A Sappho of Green Springs

“Coz I’ll tell ye suthin’. Don’t you be fooled into allowin’ that Cynthia wrote that po’try. She didn’t—no more’n Eunice nor me. Mar kinder 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—all by 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, every time! You buy that thar wood, and get mar to run it for po’try, and you’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 wrong tree, 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 a hundred dollars for that pome, from that editor feller and his pardner. I reckon that’s the rig’lar price, eh?” he added, with a sudden suspicious caution.

“I reckon so,” replied Mr. Bowers, blankly. “But—look here, Bob! Do you mean 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 I copy ‘em out plain for her, so as folks won’t know her handwrite? Go ‘way! you’re loony!” Then, possibly doubting if this latter expression were strictly diplomatic with the business in hand, he added, in half-reproach, half-apology, “Don’t ye see I don’t want ye to be fooled into losin’ yer chance o’ buying up that Summit wood? It’s the cold truth I’m 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 wood—her 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. “Ye’d better 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 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.

“I’d 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, “I’ll take them; and as 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 strong local color and individuality, had been an unexpected outburst of human passion—a 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 sibyl’s 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 in—in—that woman—I mean in—your pilgrimage, Jack?”

“No,” responded Jack, gravely. “But it’s easy to see she’s got hold of some hay-footed fellow up there in the mountains with straws in his hair, and is playing him for all he’s worth. You won’t 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 couldn’t 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 I’ve known the lady ever since, and am now visiting her at her house on the Summit, I reckon it don’t make much matter.”

It was quite characteristic of Mr. Bowers’s 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 I’m very anxious to know how she looks. Tell me, what is she like?”

“She is a fine, pow’ful, eddicated woman,” said Mr. Bowers, with slow deliberation. “Yes, sir,—a pow’ful 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 looks—LIKE—IT! 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?”

“Not very. What can I do for you?”

“Well, not much for ME, I reckon,” he returned, with a deeper respiration, that was his nearest approach to a sigh, “but suthin’ perhaps for yourself and—another. Are you married?”

“No,” said the editor, promptly.

“Nor engaged to any—young lady?”—with great politeness.

“No.”

“Well, mebbe you think it a queer thing for me to say,—mebbe you reckon you KNOW it ez well ez anybody,—but it’s my opinion that White Violet is in love with you.”

“With me?” ejaculated the editor, in a hopeless astonishment that at last gave way to an incredulous and irresistible laugh.

A slight touch of pain passed over Mr. Bowers’s dejected face, but left the deep outlines set with a rude dignity. “It’s SO,” he said, slowly, “though, as a young man and a gay feller, ye may think it’s funny.”

“No, not funny, but a terrible blunder, Mr. Bowers, for I give you my word I know nothing of the lady and have never set eyes upon her.”

“No, but she has on YOU. I can’t say,” continued Mr. Bowers, with sublime naivete, “that I’d ever recognize you from her description, but a woman o’ that kind don’t see with her eyes like you and me, but with all her senses to onct, and a heap more that ain’t senses as we know ‘em. The same eyes that seed down through the brush and 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 house—her 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 her—mebbe 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 boy—hold 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 figgers—hold 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?”