As Mr. Bowers was familiar with many of these counts in the feminine American indictment of life generally, he was not perhaps greatly moved. But in the last sentence he thought he saw an opening to return to his main object, and, looking up cautiously, said:
And mebbe write potry now and then? To his great discomfiture, the only effect of this suggestion was to check his companions speech for some moments and apparently throw her back into her former abstraction. Yet, after a long pause, as they were turning into the lane, she said, as if continuing the subject:
I only hope that, whatever my daughters may do, they wont marry young.
The yawning breaches in the Delatour gates and fences presently came in view. They were supposed to be reinforced by half a dozen dogs, who, however, did their duty with what would seem to be the prevailing inefficiency, retiring after a single perfunctory yelp to shameless stretching, scratching, and slumber. Their places were taken on the veranda by two negro servants, two girls respectively of eight and eleven, and a boy of fourteen, who remained silently staring. As Mr. Bowers had accepted the widows polite invitation to enter, she was compelled, albeit in an equally dazed and helpless way, to issue some preliminary orders:
Now, ChloeI mean aunt Dinahdo take EuniceI mean Victorine and Unaaway, andyou knowtidy them; and you, Sarahits Sarah, isnt it?lay some refreshment in the parlor for this gentleman. And, Bob, tell your sister Cynthia to come here with Eunice. As Bob still remained staring at Mr. Bowers, she added, in weary explanation, Mr. Bowers brought me over from the Summit woods in his buggyit was so hot. Thereshake hands and thank him, and run awaydo!
They crossed a broad but scantily-furnished hall. Everywhere the same look of hopeless incompleteness, temporary utility, and premature decay; most of the furniture was mismatched and misplaced; many of the rooms had changed their original functions or doubled them; a smell of cooking came from the library, on whose shelves, mingled with books, were dresses and household linen, and through the door of a room into which Mrs. Delatour retired to remove her duster Mr. Bowers caught a glimpse of a bed, and of a table covered with books and papers, at which a tall, fair girl was writing. In a few moments Mrs. Delatour returned, accompanied by this girl, and Eunice, her short-lipped sister. Bob, who joined the party seated around Mr. Bowers and a table set with cake, a decanter, and glasses, completed the group. Emboldened by the presence of 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 his eye rested on Cynthia, she replied:
Oh, yes.
I reckon on account of the purty shadows down in the brush, and the soft light, eh? and all that? he continued, with a playful manner but a serious accession of color.
Why, the woods belong to us. Its mars property! broke in Eunice with a flash of teeth.
Well, Lordy, I wanter know! said Mr. Bowers, in some astonishment. Why, thats right in my line, too! Ive been sightin timber all along here, and thats how I dropped in on yer mar. Then, seeing a look of eagerness light up the faces of Bob and Eunice, he was encouraged to make the most of his opportunity. Why, maam, he went on, cheerfully, I reckon youre 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 watching him with anxiety. Well, not on account of the actool timber, for the best of it aint sound, he said, but on account of its bein famous! Everybody that reads that powful pretty poem about it in the Excelsior Magazine wants to see it. Why, it would pay the Green Springs hotel-keeper to buy it up for his customers. But I spose you reckon to keep italong with the poetessin your famerly?
Although Mr. Bowers long considered this speech as the happiest and most brilliant effort of his life, its immediate effect was not, perhaps, all that could be desired. The widow turned upon him a restrained and darkening face. Cynthia half rose with an appealing Oh, mar! and Bob and Eunice, having apparently pinched each other to the last stage of endurance, 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 quite unmanageable when strangers are present. Cynthia, WILL you see if the servants have looked after Mr. Bowerss horse? You know Bob is not to be trusted.
There was clearly nothing else for Mr. Bowers to do but to take his leave, which he did respectfully, if not altogether hopefully. But when he had reached the lane, his horse shied from the unwonted spectacle of Bob, swinging his hat, and apparently awaiting him, from the fork of a wayside sapling.
