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Page 53
Six weeks passed. The limit of Mr. Dimmidge's advertisement had
been reached, and, as it was not renewed, it had passed out of the
pages of the "Clarion," and with it the merchant's advertisement in
the next column. The excitement had subsided, although its
influence was still felt in the circulation of the paper and its
advertising popularity. The temporary editor was also nearing the
limit of his incumbency, but had so far participated in the good
fortune of the "Clarion" as to receive an offer from one of the San
Francisco dailies.
It was a warm night, and he was alone in his sanctum. The rest of
the building was dark and deserted, and his solitary light,
flashing out through the open window, fell upon the nearer pines
and was lost in the dark, indefinable slope below. He had reached
the sanctum by the rear, and a door which he also left open to
enjoy the freshness of the aromatic air. Nor did it in the least
mar his privacy. Rather the solitude of the great woods without
seemed to enter through that door and encompassed him with its
protecting loneliness. There was occasionally a faint "peep" in
the scant eaves, or a "pat-pat," ending in a frightened scurry
across the roof, or the slow flap of a heavy wing in the darkness
below. These gentle disturbances did not, however, interrupt his
work on "The True Functions of the County Newspaper," the editorial
on which he was engaged.
Presently a more distinct rustling against the straggling blackberry
bushes beside the door attracted his attention. It was followed by
a light tapping against the side of the house. The editor started
and turned quickly towards the open door. Two outside steps led to
the ground. Standing upon the lower one was a woman. The upper
part of her figure, illuminated by the light from the door, was
thrown into greater relief by the dark background of the pines. Her
face was unknown to him, but it was a pleasant one, marked by a
certain good-humored determination.
"May I come in?" she said confidently.
"Certainly," said the editor. "I am working here alone because it
is so quiet." He thought he would precipitate some explanation
from her by excusing himself.
"That's the reason why I came," she said, with a quiet smile.
She came up the next step and entered the room. She was plainly
but neatly dressed, and now that her figure was revealed he saw
that she was wearing a linsey-woolsey riding-skirt, and carried a
serviceable rawhide whip in her cotton-gauntleted hand. She took
the chair he offered her and sat down sideways on it, her whip hand
now also holding up her skirt, and permitting a hem of clean white
petticoat and a smart, well-shaped boot to be seen.
"I don't remember to have had the pleasure of seeing you in
Calaveras before," said the editor tentatively.
"No. I never was here before," she said composedly, "but you've
heard enough of me, I reckon. I'm Mrs. Dimmidge." She threw one
hand over the back of the chair, and with the other tapped her
riding-whip on the floor.
The editor started. Mrs. Dimmidge! Then she was not a myth. An
absurd similarity between her attitude with the whip and her
husband's entrance with his gun six weeks before forced itself upon
him and made her an invincible presence.
"Then you have returned to your husband?" he said hesitatingly.
"Not much!" she returned, with a slight curl of her lip.
"But you read his advertisement?"
"I saw that column of fool nonsense he put in your paper--ef that's
what you mean," she said with decision, "but I didn't come here to
see HIM--but YOU."
The editor looked at her with a forced smile, but a vague misgiving.
He was alone at night in a deserted part of the settlement, with a
plump, self-possessed woman who had a contralto voice, a horsewhip,
and--he could not help feeling--an evident grievance.
"To see me?" he repeated, with a faint attempt at gallantry. "You
are paying me a great compliment, but really"--
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