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HE [63] next morning Vance was rather late in rising. Soon after he had
taken his seat at the breakfast table, he was joined by an individual
small in stature but tastily dressed. His eyes were restless, and he
seemed on the point of making an observation several times before he
finally did so.
“Very pleasant morning,” said he, looking up at
Vance and then hastily glancing at the sunshine that streamed in at the
window.
“Yes, delightful,” was Vance’s reply.
Presently the stranger observed: “Sunny days are the rule, cloudy days
the exception, at Waterville. At least that’s my experience during a
year’s sojourn among the good people of this village.” There was
a quaking sound in the fellow’s voice that attracted Vance’s
attention, because it was different from others more than because there
was anything charming about it. Vance wondered if this individual was
not also in the real estate business. It seemed as if every one with
whom you come in contact was a real estate agent. He was on the point
of asking him what line of business he [64] was engaged in, when the
fellow, looking up from his plate, said, “Real estate is my line.
My office is just across the street; you can see my sign from the
window.” Looking out at the window, Vance saw a large real estate
sign, with gold letters on a black back-ground, bearing the name of
“J. Arthur Boast.”
“You are Mr. Boast, I presume,” said Vance, turning from the window.
“J. Arthur Boast, at your service.”
Half an hour later Vance Gilder was seated in the real estate office of
J. Arthur Boast, looking over his special bargain list; not with a view
of buying, but rather to gain information.
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Boast talked a great deal, and in his fawning, insinuating manner,
advised Vance, without saying so in so many words, to keep his eyes open
when dealing with the Town Company. After Vance had carefully scanned
his list of town lots, he was better satisfied than ever with his
purchases.
Taking a bottle from his desk, Boast held it up toward the sunlight, and
asked Vance if he would have some “red liquor.” Vance declined with
thanks. Boast walked back and forth with the bottle in his hand, and in
a quaking voice, meant to be confidential, told Vance that he had got
to quit drinking; that red liquor was getting an awful hold on him.
He seemed to be desirous of giving the impression that he was a hard
drinker. Finally he poured out some of the contents of the bottle into
a glass, and drank it down at one swallow. Afterwards he seemed quite
wretched and his eyes were filled [65] with tears. Vance concluded,
notwithstanding all he had said against himself, that J. Arthur Boast
was not a drinking man.
“That liquor is all right,” said Boast; “a very superior article,
but it is a little early in the day for me to commence. It always half
strangles me in the morning.”
As Vance was seeking information from which he could draw his own
conclusions, he gave Boast all the opportunities possible to express
himself in regard to Waterville and its people.
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The fellow said nothing positive, yet there was an evil vein of
insinuation in all that he did say not only in regard to the Waterville
Town Company and every other real estate agent, but also against
everybody in the town generally. Vance very much disliked the fellow,
and afterwards learned that he was universally disliked and shunned by
everyone in Waterville.
Instead of returning to Butte City with Winthrop that afternoon, Vance
remained in Waterville, and arranged to take the early stage next
morning for Gold Bluff, which was located some sixty miles northwest of
Waterville, in the Fish River Mining District. He arrived in that Idaho
mining town late the following night, registered at the Bluff House, and
after a late supper retired to his room for a much needed rest.
The next morning he found, on inquiry, that Ben Bonifield’s mine was
located about half a mile from town upon the mountain side, and he at
once started out in [66] that direction, to see how the work on the
shaft, bound for the 300 foot level, was progressing.
The town of Gold Bluff was cozily nestled in a little valley, with
abrupt mountains lowering away to the sky on either side of it. The
mountains were covered with spruce and pine and mountain poplars up to
the snow line, above which the barren rocks rose majestically towards
the heavens. A refreshing stream meandered its course through the town,
on one side of which were stores and shops, and on the other residences.
Vance noticed that some of them were of modern architecture and neatly
painted, while others were primitive in the extreme—relics of early
mining; days. The town was rather quaint and picturesque, and made more
so by a profusion of shade trees.
