The San Rosario Ranch
the state of mind into which Millicent was thrown by the article in the
San Francisco "Roarer," was entirely surprising. It was without doubt
annoying, but they had both become so accustomed to seeing their own
names and those of their friends in the columns of the daily journals,
that Millicent's horror and indignation seemed disproportionate to the
cause. This utter disrespect of the privacy of life which is the right
of all men and women leading peaceable lives, breaking no law of the
civil or social statutes, is the crying sin of modern journalism. When
they are charged with this, the journals very tritely retort that
"social news" pays better than any other class of matter; that its
insertion is more often prized and sought after by the individuals
mentioned than resented by them; that much of the personal news is
actually furnished by the individuals whom it most concerns; and that
they but supply the demand of their readers. It would be well for them
to remember that to pander to the public taste is not the highest object
open to journalism; to elevate that taste were a task more deserving of
commendation, and less unworthy of good printer's ink and paper.
The next mail brought two letters for Millicent; one from a well-known
photographer asking her for an early sitting, and begging that he might
have the sole privilege of photographing her. The other communication
was a civil letter from the editor of a weekly journal, asking for a
slight autobiographical sketch from the hand of the heroine of San Real.
In the course of the morning a reporter from the California "Bugle," a
rival sheet, arrived and requested an interview with Miss Almsford and
Mr. Graham, from which to compile an article on "The Rescuer and the
Rescued." Millicent's eyes flashed angrily when the import of the small
printed visiting-card bearing the name of this nineteenth-century
inquisitor was explained to her. She was heard to murmur, beneath her
breath, some Italian words highly inimical to the smart young person who
was taking the opportunity to examine Mrs. Shallop's drawing-room with
an eye to future "notes." She was astonished when Graham quietly
lighted a cigarette, and asking that the gentleman might be shown into
the smoking-room, joined him there.
"Why does he not beat him?" she cried. "If I were a man I should thrust
him from the house."
"And be held up to the public as a brutal assassin?" laughed Barbara.
"No, no, my dear, let Mr. Graham alone; he knows best how to manage the
visitor. It never does to insult those gentlemen; they are dangerous
enemies, and have the public's ear into which to pour all their
grievances. Our friend will draw the fire on himself, I fancy, in order
to spare you. News the news-fiend must have; he will make it himself if
it be not provided for him. Poor thing! he must live, after all, as
well as you or I. It is not his fault that he is obliged to interview
people; it must be a very disagreeable profession."
Thus kindly and with wide sympathy did Barbara Deering judge all men and
women; ay, and reporters too, together with babies, Chinamen, and other
unfortunate works of God. Graham returned in a quarter of an hour,
having appeased his visitor with the aid of a good cigar and a champagne
cocktail, compounded by the careful hand of the solemn-faced butler.
Millicent was still flushed and excited, all Barbara's arguments having
failed to soothe her nerves. Graham, with one sentence, banished the
angry dint from her white forehead and brought a smile back to her face.
The hour of the last good-bys had arrived; and the guests took leave of
their kind hostess, with promises to repeat their visit before long.
Little Mrs. Shallop really cried at parting with Millicent, to whom she
had become greatly attached. She sighed as the carriage disappeared
from view, bearing its freight of young people with their vivid lives
and strong interests. When she went back to her great lonely
drawing-room, with its splendid furnishings, she realized what a fitting
frame it had made for the two pretty young guests, and how unsuitable it
was to her simple tastes. The house was dreary without their joyous
voices and quick footsteps.
Just after sundown the travellers reached the San Rosario station, where
Hal was awaiting them in the great red-painted wagon. The two sturdy
mules were supplemented by old Sphinx harnessed before them, making what
is known as a spiked team.
"Hail! the conquering Heroine comes! sound the trumpets, beat the
drums!" cried the irrepressible young rancher. "How is our most heroic
Princess, and will she deign to enter the triumphal car which her humble
slave has prepared for her?"
They all laughed; but, through all the lively nonsense which he reeled
off to them on the way to the house, Millicent felt that he had been
really moved by what had occurred. The grip which he gave her hand
spoke a volume of approval; and the loud clap on the shoulder with which
he greeted Graham expressed more than a dozen sentences of rhetorical
eloquence could have done. The antics of the unicorn team were
extremely diverting; and these, with the absurdities which Hal
perpetrated at every step of the road, brought the quartette to the
house door "in a state of merriment bordering on idiocy," as he
expressed it. Mrs. Deering, with her sweet motherly greeting, made
their return seem a home-coming to Millicent and Graham, as well as to
Barbara, the tall daughter of the house. Her hospitality was so
genuinely of the heart that the recipient of it was made to feel that it
was simply his due, and that his presence was as great a favor to the
hostess as her kindness was to him.
Graham was warmly urged to stay over night, but he resisted the
temptation of remaining. Neither Millicent's voice nor Millicent's eyes
had supplemented the invitation.
