by Bret Harte
Bowers, she added, in weary explanation, "Mr.Bowers brought me over from the Summit woods in his buggy--it was sohot. There--shake hands and thank him, and run away--do!"
They crossed a broad but scantily-furnished hall. Everywhere the samelook of hopeless incompleteness, temporary utility, and premature decay;most of the furniture was mismatched and misplaced; many of the roomshad changed their original functions or doubled them; a smell of cookingcame from the library, on whose shelves, mingled with books, weredresses and household linen, and through the door of a room into whichMrs. Delatour retired to remove her duster Mr. Bowers caught a glimpseof a bed, and of a table covered with books and papers, at which atall, fair girl was writing. In a few moments Mrs. Delatour returned,accompanied by this girl, and Eunice, her short-lipped sister. Bob, whojoined the party seated around Mr. Bowers and a table set with cake, adecanter, and glasses, completed the group. Emboldened by the presenceof the tall Cynthia and his glimpse of her previous literary attitude,Mr. Bowers resolved to make one more attempt.
"I suppose these yer young ladies sometimes go to the wood, too?" As hiseye rested on Cynthia, she replied:--
"Oh, yes."
"I reckon on account of the purty shadows down in the brush, and thesoft light, eh? and all that?" he continued, with a playful manner but aserious accession of color.
"Why, the woods belong to us. It's mar's property!" broke in Eunice witha flash of teeth.
"Well, Lordy, I wanter know!" said Mr. Bowers, in some astonishment."Why, that's right in my line, too! I've been sightin' timber all alonghere, and that's how I dropped in on yer mar." Then, seeing a look ofeagerness light up the faces of Bob and Eunice, he was encouraged tomake the most of his opportunity. "Why, ma'am," he went on, cheerfully,"I reckon you're holdin' that wood at a pretty stiff figger, now."
"Why?" asked Mrs. Delatour, simply.
Mr. Bowers delivered a wink at Bob and Eunice, who were still watchinghim with anxiety. "Well, not on account of the actool timber, for thebest of it ain't sound," he said, "but on account of its bein' famous!Everybody that reads that pow'ful pretty poem about it in the 'ExcelsiorMagazine' wants to see it. Why, it would pay the Green Springshotel-keeper to buy it up for his customers. But I s'pose you reckon tokeep it--along with the poetess--in your famerly?"
Although Mr. Bowers long considered this speech as the happiest and mostbrilliant effort of his life, its immediate effect was not, perhaps,all that could be desired. The widow turned upon him a restrained anddarkening face. Cynthia half rose with an appealing "Oh, mar!" and Boband Eunice, having apparently pinched each other to the last stage ofendurance, retired precipitately from the room in a prolonged giggle.
"I have not yet thought of disposing of the Summit woods, Mr. Bowers,"said Mrs. Delatour, coldly, "but if I should do so, I will consult you.You must excuse the children, who see so little company, they are quiteunmanageable when strangers are present. Cynthia, WILL you see if theservants have looked after Mr. Bowers's horse? You know Bob is not to betrusted."
There was clearly nothing else for Mr. Bowers to do but to take hisleave, which he did respectfully, if not altogether hopefully. But whenhe had reached the lane, his horse shied from the unwonted spectacle ofBob, swinging his hat, and apparently awaiting him, from the fork of awayside sapling.
"Hol' up, mister. Look here!"
Mr. Bowers pulled up. Bob dropped into the road, and, after a backwardglance over his shoulder, said:--
"Drive 'longside the fence in the shadder." As Mr. Bowers obeyed,Bob approached the wheels of the buggy in a manner half shy, halfmysterious. "You wanter buy them Summit woods, mister?"
"Well, per'aps, sonny. Why?" smiled Mr. Bowers.
"Coz I'll tell ye suthin'. Don't you be fooled into allowin' thatCynthia wrote that po'try. She didn't--no more'n Eunice nor me. Markinder let ye think it, 'cos she don't want folks to think SHE did it.But mar wrote that po'try herself; wrote it out o' them thar woods--allby herself. Thar's a heap more po'try thar, you bet, and jist as good.And she's the one that kin write it--you hear me? That's my mar, everytime! You buy that thar wood, and get mar to run it for po'try, andyou'll make your pile, sure! I ain't lyin'. You'd better look spry:thar's another feller snoopin' 'round yere--only he barked up the wrongtree, and thought it was Cynthia, jist as you did."