“Good morning,” [67] said Vance, as he came up to Ben Bonifield,
who, in miner’s costume, was working vigorously away at the frame-work
of the shaft over Gray Rocks. The old man looked up with an astonished
air, and said:
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“Good mawnin’, suh.” Then, recognizing his visitor, he threw down
his hammer and gave Vance’s hand such a squeeze in his powerful grasp
that it almost made him cry out with pain.
“Why, suh,” cried the old miner, “I am almost pa’alyzed to see
yo’. I am indeed, suh. Mr. Gilder, I welcome yo’ suh, to Gold Bluff
and to Gray Rocks. Here, suh, are our possessions,” waving his hand
toward the shaft. “Immediately upon my return from the city, Mr.
Gilder, we commenced work in earnest, suh, and befo’ many weeks, I
am proud to say, suh, we will reach the 300 foot level and be ready to
cross-cut into the vein, suh. Yo’ don’t know,” said the old miner,
again taking Vance’s hand, “how proud I am—yes, proud, suh, proud
to be honored with a visit from yo’, I very much desire that yo’
pu’son’lly inspect the mine; and there is no better time than the
present.”
Vance entered heartily into the tour of inspection, and at the old
miner’s invitation, went down in the bucket, where the miners were at
work. The old gentleman kept him there until he had explained everything
to the minutest detail, and when Vance at last reached the top of the
shaft he felt he had a far better idea of sinking shafts on mines than
ever before.
“Come,” said the old miner, “my Louise will be most delighted
to see yo’, suh; she will indeed.” Then turning, he gave some
instruction to his foreman, telling him he would not return that
afternoon, and together the old gentleman and Vance walked down the
mountain side to the village of Gold bluff.
The old miner’s residence was a modest one, situated well back from
the street, near some huge boulders—a natural pyramid of rocks, while
a beautiful little spring of water flowed from near its base. There was
a very pretty yard in front, filled with growing evergreens and mountain
ash.
“I planted these trees myself, suh,” said the old miner, “years
ago. They remind me of my old Virginia home. I was the fust one to set
out shade trees in Gold Bluff; yes, still, the fust one.”
As Vance entered the yard, he paused a moment to contemplate the beauty
and home-like appearance of the [68] yard, and Ben Bonifield’s home,
with its wide porches in front literally covered with honeysuckles, ivy,
and vining roses.
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Vance found Louise dressed as a mountain maid, instead of the
fashionable young lady who had called on him in his New York home. She
was not such a woman as poets rave about, and yet, withal, there was a
grace—a charm—about her, that commanded admiration. Her hair, in
the sunlight, was like one beautiful sheen of gold, [69] with little
ringlets here and there; her complexion was pink and white, and when
under deep excitement a ruddy glow would mantle her cheeks. Her nose,
while well formed, neither large nor small, was quite ordinary. Her
mouth was a perfect Cupid’s bow, with lips like two red cherries. As
Vance conversed with her that afternoon, he forgot the hair, forgot the
delicately formed, rosy lips, forgot even the glow of pink which came
and went over her fair cheeks, in looking into her talking eyes—so
clear, so blue, and yet to trustful; even forgot the long brown lashes
that fringed them with gentle protection. Her eyes were the crowning
feature of her expressive face, which may not have been a beautiful
one in the parlance of fashion, yet it was one that a student of
human nature would term a face of intelligence; and after all, to the
cultured, is there aught more beautiful?
As Vance sat with the old miner and his daughter on the porch of their
cozy dwelling that afternoon, he forgot time. The sun went down behind
the western mountains, leaving the beauty of an afterglow reflected on
the waters of the mountain brooklet. The moon that was climbing up over
the eastern hills threw its rays aslant through the clinging roses that
grew in profusion about the porch. A feeling of peace, and possibly
a dangerous contentment, stole into his heart, and he murmured a
thanksgiving to the fates. The unseen, potent force that binds us
all, sooner or later, with a silken cord, was thonging him to a future
destiny.