Jack!
Fred!
The two men remained gazing at each other with a half-amused, half-guarded expression. Mr. Hamlin was first to begin. I didnt think YOUD be such a fool as to try on this kind of thing, Fred, he said, half seriously.
Yes, but it was to keep you from being a much bigger one that I hunted you up, said the editor, mischievously. Read that. I got it an hour after you left. And he placed a little triumphantly in Jacks hand the letter he had received from White Violet.
Mr. Hamlin read it with an unmoved face, and then laid his two hands on the editors shoulders. Yes, my young friend, and you sat down and wrote her a pretty letter and sent her twenty dollarswhich, permit me to say, was dd poor pay! But that isnt your fault, I reckon: its the meanness of your proprietors.
But it isnt the question, either, just now, Jack, however you have been able to answer it. Do you mean to say seriously that you want to know anything more of a woman who could write such a letter?
I dont know, said Jack, cheerfully. She might be a devilish sight funnier than if she hadnt written itwhich is the fact.
You mean to say SHE didnt write it?
Yes.
Who did, then?
Her brother Bob.
After a moments scrutiny of his friends bewildered face, Mr. Hamlin briefly related his adventures, from the moment of his meeting Bob at the mountain-stream to the barkeepers gossiping comment and sequel. Therefore, he concluded, the author of Underbrush is Miss Cynthia Delatour, one of four daughters of a widow who lives two miles from here at the crossing. I shall see her this evening and make sure; but to-morrow morning you will pay me the breakfast you owe me. Shes good-looking, but I cant say I fancy the poetic style: its a little too high-toned for me. However, I love my love with a C, because she is your Contributor; I hate her with a C, because of her Connections; I met her by Chance and treated her with Civility; her name is Cynthia, and she lives on a Cross-road.
But you surely dont expect you will ever see Bob, again! said the editor, impatiently. You have trusted him with enough to start him for the Sandwich Islands, to say nothing of the ruinous precedent you have established in his mind of the value of poetry. I am surprised that a man of your knowledge of the world would have faith in that imp the second time.
My knowledge of the world, returned Mr. Hamlin, sententiously, tells me thats the only way you can trust anybody. ONCE doesnt make a habit, nor show a character. I could see by his bungling that he had never tried this on before. Just now the temptation to wipe out his punishment by doing the square thing, and coming back a sort of hero, is stronger than any other. Tisnt everybody that gets that chance, he added, with an odd laugh.
Nevertheless, three hours passed without bringing Bob. The two men had gone to the billiard-room, when a waiter brought a note, which he handed to Mr. Hamlin with some apologetic hesitation. It bore no superscription, but had been brought by a boy who described Mr. Hamlin perfectly, and requested that the note should be handed to him with the remark that Bob had come back.
And is he there now? asked Mr. Hamlin, holding the letter unopened in his hand.
No, sir; he run right off.
The editor laughed, but Mr. Hamlin, having perused the note, put away his cue. Come into my room, he said.
The editor followed, and Mr. Hamlin laid the note before him on the table. Bobs all right, he said, for Ill bet a thousand dollars that note is genuine.
It was delicately written, in a cultivated feminine hand, utterly unlike the scrawl that had first excited the editors curiosity, and ran as follows:
He who brought me the bounty of your friendfor I cannot call a recompense so far above my deserts by any other namegives me also to understand that you wished for an interview. I cannot believe that this is mere idle curiosity, or that you have any motive that is not kindly and honorable, but I feel that I must beg and pray you not to seek to remove the veil behind which I have chosen to hide myself and my poor efforts from identification. I THINK I know youI KNOW I know myselfwell enough to believe it would give neither of us any happiness. You will say to your generous friend that he has already given the Unknown more comfort and hope than could come from any personal compliment or publicity, and you will yourself believe that you have all unconsciously brightened a sad womans fancy with a Dream and a Vision that before today had been unknown to WHITE VIOLET.
Have you read it? asked Mr. Hamlin.
Yes.
Then you dont want to see it any more, or even remember you ever saw it, said Mr. Hamlin, carefully tearing the note into small pieces and letting them drift from the windows like blown blossoms.
But, I say, Jack! look here; I dont understand! You say you have already seen this woman, and yet
I HAVENT seen her, said Jack, composedly, turning from the window.
What do you mean?
I mean that you and I, Fred, are going to drop this fooling right here and leave this place for Frisco by first stage to-morrow, andthat I owe you that dinner.
CHAPTER IV
When the stage for San Francisco rolled away the next morning with Mr. Hamlin and the editor, the latter might have recognized in the occupant of a dust-covered buggy that was coming leisurely towards them the tall figure, long beard, and straight duster of his late visitor, Mr. James Bowers. For Mr. Bowers was on the same quest that the others had just abandoned. Like Mr. Hamlin, he had been left to his own resources, but Mr. Bowerss resources were a life-long experience and technical skill; he too had noted the topographical indications of the poem, and his knowledge of the sylva of Upper California pointed as unerringly as Mr. Hamlins luck to the cryptogamous haunts of the Summit. Such abnormal growths were indicative of certain localities only, but, as they were not remunerative from a pecuniary point of view, were to be avoided by the sagacious woodman. It was clear, therefore, that Mr. Bowerss visit to Green Springs was not professional, and that he did not even figuratively accept the omen.
He baited and rested his horse at the hotel, where his bucolic exterior, however, did not elicit that attention which had been accorded to Mr. Hamlins charming insolence or the editors cultivated manner. But he glanced over a township map on the walls of the reading-room, and took note of the names of the owners of different lots, farms, and ranches, passing that of Delatour with the others. Then he drove leisurely in the direction of the woods, and, reaching them, tied his horse to a young sapling in the shade, and entered their domain with a shambling but familiar woodmans step.
It is not the purpose of this brief chronicle to follow Mr. Bowers in his professional diagnosis of the locality. He recognized Nature in one of her moods of wasteful extravagance,a waste that his experienced eye could tell was also sapping the vitality of those outwardly robust shafts that rose around him. He knew, without testing them, that half of these fair-seeming columns were hollow and rotten at the core; he could detect the chill odor of decay through the hot balsamic spices stirred by the wind that streamed through their long aisles,like incense mingling with the exhalations of a crypt. He stopped now and then to part the heavy fronds down to their roots in the dank moss, seeing again, as he had told the editor, the weird SECOND twilight through their miniature stems, and the microcosm of life that filled it. But, even while paying this tribute to the accuracy of the unknown poetess, he was, like his predecessor, haunted more strongly by the atmosphere and melody of her verse. Its spell was upon him, too. Unlike Mr. Hamlin, he did not sing. He only halted once or twice, silently combing his straight narrow beard with his three fingers, until the action seemed to draw down the lines of his face into limitless dejection, and an inscrutable melancholy filled his small gray eyes. The few birds which had hailed Mr. Hamlin as their successful rival fled away before the grotesque and angular half-length of Mr. Bowers, as if the wind had blown in a scarecrow from the distant farms.