The San Rosario Ranch
rapidly, painlessly, achieving quick successes, sometimes making
brilliant failures. At other periods hyper-criticism of himself seemed
to weight his brush and dim his vision, to take the color from the warm
earth and tender sky; then the life-blood pulsed slowly through his
veins, and he forgot to sing.
Into the existence of this self-centred being, with its extremes of cold
and warmth, few personal influences had crept; and now, for the first
time in many years, he felt his life to have become entangled, for good
or ill, with that of another human creature. Since his first meeting
with Millicent, on that memorable night when he had found her the
central figure of a picture of warmth and comfort, his frozen existence
had been thawed and made happy by the subtle influence which she wielded
over him. Without reasoning with himself, he had yielded to the
pleasurable charm, only amazed, and perhaps a little glad, to find that
there was a woman who could rob him of his well-earned sleep, and dance
through his dreams at night with a wilful persistence. If he had been
obliged to characterize the influence which the girl held over him, he
would probably have said that she made his life vivid, and reminded him
that his nature was human and not mechanical. Day by day her presence
became more necessary to him; and his work was slighted, or hastily
performed, in order that he might be free the sooner to reach her side.
Without retrospection or introspection he had lived through the pleasant
days at San Real, when Millicent's heroic behavior had made him feel
doubly grateful to her: he now owed her his life, as well as the new
pleasure in that life. When the happy visit had come to an end, and he
had parted with her after the return to the Ranch, it had seemed as if
he could not leave her as a friend only. That one swift, silent embrace
had broken the peaceful contract of friendship; and he had sealed the
tumultuous untried bond of love upon her lips.
Since that white night with its unspoken protestation, Time seemed to
have taken unto himself new, strong wings, on which he bore the lovers
through the bright weeks of the spring-tide of love all too swiftly.
Few words of explanation had been necessary; each understood the other,
except when that chill, impalpable something seemed to come between them
like a cloud, as it had done in the first days of their acquaintance.
The one note which was never absolutely in tune in their love harmony,
at these times made a discord, and disagreements which grieved them both
sprang up between them; but these were rare, and the pale face of the
artist was less shadowy than in other days; while Millicent seemed
transformed from a statue to a living being, with a heart tender and
full of love towards all her kind. But her cheek grew less round than
it had been in the days before this new life was poured into her veins,
and long, sleepless vigils told upon her strength. She was happy with a
joy of which she had never before dreamed, and yet weary nights of
weeping traced dark circles about her eyes. What struggle could it be
that left her pale and broken, and drew pitiful sighs from her white
lips when she found herself between the four walls of her own room? One
word from Graham, the sound of his horse's hoofs as he drew near the
house, would banish the pained look, call back the color to the lips and
cheek, and give the old brightness to her deep eyes; but when he was
gone, the painful thoughts winged swiftly back to torture her.
To the sweet, open-hearted Barbara, Millicent's state of mind was
incomprehensible. The cool, indifferent, somewhat scornful girl had
been transformed into an excitable, impulsive creature, always in one of
the extremes of spirits, by turns gay with a gayety contagious,
irresistible, committing every sort of extravagance; and again serious
with a tragic sadness, more pathetic than the wildest weeping. Mrs.
Deering, with that sublime unconsciousness which sympathetic women know
how to assume at will, saw nothing.
The happy summer weeks slipped all too rapidly away, and the last days
of August were come. It was at this time that a long-planned excursion
took place, and the family of the San Rosario Ranch went to pass the day
with some friends who were camping out at a distance of fifteen miles
from the house. Ever since her arrival in California, Millicent had
heard of Maurice Galbraith, a friend of the family, whom a combination
of circumstances had prevented her from meeting. It was to his camp
that they were wending their way when Graham joined them on horseback,
as they drove down the shaded road which passes through the great grove
of redwoods, and leads to the dusty highway. Millicent was driving in
the light phaeton with young Deering; Barbara and her mother following
in the large wagon driven by Pedro, one of the Mexican helpers.
Crouching on the floor of the wagon behind the seats sat Ah Lam, with
his spotless linen and shining coppery countenance. He could not sit
beside the "Greaser," or Mexican, and this lowly place was allotted him.
His round, placid face, with its clear brown skin and oblique eyes, was
not an unpleasing one. His hands and arms were finely modelled, and his
sturdy figure was of a much more solid type than is usual with his race.
From his position it was possible for him to hold a parasol over Mrs.
Deering, which he did without varying the angle of the rather heavy
umbrella one degree during the whole long journey. He had been taught
that hardest of lessons for the Chinaman,--that obedience and respect to
the ladies of the family are even more necessary than submission to the
master. On his arrival at the Ranch he had coolly and placidly ignored
all orders given him by the female members of the household as unworthy
of notice. When he finally had learned the lesson that "Melican woman
boss too," he had never failed in respect to the ladies.