"Another feller?" repeated the astonished Bowers.
"Yes; a rig'lar sport. He was orful keen on that po'try, too, you bet.So you'd better hump yourself afore somebody else cuts in. Mar got ahundred dollars for that pome, from that editor feller and his pardner.I reckon that's the rig'lar price, eh?" he added, with a suddensuspicious caution.
"I reckon so," replied Mr. Bowers, blankly. "But--look here, Bob! Do youmean to say it was your mother--your MOTHER, Bob, who wrote that poem?Are you sure?"
"D'ye think I'm lyin'?" said Bob, scornfully. "Don't I know? Don't Icopy 'em out plain for her, so as folks won't know her handwrite? Go'way! you're loony!" Then, possibly doubting if this latter expressionwere strictly diplomatic with the business in hand, he added, inhalf-reproach, half-apology, "Don't ye see I don't want ye to be fooledinto losin' yer chance o' buying up that Summit wood? It's the coldtruth I'm tellin' ye."
Mr. Bowers no longer doubted it. Disappointed as he undoubtedly was atfirst,--and even self-deceived,--he recognized in a flash the grim factthat the boy had stated. He recalled the apparition of the sad-facedwoman in the wood--her distressed manner, that to his inexperiencedmind now took upon itself the agitated trembling of disturbed mysticinspiration. A sense of sadness and remorse succeeded his first shock ofdisappointment.
"Well, are ye going to buy the woods?" said Bob, eying him grimly. "Ye'dbetter say."
Mr. Bowers started. "I shouldn't wonder, Bob," he said, with a smile,gathering up his reins. "Anyhow, I'm comin' back to see your mother thisafternoon. And meantime, Bob, you keep the first chance for me."
He drove away, leaving the youthful diplomatist standing with his barefeet in the dust. For a minute or two the young gentleman amused himselfby a few light saltatory steps in the road. Then a smile of scornfulsuperiority, mingled perhaps with a sense of previous slights andunappreciation, drew back his little upper lip, and brightened hismottled cheek.
"I'd like ter know," he said, darkly, "what this yer God-forsakenfamerly would do without ME!"
CHAPTER V
It is to be presumed that the editor and Mr. Hamlin mutually kept totheir tacit agreement to respect the impersonality of the poetess,for during the next three months the subject was seldom alluded toby either. Yet in that period White Violet had sent two othercontributions, and on each occasion Mr. Hamlin had insisted uponincreasing the honorarium to the amount of his former gift. In vain theeditor pointed out the danger of this form of munificence; Mr. Hamlinretorted by saying that if he refused he would appeal to the proprietor,who certainly would not object to taking the credit of this liberality."As to the risks," concluded Jack, sententiously, "I'll take them; andas far as you're concerned, you certainly get the worth of your money."
Indeed, if popularity was an indiction, this had become suddenly true.For the poetess's third contribution, without changing its stronglocal color and individuality, had been an unexpected outburst of humanpassion--a love-song, that touched those to whom the subtler meditativegraces of the poetess had been unknown. Many people had listened to thisimpassioned but despairing cry from some remote and charmed solitude,who had never read poetry before, who translated it into their ownlimited vocabulary and more limited experience, and were inexpressiblyaffected to find that they, too, understood it; it was caught up andechoed by the feverish, adventurous, and unsatisfied life that filledthat day and time. Even the editor was surprised and frightened. Likemost cultivated men, he distrusted popularity: like all men who believein their own individual judgment, he doubted collective wisdom. Yetnow that his protegee had been accepted by others, he questioned thatjudgment and became her critic. It struck him that her sudden outburstwas strained; it seemed to him that in
this mere contortion of passionthe sibyl's robe had become rudely disarranged. He spoke to Hamlin, andeven approached the tabooed subject.
"Did you see anything that suggested this sort of business in--in--thatwoman--I mean in--your pilgrimage, Jack?"
"No," responded Jack, gravely. "But it's easy to see she's got holdof some hay-footed fellow up there in the mountains with straws in hishair,