Hol up, mister. Look here!
Mr. Bowers pulled up. Bob dropped into the road, and, after a backward glance 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, half mysterious. You wanter buy them Summit woods, mister?
Well, peraps, sonny. Why? smiled Mr. Bowers.
Coz Ill tell ye suthin. Dont you be fooled into allowin that Cynthia wrote that potry. She didntno moren Eunice nor me. Mar kinder let ye think it, cos she dont want folks to think SHE did it. But mar wrote that potry herself; wrote it out o them thar woodsall by herself. Thars a heap more potry thar, you bet, and jist as good. And shes the one that kin write ityou hear me? Thats my mar, every time! You buy that thar wood, and get mar to run it for potry, and youll make your pile, sure! I aint lyin. Youd better look spry: thars another feller snoopin round yereonly he barked up the wrong tree, and thought it was Cynthia, jist as you did.
Another feller? repeated the astonished Bowers.
Yes; a riglar sport. He was orful keen on that potry, too, you bet. So youd better hump yourself afore somebody else cuts in. Mar got a hundred dollars for that pome, from that editor feller and his pardner. I reckon thats the riglar price, eh? he added, with a sudden suspicious caution.
I reckon so, replied Mr. Bowers, blankly. Butlook here, Bob! Do you mean to say it was your motheryour MOTHER, Bob, who wrote that poem? Are you sure?
Dye think Im lyin? said Bob, scornfully. Dont I know? Dont I copy em out plain for her, so as folks wont know her handwrite? Go way! youre loony! Then, possibly doubting if this latter expression were strictly diplomatic with the business in hand, he added, in half-reproach, half-apology, Dont ye see I dont want ye to be fooled into losin yer chance o buying up that Summit wood? Its the cold truth Im tellin ye.
Mr. Bowers no longer doubted it. Disappointed as he undoubtedly was at first,and even self-deceived,he recognized in a flash the grim fact that the boy had stated. He recalled the apparition of the sad-faced woman in the woodher distressed manner, that to his inexperienced mind now took upon itself the agitated trembling of disturbed mystic inspiration. A sense of sadness and remorse succeeded his first shock of disappointment.
Dye think Im lyin? said Bob, scornfully. Dont I know? Dont I copy em out plain for her, so as folks wont know her handwrite? Go way! youre loony! Then, possibly doubting if this latter expression were strictly diplomatic with the business in hand, he added, in half-reproach, half-apology, Dont ye see I dont want ye to be fooled into losin yer chance o buying up that Summit wood? Its the cold truth Im tellin ye.
Mr. Bowers no longer doubted it. Disappointed as he undoubtedly was at first,and even self-deceived,he recognized in a flash the grim fact that the boy had stated. He recalled the apparition of the sad-faced woman in the woodher distressed manner, that to his inexperienced mind now took upon itself the agitated trembling of disturbed mystic inspiration. A sense of sadness and remorse succeeded his first shock of disappointment.
Well, are ye going to buy the woods? said Bob, eying him grimly. Yed better say.
Mr. Bowers started. I shouldnt wonder, Bob, he said, with a smile, gathering up his reins. Anyhow, Im comin back to see your mother this afternoon. And meantime, Bob, you keep the first chance for me.
He drove away, leaving the youthful diplomatist standing with his bare feet in the dust. For a minute or two the young gentleman amused himself by a few light saltatory steps in the road. Then a smile of scornful superiority, mingled perhaps with a sense of previous slights and unappreciation, drew back his little upper lip, and brightened his mottled cheek.
Id like ter know, he said, darkly, what this yer God-forsaken famerly would do without ME!
CHAPTER V
It is to be presumed that the editor and Mr. Hamlin mutually kept to their tacit agreement to respect the impersonality of the poetess, for during the next three months the subject was seldom alluded to by either. Yet in that period White Violet had sent two other contributions, and on each occasion Mr. Hamlin had insisted upon increasing the honorarium to the amount of his former gift. In vain the editor pointed out the danger of this form of munificence; Mr. Hamlin retorted 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, Ill take them; and as far as youre concerned, you certainly get the worth of your money.