The drive was a beautiful one. The road led through deep valleys, still
wet with the night dew; sometimes it curled around the side of a
mountain which barred its progress, and again it plunged down to the
level of a swift stream. There was a certain spot where Millicent, who
was familiar with the first five miles of the route, always stopped for
a few moments. Sphinx had grown accustomed to bring his sleepy gait to
a standstill just at the brink of the bridge which spanned the rushing
forest river, grown boisterous at this place. All about the spot stood
the great hills, some green with the never-fading redwoods and madrone
trees, others, stripped by the woodman's craft, naked and unsightly.
Behind them stretched the hot, red high-road, with its group of humble
cabins. In front of one of these a group of strange, wolfish-looking
children had called a greeting to Pedro, the driver, who was of their
kin. The narrow, weather-beaten bridge, with its shaky wooden piers,
joined the highway over which they had come, to a forest road which hung
over the stream and skirted the mountain's base. The gray ruin of what
had once been a mill stood on the farther bank, with rusty, idle wheels
and empty grain-bins. There was a small islet in the stream, between
which and the near bank was a clear pool which reflected with perfect
distinctness the trees and rocks, the very ferns and marsh flowers of
the overhanging bank. Here the party paused for a few moments, enjoying
the familiar beauty of the scene.
"You will paint this place one day for me, will you not? I care very
much for it." Millicent was the speaker; and the artist close at her
side laughed and answered,--
"Your will, of course, is my law, lady; but when you can teach the bird
on yonder twig a new song, you can perhaps choose a spot where a painter
shall see a picture. Much that is beautiful in nature cannot be
portrayed in art."
For a moment longer they paused on the bank, little thinking how that
scene would be graven on their memories in after days; and then Hal
brandished his whip, and Sphinx started off at a brisk trot, the strong
mules following at the top of their speed, while Graham led the way on
his fleet mustang. It was not far from high noon when the party arrived
at the place of destination, recognized by a flag floating above the low
underbrush at the foot of a hill. In reply to Hal's lusty hallooing, a
young man emerged from the other side of the hill, and waving his hat in
greeting, hurried to help Mrs. Deering descend from the wagon.
"How late you are, good people!" he cried in a pleasant voice. "The
fellows thought you were going to disappoint us; but I had too much
faith in your word, Mrs. Deering, to doubt you. Miss Deering, you were
too quick for me; your agility is only excelled by your grace. Well,
Graham, glad to see you; for once you are better than your word."
The young men shook hands with that punctilious politeness which
gentlemen who do not quite like each other are apt to show in the
presence of mutual lady friends. Deering presented their host to Miss
Almsford, and at that moment the other two woodmen made their
appearance,--Michael O'Neil, a jolly-looking young Irishman, and Dick
Hartley, a dark-browed Englishman. The three men were intimates at the
Ranch, and Millicent already knew O'Neil and Hartley; the latter was an
old friend and travelling-companion of Graham. Leaving Deering and
O'Neil to take care of the horses, Galbraith led the way to the camp, a
sheltered spot on the south side of the protecting hill. Three small
sleeping-tents here stood close together. Galbraith's was the central
one; it was wonderfully luxurious, Millicent thought, with its
comfortable rug and little iron bedstead, two chairs, and a
writing-table. A small looking-glass had been brought from town "on
purpose for the visit of the ladies," Hartley assured them; at which
statement there was a general laugh at the young Englishman's expense,
his personal vanity being well known. But it was of the greenwood
drawing-room that the ladies expressed the highest approval. A square
space of ground had been cleared of the dense undergrowth, its smooth
surface being thickly carpeted by soft piles of fresh, sweet ferns.
Close-growing shrubs and bushes served as walls, while the thick
branches of the great trees made a roof close enough to keep out the
heat of the sun. The flowers of the manzanita and the buckeye perfumed
the air of this sylvan boudoir, wherein were ranged comfortable stools
and camp-chairs. A wide hammock fitted with a red blanket swung between
two straight tree stems. Here they sat for a while, resting from the
long drive; and here it was that Millicent had time to observe more
particularly the appearance of Mr. Maurice Galbraith, of whom she had
heard so much. Galbraith was not, strictly speaking, a handsome man,
though he had a good deal of beauty. He was tall and slender, with a
finely shaped head, well set upon the shoulders. His bright,
intelligent face was too thin for beauty; while the fine, brilliant
eyes, with their heavy lashes, were hollow from over-work. His delicate
chin and mouth were exquisitely modelled; while the nose seemed a trifle
over-large through the extreme thinness of the face. The features in
repose were almost stern in their look of concentrated thought; but when
he laughed it was with the sudden merriment of a child, the mouth
parting over the small white teeth, and the large, dark, hollow eyes
flashing cheerily. Barely over thirty, he might have passed for some
years older, an unflagging attention to his arduous profession having
told somewhat upon his strength. Among the lawyers on the Pacific
coast, Galbraith was considered a rising man, his late appointment to a
district attorneyship proving the confidence which he enjoyed.