As they paced the path together, her hand lying on his arm, Graham told
Mrs. Deering, in a low voice, of all that had happened since their
departure,--of the pleasant days with their excursions; of the new
impressions made on Millicent by all that she saw; of the friends whom
he had met, remembering all the kind messages which had been sent to the
gentle _chatelaine_ of San Rosario; of Barbara's sweetness and Mrs.
Shallop's hospitality; of the progress he had made on the portrait of
his hostess; of the thousand-and-one little items of news so welcome to
people leading a life of quiet isolation. Then in graver tones he spoke
of his great peril and Millicent's bravery, of the strange thoughts
which had crossed his mind in that last moment of consciousness, how her
face as well as his mother's had been revealed to him as in a vision.
All this was listened to with that perfect sympathy that is always ready
to receive confidences, and which forbears to claim them when they are
not spontaneously given. Blessed among women are these rare ones to
whom motherless sons can confide every hope and disappointment, sure of
a quick sympathy, and in whom the mighty instinct of maternity is not
satisfied in ministering to their own flesh and blood, but springs forth
to succor all who are suffering for the gentle mother love.
It was late when these two said good-night, and Graham went to find the
others to take farewell. Barbara and Hal were singing duets. They had
neither of them seen Millicent, and fancied that she must have gone to
her room. With a sense of cold disappointment and injury the young man
left the house. As he passed by the corner of the piazza he fancied he
saw a figure standing close in the shadow of an angle. He stopped; the
figure remained motionless; through the heavy drapery of the vines he
could not tell whether it was a person or merely a shadow.
"Who is it?" he asked in a low voice. No answer came, but through the
stillness of the night he thought he heard the sound of a quick-drawn
breath. Putting the honeysuckle aside he stepped on the piazza, and
found that his eyes had not deceived him. Millicent stood beneath the
rose vines. When she saw that she was discovered she spoke with a light
laugh:
"I did not want you to see me, for I have been unsociable this evening,
and hoped you would all think I had gone to bed."
"Is it not damp for you to be sitting out-of-doors?" he asked, with a
voice grown deep and tender.
"Oh, no! I am quite used to it. What a wonderful night! I think I
never saw the stars so brilliant."
The girl seated herself on the edge of the piazza, Graham placing a
cushion under her feet and taking his place at her side. It was a
perfectly still evening, the only sound being the far-away tinkle of a
sheep bell. There was a moment of dangerous silence, which Millicent
broke a little nervously, speaking of Italy, of Mrs. Shallop and their
late visit, of Hal's irresistible wit, of any one of the subjects which
danced through her brain. She was afraid to be silent, and feared yet
longed for what might be said if she left too long a pause. The spell
which kept Graham at her side when he should have been half way to his
lonely tower, began to assert itself over the woman, always the last to
yield. The man had long since abandoned himself to that mysterious
state of being in which every nerve of brain and every pulse of heart
yearns for sympathy and reaches out toward its counterpart. At last she
was silent, the last commonplace dying half spoken on her trembling
lips. Silence now in all the land; only the sound of heart-beats which
each felt must reach the other's ears. Stars more tender than those of
heaven shone close to Graham through the blue-black night; a breath
sweeter than the wind stirring the honeysuckle touched his cheek. At
length that silence, more musical than sweetest harmony, was broken by a
low, deep voice.
"May I kiss you?" said the voice.
What was the faint sound which the night wind wafted to his ear? Was it
the whirring of the humming birds whose nest hung close by? Was it the
far-off silver ripple of the brooklet, or the cadence of the distant
sheep-bell? Was it that sweeter sound than note of mating bird, of
falling water, or of faint bell-chime,--was it a loving woman's "Yes"?
CHAPTER VIII.
"Oui, les premiers baisers, oui, les premiers serments
Que deux etres mortels echangerent sur terre
Ce fut au pied d' un arbre effeuille par les vents,
Sur un roc en poussiere."
When he awoke the next morning, John Graham gave a deep sigh. His
dreams had been so sweet that no reality could equal their happiness.
As he sat on the edge of his narrow bed disentangling what was real from
what was dream-born in his thoughts, his eye fell upon the knot of roses
which he had taken from Millicent's hair the night before, and had
clasped to his lips as he fell asleep. They were faded now, but they
still gave out a strong perfume. His cheek had been wounded by a thorn,
but he kissed the wilted posies, for all that, placed the little bouquet
tenderly in an exquisite Venetian vase, and then bounded down the
stairway of his tower and across the narrow space which led to a clear
deep pool where a crystal stream fell in a white cataract to a rocky
basin. The foam-bubbles danced joyously in the clear dark waters, and
the plashing of the fall had a sound of a sweet deep voice which had
grown very dear to him. A mossy bank, shaded by two drooping trees,
sloped to the edge of this natural bath, refreshing enough to have
tempted Diana from the chase. As Graham plunged into the cool waters he
shouted out a verse of a song he had learned long ago. Attracted by the
sound of his voice, French John laid down his axe beside the young tree
he was about to fell, and came down to the pool where Graham was