.' So, as my own inventive faculties seem a little out of repair,--I took him with me, a willing captive, to the Rabbit Hole, and beyond. Yes, I am sure you love _Alice_, Poet. No Poet could be entirely grown-up. I wish you could see my new edition of the House where she lives. It is charming, and came to me from our Fairy-Godfather-Postman.

  Last night I saw a shooting star. I suppose it was heralding August, the month of these flying flames. As a child I always thought that the Angels were shoeing the horses which drew the chariot of the sun, and that these were stray sparks from the Heavenly Anvil. I do not know that I was so very wrong, after all! Everything beautiful must be a spark of the Plan which is being forged in that Divine Smithy.

  Do you wish on shooting stars? I do! Always the same wish. All my life, I've played at just such silly games. Perhaps we all of us do in different ways. A thousand years ago, when a certain great poet was a child, did ever he refrain from stepping on cracks, as he went whistling to school? If one is careful, you know, and reaches one's destination in triumph, it may mean much. A new hair-ribbon, absolution for a tiny sin, rice pudding for supper. But perhaps you were never naughty. I am sure you didn't wear hair-ribbons, and--but this is hard to believe--possibly you don't like rice pudding! You couldn't resist Sarah's, I am sure!

  I--I wish on hay wagons. I adore odd numbers. Particularly do I revel in thirteen. At the same time, my defiance ends there. I cannot spill salt without a shudder, and first stars and baby moons are burdened with my desires. I am sure that every wish would come true, and the veriest pebble turn an infallible talisman in my hand, if only I believed enough.

  There's a sunset behaving riotously outside. I am sure that it appears much more sedate in New York!

  Whimsically yours, H.R.H. ME

  P.S. I forgot to answer your questions about the Other Doctor. He is thirty-two, rather tall, and most particularly exasperating.

  M.

  NEW YORK CITY August 4th

  Dear Princess:

  If Denton may send you books, so may I. In this mail three friends of mine go to you: _A Romance of the Nursery_, _Paul and Fiametta_, and Grahame's _Golden Age_. Please be kind to them. I rather think you must be like Fiametta,--a slim, brown child, with oval face, and curious, parti-colored hair dark as the oak-settle in the hall--that the sunshine burnished into brightness.

  I dreamed of you last night, an adventurous dream. Some day I will write you about it. Not now!

  With the books I am sending you a talisman. I hope it will bring you all you wish. Of course, I do not know, but I have told it to try. There is a secret hidden at its heart. But I do not believe that you can find it out all by yourself. That would take a Poet! Now write me, and tell me how egotistical I am! But remember, after all, I am nothing more or less than Mere Man.

  I hope you will care for your added charm, for the books, and a little for

  Your friend, RICHARD WARREN

  NEW YORK CITY August 7th

  Dear Lady:

  Have I in any way offended you? I have had no word from you since the 31st. I am praying that you are not angry because I allowed myself the selfish pleasure of adding to your library. Or is it the talisman? I hope not! You see, it was not just a purchased thing. It belonged to my father.

  But I would far rather than you were vexed with me than too ill to write.

  Anxiously, RICHARD WARREN

  THE CASTLE August 7th

  How very rude you must think me, dear friend! For several days have passed, and I have not yet thanked you for the books, and
for the curiously carven piece of jade, which you assure me will bring me my heart's desire. It lies close in my left hand as I write. I like the cool touch of it. And what a beautiful color it is, like the very heart of Summer! But you should not have robbed yourself of anything so precious.

  The books are delightful. I wonder if one reads one's self into every book! Your choice of friends is faultless. I have fallen desperately in love with "Paul," already. But "Fiametta" and I are not alike. For where she is brown, I am white, and where her face is oval, mine is pointed, and where her hair is oak-and-gold, mine is just yellow-and-brown! And you know perfectly well that I am no longer ten. Except perhaps when Peter urges me to be.

  And now I have a Something-Lovely to share with you! Also, it is the main reason why I have not let you hear from me before. In a few days I'm to be carried downstairs--and out under the trees, where an ingenious cot awaits my occupancy. For several days I have been preparing. The Disagreeable Doctor insists, and Father and our own Medicine Man aid and abet him. There's been a large Scandinavian Lady here every day. She possesses strong hands and a cloudy accent. And I am informed that she is to be the Witch who will remove certain fetters from my circulation. I have wished on my talisman that she may be successful. You see, I can't be very sanguine about it, for they tried all manner of things of this sort long ago, and to no avail. But, O Poet, if ever I get out under the trees again! Once there, how my spirit will strain at the leash of my body, to be off and away, over the hills!

  I've not told you before of our breath-taking plan, lest it not come true!

  What did you dream, Poet, and will you not tell me the Secret?

  Gratefully yours, AN IMPATIENT INVALID

  P.S. Paul, Fiametta, Alice, and other of your intimates, wish to be affectionately remembered. And Peter wants to know if you are by chance a Scout. It is the ambition of his life to attain the age of twelve and his modern knighthood.

  NEW YORK CITY August 9th

  Kind Princess:

  Your letter of the seventh has reached me. It must have crossed mine. I began to feel happier directly I had written. So I must have known that you were writing too! Thank you for absolving me!

  Your news is good news indeed! But I must know who is to have the joy of carrying you out into the sunshine, which is your birthright. The Old Unpleasant Doctor? The Young and even More Unpleasant Doctor?

  I think perhaps you had better arrange to have your father play magician!

