A Sappho of Green Springs

“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 He had withdrawn his eyes from the editor, and apparently addressed the ceiling in confidence.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?”

“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 wanted—and what, po’try or no po’try, I’ve bin tryin’ to give her—was 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’try—and that’s Rest!”

THE CHATELAINE OF BURNT RIDGE

CHAPTER I

It had grown dark on Burnt Ridge. Seen from below, the whole serrated crest that had glittered in the sunset as if its interstices were eaten by consuming fires, now, closed up its ranks of blackened shafts and became again harsh and sombre chevaux de frise against the sky. A faint glow still lingered over the red valley road, as if it were its own reflection, rather than any light from beyond the darkened ridge. Night was already creeping up out of remote canyons and along the furrowed flanks of the mountain, or settling on the nearer woods with the sound of home-coming and innumerable wings. At a point where the road began to encroach upon the mountain-side in its slow winding ascent the darkness had become so real that a young girl cantering along the rising terrace found difficulty in guiding her horse, with eyes still dazzled by the sunset fires.

In spite of her precautions, the animal suddenly shied at some object in the obscured roadway, and nearly unseated her. The accident disclosed not only the fact that she was riding in a man’s saddle, but also a foot and ankle that her ordinary walking-dress was too short to hide. It was evident that her equestrian exercise was extempore, and that at that hour and on that road she had not expected to meet company. But she was apparently a good horsewoman, for the mischance which might have thrown a less practical or more timid rider seemed of little moment to her. With a strong hand and determined gesture she wheeled her frightened horse back into the track, and rode him directly at the object. But here she herself slightly recoiled, for it was the body of a man lying in the road.

As she leaned forward over her horse’s shoulder, she could see by the dim light that he was a miner, and that, though motionless, he was breathing stertorously. Drunk, no doubt!—an accident of the locality alarming only to her horse. But although she cantered impatiently forward, she had not proceeded a hundred yards before she stopped reflectively, and trotted back again. He had not moved. She could now see that his head and shoulders were covered with broken clods of earth and gravel, and smaller fragments lay at his side. A dozen feet above him on the hillside there was a foot trail which ran parallel with the bridle-road, and occasionally overhung it. It seemed possible that he might have fallen from the trail and been stunned.

Dismounting, she succeeded in dragging him to a safer position by the bank. The act discovered his face, which was young, and unknown to her. Wiping it with the silk handkerchief which was loosely slung around his neck after the fashion of his class, she gave a quick feminine glance around her and then approached her own and rather handsome face near his lips. There was no odor of alcohol in the thick and heavy respiration. Mounting again, she rode forward at an accelerated pace, and in twenty minutes had reached a higher tableland of the mountain, a cleared opening in the forest that showed signs of careful cultivation, and a large, rambling, yet picturesque-looking dwelling, whose unpainted red-wood walls were hidden in roses and creepers. Pushing open a swinging gate, she entered the inclosure as a brown-faced man, dressed as a vaquero, came towards her as if to assist her to alight. But she had already leaped to the ground and thrown him the reins.

“Miguel,” she said, with a mistress’s quiet authority in her boyish contralto voice, “put Glory in the covered wagon, and drive down the road as far as the valley turning. There’s a man lying near the right bank, drunk, or sick, may be, or perhaps crippled by a fall. Bring him up here, unless somebody has found him already, or you happen to know who he is and where to take him.”

The vaquero raised his shoulders, half in disappointed expectation of some other command. “And your brother, senora, he has not himself arrived.”

A light shadow of impatience crossed her face. “No,” she said, bluntly. “Come, be quick.”

She turned towards the house as the man moved away. Already a gaunt-looking old man had appeared in the porch, and was awaiting her with his hand shadowing his angry, suspicious eyes, and his lips moving querulously.

“Of course, you’ve got to stand out there and give orders and ‘tend to your own business afore you think o’ speaking to your own flesh and blood,” he said aggrievedly. “That’s all YOU care!”

“There was a sick man lying in the road, and I’ve sent Miguel to look after him,” returned the girl, with a certain contemptuous resignation.