Indeed, if popularity was an indiction, this had become suddenly true. For the poetesss third contribution, without changing its strong local color and individuality, had been an unexpected outburst of human passiona love-song, that touched those to whom the subtler meditative graces of the poetess had been unknown. Many people had listened to this impassioned but despairing cry from some remote and charmed solitude, who had never read poetry before, who translated it into their own limited vocabulary and more limited experience, and were inexpressibly affected to find that they, too, understood it; it was caught up and echoed by the feverish, adventurous, and unsatisfied life that filled that day and time. Even the editor was surprised and frightened. Like most cultivated men, he distrusted popularity: like all men who believe in their own individual judgment, he doubted collective wisdom. Yet now that his protegee had been accepted by others, he questioned that judgment and became her critic. It struck him that her sudden outburst was strained; it seemed to him that in this mere contortion of passion the sibyls robe had become rudely disarranged. He spoke to Hamlin, and even approached the tabooed subject.
Did you see anything that suggested this sort of business ininthat womanI mean inyour pilgrimage, Jack?
No, responded Jack, gravely. But its easy to see shes got hold of some hay-footed fellow up there in the mountains with straws in his hair, and is playing him for all hes worth. You wont get much more poetry out of her, I reckon.
Is was not long after this conversation that one afternoon, when the editor was alone, Mr. James Bowers entered the editorial room with much of the hesitation and irresolution of his previous visit. As the editor had not only forgotten him, but even, dissociated him with the poetess, Mr. Bowers was fain to meet his unresponsive eye and manner with some explanation.
Ye disremember my comin here, Mr. Editor, to ask you the name o the lady who called herself White Violet, and how you allowed you couldnt give it, but would write and ask for it?
Mr. Editor, leaning back in his chair, now remembered the occurrence, but was distressed to add that the situation remained unchanged, and that he had received no such permission.
Never mind THAT, my lad, said Mr. Bowers, gravely, waving his hand. I understand all that; but, ez Ive known the lady ever since, and am now visiting her at her house on the Summit, I reckon it dont make much matter.
It was quite characteristic of Mr. Bowerss smileless earnestness that he made no ostentation of this dramatic retort, nor of the undisguised stupefaction of the editor.
Do you mean to say that you have met White Violet, the author of these poems? repeated the editor.
Which her name is Delatour,the widder Delatour,ez she has herself give me permission to tell you, continued Mr. Bowers, with a certain abstracted and automatic precision that dissipated any suggestion of malice in the reversed situation.
Delatour!a widow! repeated the editor.
With five children, continued Mr. Bowers. Then, with unalterable gravity, he briefly gave an outline of her condition and the circumstances of his acquaintance with her.
But I reckoned YOU might have known suthin o this; though she never let on you did, he concluded, eying the editor with troubled curiosity.
The editor did not think it necessary to implicate Mr. Hamlin. He said, briefly, I? Oh, no!
Of course, YOU might not have seen her? said Mr. Bowers, keeping the same grave, troubled gaze on the editor.
Of course not, said the editor, somewhat impatient under the singular scrutiny of Mr. Bowers; and Im very anxious to know how she looks. Tell me, what is she like?
She is a fine, powful, eddicated woman, said Mr. Bowers, with slow deliberation. Yes, sir,a powful woman, havin grand ideas of her own, and holdin to em. He had withdrawn his eyes from the editor, and apparently addressed the ceiling in confidence.
But what does she look like, Mr. Bowers? said the editor, smiling.
Well, sir, she looksLIKEIT! Yes,with deliberate caution,I should say, just like it.
After a pause, apparently to allow the editor to materialize this ravishing description, he said, gently, Are you busy just now?