a sappho of green springs-第11章

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ferns　in　the　Summit　woods；　the　same　ears　that　heerd　the　music　of

the　wind　trailin'　through　the　pines；　don't　see　you　with　my　eyes　or

hear　you　with　my　ears。　　And　when　she　paints　you；　it's　nat'ril　for　a

woman　with　that　pow'ful　mind　and　grand　idees　to　dip　her　brush　into

her　heart's　blood　for　warmth　and　color。　　Yer　smilin'；　young　man。

Well；　go　on　and　smile　at　me；　my　lad；　but　not　at　her。　　For　you　don't

know　her。　　When　you　know　her　story　as　I　do；　when　you　know　she　was

made　a　wife　afore　she　ever　knew　what　it　was　to　be　a　young　woman；

when　you　know　that　the　man　she　married　never　understood　the　kind　o'

critter　he　was　tied　to　no　more　than　ef　he'd　been　a　steer　yoked　to　a

Morgan　colt；　when　ye　know　she　had　children　growin'　up　around　her

afore　she　had　given　over　bein'　a　sort　of　child　herself；　when　ye

know　she　worked　and　slaved　for　that　man　and　those　children　about

the　househer　heart；　her　soul；　and　all　her　pow'ful　mind　bein'　all

the　time　in　the　woods　along　with　the　flickering　leaves　and　the

shadders；when　ye　mind　she　couldn't　get　the　small　ways　o'　the

ranch　because　she　had　the　big　ways　o'　Natur'　that　made　it；then

you'll　understand　her。〃



Impressed　by　the　sincerity　of　his　visitor's　manner；　touched　by　the

unexpected　poetry　of　his　appeal；　and　yet　keenly　alive　to　the

absurdity　of　an　incomprehensible　blunder　somewhere　committed；　the

editor　gasped　almost　hysterically；



〃But　why　should　all　this　make　her　in　love　with　ME？〃



〃Because　ye　are　both　gifted；〃　returned　Mr。　Bowers；　with　sad　but

unconquerable　conviction；　〃because　ye're　both；　so　to　speak；　in　a

line　o'　idees　and　business　that　draws　ye　together；to　lean　on　each

other　and　trust　each　other　ez　pardners。　　Not　that　YE　are　ezakly　her

ekal；〃　he　went　on；　with　a　return　to　his　previous　exasperating

naivete；　〃though　I've　heerd　promisin'　things　of　ye；　and　ye're　still

young；　but　in　matters　o'　this　kind　there　is　allers　one　ez　hez　to　be

looked　up　to　by　the　other；and　gin'rally　the　wrong　one。　　She　looks

up　to　you；　Mr。　Editor；it's　part　of　her　po'try；ez　she　looks　down

inter　the　brush　and　sees　more　than　is　plain　to　you　and　me。　　Not；〃

he　continued；　with　a　courteously　deprecating　wave　of　the　hand；　〃ez

you　hain't　bin　kind　to　hermebbe　TOO　kind。　　For　thar's　the　purty

letter　you　writ　her；　thar's　the　perlite；　easy；　captivatin'　way　you

had　with　her　gals　and　that　boyhold　on！〃as　the　editor　made　a

gesture　of　despairing　renunciation；〃I　ain't　sayin'　you　ain't

right　in　keepin'　it　to　yourself；and　thar's　the　extry　money　you

sent　her　every　time。　　Stop！　she　knows　it　was　EXTRY；　for　she　made　a

p'int　o'　gettin'　me　to　find　out　the　market　price　o'　po'try　in

papers　and　magazines；　and　she　reckons　you've　bin　payin'　her　four

hundred　per　cent。　above　them　figgershold　on！　I　ain't　sayin'　it

ain't　free　and　liberal　in　you；　and　I'd　have　done　the　same　thing；

yet　SHE　thinks〃



But　the　editor　had　risen　hastily　to　his　feet　with　flushing　cheeks。



〃One　moment；　Mr。　Bowers；〃　he　said；　hurriedly。　　〃This　is　the　most

dreadful　blunder　of　all。　　The　gift　is　not　mine。　　It　was　the

spontaneous　offering　of　another　who　really　admired　our　friend's

work；a　gentleman　who〃　　He　stopped　suddenly。



The　sound　of　a　familiar　voice；　lightly　humming；　was　borne　along　the

passage；　the　light　tread　of　a　familiar　foot　was　approaching。　　The

editor　turned　quickly　towards　the　open　door；so　quickly　that　Mr。

Bowers　was　fain　to　turn　also。



For　a　charming　instant　the　figure　of　Jack　Hamlin；　handsome；

careless；　and　confident；　was　framed　in　the　doorway。　　His　dark　eyes；

with　their　habitual　scorn　of　his　average　fellow…man；　swept

superciliously　over　Mr。　Bowers；　and　rested　for　an　instant　with

caressing　familiarity　on　the　editor。



〃Well；　sonny；　any　news　from　the　old　girl　at　the　Summit？〃



〃No…o；〃　hastily　stammered　the　editor；　with　a　half…hysterical　laugh。

〃No；　Jack。　　Excuse　me　a　moment。〃



〃All　right；　busy；　I　see。　　Hasta　manana。〃



The　picture　vanished；　the　frame　was　empty。