“Oh, yes!” struck in another voice, which seemed to belong to the female of the first speaker’s species, and to be its equal in age and temper, “and I reckon you saw a jay bird on a tree, or a squirrel on the fence, and either of ‘em was more important to you than your own brother.”

“Steve didn’t come by the stage, and didn’t send any message,” continued the young girl, with the same coldly resigned manner. “No one had any news of him, and, as I told you before, I didn’t expect any.”

“Why don’t you say right out you didn’t WANT any?” said the old man, sneeringly. “Much you inquired! No; I orter hev gone myself, and I would if I was master here, instead of me and your mother bein’ the dust of the yearth beneath your feet.”

The young girl entered the house, followed by the old man, passing an old woman seated by the window, who seemed to be nursing her resentment and a large Bible which she held clasped against her shawled bosom at the same moment. Going to the wall, she hung up her large hat and slightly shook the red dust from her skirts as she continued her explanation, in the same deep voice, with a certain monotony of logic and possibly of purpose and practice also.

“You and mother know as well as I do, father, that Stephen is no more to be depended upon than the wind that blows. It’s three years since he has been promising to come, and even getting money to come, and yet he has never showed his face, though he has been a dozen times within five miles of this house. He doesn’t come because he doesn’t want to come. As to YOUR going over to the stage-office, I went there myself at the last moment to save you the mortification of asking questions of strangers that they know have been a dozen times answered already.”

There was such a ring of absolute truthfulness, albeit worn by repetition, in the young girl’s deep honest voice that for one instant her two more emotional relatives quailed before it; but only for a moment.

“That’s right!” shrilled the old woman. “Go on and abuse your own brother. It’s only the fear you have that he’ll make his fortune yet and shame you before the father and mother you despise.”

The young girl remained standing by the window, motionless and apparently passive, as if receiving an accepted and usual punishment. But here the elder woman gave way to sobs and some incoherent snuffling, at which the younger went away. Whether she recognized in her mother’s tears the ordinary deliquescence of emotion, or whether, as a woman herself, she knew that this mere feminine conventionality could not possibly be directed at her, and that the actual conflict between them had ceased, she passed slowly on to an inner hall, leaving the male victim, her unfortunate father, to succumb, as he always did sooner or later, to their influence. Crossing the hall, which was decorated with a few elk horns, Indian trophies, and mountain pelts, she entered another room, and closed the door behind her with a gesture of relief.

The room, which looked upon a porch, presented a singular combination of masculine business occupations and feminine taste and adornment. A desk covered with papers, a shelf displaying a ledger and account-books, another containing works of reference, a table with a vase of flowers and a lady’s riding-whip upon it, a map of California flanked on either side by an embroidered silken workbag and an oval mirror decked with grasses, a calendar and interest-table hanging below two school-girl crayons of classic heads with the legend, “Josephine Forsyth fecit,”—were part of its incongruous accessories. The young girl went to her desk, but presently moved and turned towards the window thoughtfully. The last gleam had died from the steel-blue sky; a few lights like star points began to prick out the lower valley. The expression of monotonous restraint and endurance had not yet faded from her face.