  I have had a letter from my mother. There's a message for you in it. Obediently, I quote:

  "Please tell the Unknown Lady that I have received her love, and am taking care of it. I wish I could run in to visit with her in that rose-grey room. But it wouldn't do at all! Not with my hair! Tell her she must have it done over in blues and browns before I can put in an appearance. The years, thank God, whatever else they take, still leave me my vanity! Give the Princess my love, and ask her if rose-and-grey bedsocks would become her feet. Size, too, please."

  There's more to it, only if I should quote further you'd grow aware how much I have written her about you, and just what I have said. And that would never do. But you can see for yourself how well brought up I am. Confiding in my maternal parent! Did you know the verses were dedicated to her?

  No! I will not tell you my dream, nor what the Talisman is hiding from you. If I did, you would lose all interest, for I should no longer be a Man of Mystery!

  Will you tell an egotistical male just which verse most pleases you? And of course you will let me hear directly you leave the Castle?

  Yours RICHARD WARREN

  Please congratulate Peter for me on his aspirations. Tell him that although hoary beyond belief, I too have always yearned to be a Scout--a good one!

  R. W.

  THE CASTLE August 15th

  Monster!

  How dare you have secrets? Is that not Woman's prerogative? I will not answer any of your questions today, nor, indeed, write to you at all. Instead, I will write to your Mother:

  Yours indifferently, HER ROYAL HAUGHTINESS

  (Enclosure)

  Dear Mother of the Poet:

  Your son has written me your message. It is lovely of you to understand. And you _do_ understand, do you not, just how much this pleasant pen-and-ink friendship means to me in my restricted world, bound as it is by walls, north and south, east and west.

  The bedsocks sound beautiful. I have some severe gray ones which always make me feel very plain. But Sarah, who fashioned them, has little imagination. It is dear of you to want to knit for me, and when the cold nights come, I shall welcome your gift! About size three, I should say.

  Mr. Warren writes me that _The Lyric Hour_ is dedicated to you. I have turned to the page and read it with new eyes. "To the Dearest of All." And I am sure that the poem which is my favorite is your own. It is the one which begins

  For this, the patience of your Love, The pride which gives me wings. Dearest, my gratitude....

  If only I could say it in verse, what a thankful little poem would go to you now! But I can only sign myself,

  VERY MUCH YOUR DEBTOR

  NEW YORK CITY August 16th

  Cruel Princess!

  My head is in the dust! Such an uncomfortable place for it, too! Reluctantly, I have forwarded to my mother the letter which should have been mine. I have read it, every word! Surely that snippy little note, in which you call me--me, a perfect stranger--names! cannot be considered a real letter! On second thoughts, the wildest flight of fancy could never claim that your enclosure was intended for me. However, if I cannot knit, I can write poems for you. There are some on my desk now. But I will not send them to you yet. They are very shy.

  How is Peter?

  Yours despondently, RICHARD WARREN

  P.S. What little feet you have!

  UNDER-THE-TREES August 22d

  Do I not write you from an incredible address, my friend? Yesterday, the Event took place. It was my Red Letter Day, illuminated with gold. Early in the afternoon, I was carried out of the house, with comparatively little discomfort, on a most ingenious stretcher, by Father and the Very Young Doctor. My dear old Medicine Man was erect in the vanguard, sternly repressing his excitement; while Sarah, visibly jarred out of her usual self, brought up the rear in a flutter of apron strings and ejaculated warnings. We must have made an imposing procession. As long as I live--and I am beginning to hope that it will be for half a century or more--I shall never forget my first sense, after eleven years, of being out in the open. Oh, I've had my windows wide to the four winds, of course, and sunlight across my counterpane and pillows. But how could that be the same? I would have written you, but only one hour of Freedom was granted me. The Family and the Medical Profession had rigged and ready for me, between the two biggest, most friendly trees on the lawn, a comfy and substantial hammock, cushion-flanked. And so, for that hour, I lay and looked and looked, over the hills and across the valleys, and right into our own garden, which riots in bloom these August days. I must confess that the disagreeable and youthful doctor is an understanding person. After the first fifteen minutes had passed in handshaking and congratulations and solicitude, he marshalled my companions and led them away, leaving me alone, in that heavenly air, with the green trees singing all about me. I shall always feel more kindly toward him for that strategic move. But however did the Creature know that even dear Father was a little superfluous?

  Will you tell your little Mother of my good fortune? I know you both will be glad for me, but I can't believe anyone can quite grasp my happiness, and my gratitude. Except perhaps, a life prisoner who goes, unexpectedly, free...
.

  By the way, I had hardly been reluctantly settled in the house again, before Father rushed out and wired that amiable go-between, our mutual friend John Denton. He is back in New York again, as no doubt you know, and a return message came from him today, announcing that he will be with us in person on Friday, in order to "celebrate and to see the miracle with his own eyes." Isn't that nice? And won't your ears burn, distant Poet!

  This is Monday. Sky-blue Monday. By Friday, perhaps, I may be allowed to spend the whole afternoon in my Green Playground.

  Your friend, and so happily,

  THE PRINCESS

  NEW YORK August 24th

  Princess!

  Your letter is here, and so elated me that I put a black cover over my chattering typewriter--it's _just_ like a parrot, you know,--and I must occasionally convince it, by artificial means, that it is night--and left my cave dwelling for the day, in order to fully share your holiday sense. And when I returned, it was not alone. For what do you think? Right in the wilds of Manhattan I found Somebody who fairly begged to be sent to you! He goes to you by Mr. John Denton, and by the time this reaches you I hope he will feel himself very much at home. And I hope, too, that you will care for his companionship. His name is, appropriately, Wigglesworth. Please report to me on his arrival and subsequent behavior.

  Lucky dog!

  Yours, RICHARD WARREN