〃You　see；〃　continued　the　editor；　turning　to　Mr。　Bowers；　〃there　has

been　a　mistake。　　I〃but　he　stopped　suddenly　at　the　ashen　face　of

Mr。　Bowers；　still　fixed　in　the　direction　of　the　vanished　figure。



〃Are　you　ill？〃



Mr。　Bowers　did　not　reply；　but　slowly　withdrew　his　eyes；　and　turned

them　heavily　on　the　editor。　　Then；　drawing　a　longer；　deeper　breath；

he　picked　up　his　soft　felt　hat；　and；　moulding　it　into　shape　in　his

hands　as　if　preparing　to　put　it　on；　he　moistened　his　dry；　grayish

lips；　and　said；　gently：



〃Friend　o'　yours？〃



〃Yes；〃　said　the　editor〃Jack　Hamlin。　　Of　course；　you　know　him？〃



〃Yes。〃



Mr。　Bowers　here　put　his　hat　on　his　head；　and；　after　a　pause；　turned

round　slowly　once　or　twice；　as　if　he　had　forgotten　it；　and　was

still　seeking　it。　　Finally　he　succeeded　in　finding　the　editor's

hand；　and　shook　it；　albeit　his　own　trembled　slightly。　　Then　he

said：



〃I　reckon　you're　right。　　There's　bin　a　mistake。　　I　see　it　now。

Good…by。　　If　you're　ever　up　my　way；　drop　in　and　see　me。〃　　He　then

walked　to　the　doorway；　passed　out；　and　seemed　to　melt　into　the

afternoon　shadows　of　the　hall。



He　never　again　entered　the　office　of　the　〃Excelsior　Magazine；〃

neither　was　any　further　contribution　ever　received　from　White

Violet。　　To　a　polite　entreaty　from　the　editor；　addressed　first　to

〃White　Violet〃　and　then　to　Mrs。　Delatour；　there　was　no　response。

The　thought　of　Mr。　Hamlin's　cynical　prophecy　disturbed　him；　but

that　gentleman；　preoccupied　in　filling　some　professional

engagements　in　Sacramento；　gave　him　no　chance　to　acquire　further

explanations　as　to　the　past　or　the　future。　　The　youthful　editor　was

at　first　in　despair　and　filled　with　a　vague　remorse　of　some

unfulfilled　duty。　　But；　to　his　surprise；　the　readers　of　the

magazine　seemed　to　survive　their　talented　contributor；　and　the

feverish　life　that　had　been　thrilled　by　her　song；　in　two　months　had

apparently　forgotten　her。　　Nor　was　her　voice　lifted　from　any　alien

quarter；　the　domestic　and　foreign　press　that　had　echoed　her　lays

seemed　to　respond　no　longer　to　her　utterance。



It　is　possible　that　some　readers　of　these　pages　may　remember　a

previous　chronicle　by　the　same　historian　wherein　it　was　recorded

that　the　volatile　spirit　of　Mr。　Hamlin；　slightly　assisted　by

circumstances；　passed　beyond　these　voices　at　the　Ranch　of　the

Blessed　Fisherman；　some　two　years　later。　　As　the　editor　stood

beside　the　body　of　his　friend　on　the　morning　of　the　funeral；　he

noticed　among　the　flowers　laid　upon　his　bier　by　loving　hands　a

wreath　of　white　violets。　　Touched　and　disturbed　by　a　memory　long

since　forgotten；　he　was　further　embarrassed；　as　the　cortege

dispersed　in　the　Mission　graveyard；　by　the　apparition　of　the　tall

figure　of　Mr。　James　Bowers　from　behind　a　monumental　column。　　The

editor　turned　to　him　quickly。



〃I　am　glad　to　see　you　here；〃　he　said；　awkwardly；　and　he　knew　not

why；　then；　after　a　pause；　〃I　trust　you　can　give　me　some　news　of

Mrs。　Delatour。　　I　wrote　to　her　nearly　two　years　ago；　but　had　no

response。〃



〃Thar's　bin　no　Mrs。　Delatour　for　two　years；〃　said　Mr。　Bowers；

contemplatively　stroking　his　beard；　〃and　mebbe　that's　why。　　She's

bin　for　two　years　Mrs。　Bowers。〃



〃I　congratulate　you；〃　said　the　editor；　〃but　I　hope　there　still

remains　a　White　Violet；　and　that；　for　the　sake　of　literature；　she

has　not　given　up〃



〃Mrs。　Bowers；〃　interrupted　Mr。　Bowers；　with　singular　deliberation；

〃found　that　makin'　po'try　and　tendin'　to　the　cares　of　a　growin'…up

famerly　was　irritatin'　to　the　narves。　　They　didn't　jibe；　so　to

speak。　　What　Mrs。　Bowers　wantedand　what；　po'try　or　no　po'try；

I've　bin　tryin'　to　give　herwas　Rest！　　She's　bin　havin'　it

comfor'bly　up　at　my　ranch　at　Mendocino；　with　her　children　and　me。

Yes；　sir〃his　eye　wandered　accidentally　to　the　new…made　grave

〃you'll　excuse　my　sayin'　it　to　a　man　in　your　profession；　but　it's

what　most　folks　will　find　is　a　heap　better　than　readin'　or　writin'

or　actin'　po'tryand　that's　Rest！〃









THE　CHATELAINE　OF　BURNT　RIDGE





CHAPTER　I