Yet she had been accustomed to scenes like the one she had just passed though since her girlhood. Five years ago, Alexander Forsyth, her uncle, had brought her to this spot—then a mere log cabin on the hillside—as a refuge from the impoverished and shiftless home of his elder brother Thomas and his ill-tempered wife. Here Alexander Forsyth, by reason of his more dominant character and business capacity, had prospered until he became a rich and influential ranch owner. Notwithstanding her father’s jealousy of Alexander’s fortune, and the open rupture that followed between the brothers, Josephine retained her position in the heart and home of her uncle without espousing the cause of either; and her father was too prudent not to recognize the near and prospective advantages of such a mediator. Accustomed to her parents’ extravagant denunciations, and her uncle’s more repressed but practical contempt of them, the unfortunate girl early developed a cynical disbelief in the virtues of kinship in the abstract, and a philosophical resignation to its effects upon her personally. Believing that her father and uncle fairly represented the fraternal principle, she was quite prepared for the early defection and distrust of her vagabond and dissipated brother Stephen, and accepted it calmly. True to an odd standard of justice, which she had erected from the crumbling ruins of her own domestic life, she was tolerant of everything but human perfection. This quality, however fatal to her higher growth, had given her a peculiar capacity for business which endeared her to her uncle. Familiar with the strong passions and prejudices of men, she had none of those feminine meannesses, a wholesome distrust of which had kept her uncle a bachelor. It was not strange, therefore, that when he died two years ago it was found that he had left her his entire property, real and personal, limited only by a single condition. She was to undertake the vocation of a “sole trader,” and carry on the business under the name of “J. Forsyth.” If she married, the estate and property was to be held distinct from her husband’s, inalienable under the “Married Woman’s Property Act,” and subject during her life only to her own control and personal responsibilities as a trader.

The intense disgust and discomfiture of her parents, who had expected to more actively participate in their brother’s fortune, may be imagined. But it was not equal to their fury when Josephine, instead of providing for them a separate maintenance out of her abundance, simply offered to transfer them and her brother to her own house on a domestic but not a business equality. There being no alternative but their former precarious shiftless life in their “played-out” claim in the valley, they wisely consented, reserving the sacred right of daily protest and objurgation. In the economy of Burnt Ridge Ranch they alone took it upon themselves to represent the shattered domestic altar and its outraged Lares and Penates. And so conscientiously did they perform their task as even occasionally to impede the business visitor to the ranch, and to cause some of the more practical neighbors seriously to doubt the young girl’s commercial wisdom. But she was firm. Whether she thought her parents a necessity of respectable domesticity, or whether she regarded their presence in the light of a penitential atonement for some previous disregard of them, no one knew. Public opinion inclined to the latter.

The black line of ridge faded out with her abstraction, and she turned from the window and lit the lamp on her desk. The yellow light illuminated her face and figure. In their womanly graces there was no trace of what some people believed to be a masculine character, except a singularly frank look of critical inquiry and patient attention in her dark eyes. Her long brown hair was somewhat rigidly twisted into a knot on the top of her head, as if more for security than ornament. Brown was also the prevailing tint of her eyebrows, thickly-set eyelashes, and eyes, and was even suggested in the slight sallowness of her complexion. But her lips were well-cut and fresh-colored and her hands and feet small and finely formed. She would have passed for a pretty girl, had she not suggested something more.

She sat down, and began to examine a pile of papers before her with that concentration and attention to detail which was characteristic of her eyes, pausing at times with prettily knit brows, and her penholder between her lips, in the semblance of a pout that was pleasant enough to see. Suddenly the rattle of hoofs and wheels struck her with the sense of something forgotten, and she put down her work quickly and stood up listening. The sound of rough voices and her father’s querulous accents was broken upon by a cultivated and more familiar utterance: “All right; I’ll speak to her at once. Wait there,” and the door opened to the well-known physician of Burnt Ridge, Dr. Duchesne.

“Look here,” he said, with an abruptness that was only saved from being brusque by a softer intonation and a reassuring smile, “I met Miguel helping an accident into your buggy. Your orders, eh?”

“Oh, yes,” said Josephine, quietly. “A man I saw on the road.”

“Well, it’s a bad case, and wants prompt attention. And as your house is the nearest I came with him here.”

“Certainly,” she said gravely. “Take him to the second room beyond—Steve’s room—it’s ready,” she explained to two dusky shadows in the hall behind the doctor.

“And look here,” said the doctor, partly closing the door behind him and regarding her with critical eyes, “you always said you’d like to see some of my queer cases. Well, this is one—a serious one, too; in fact, it’s just touch and go with him. There’s a piece of the bone pressing on the brain no bigger than that, but as much as if all Burnt Ridge was atop of him! I’m going to lift it. I want somebody here to stand by, some one who can lend a hand with a sponge, eh?—some one who isn’t going to faint or scream, or even shake a hair’s-breadth, eh?”