The San Rosario Ranch
position might have been to many people an embarrassing one. Arriving
alone in a household of near connections, who were as yet absolute
strangers to her, and with whom it had been decided that the next year
of her life should be passed, most girls in her place would have
experienced some sensation of awkwardness; but Millicent was entirely
mistress of the situation. She spoke principally to Hal Deering, a
jolly-looking fellow of twenty-five, who puzzled her with the bits of
dialect, perfectly unintelligible to her, which he introduced into his
conversation.
After supper Mrs. Deering led the way into the drawing-room, saying to
her guest,--
"Will you join us at prayers in the library, Millicent? Or would you
prefer waiting here for us?"
"I see that you already know that I am an unorthodox person, Mrs.
Deering. Frankly, I would prefer not coming, if you will allow me.
Being an agnostic, I should hardly be in sympathy with your service. If
you will kindly excuse me, I will await you here."
Millicent's refusal to join the family at their devotions was
accompanied with a smile so exquisite and winning that the offence was
forgiven, although forgiveness had not been asked. Hal, the great
six-foot giant, more than forgave the graceful girl her ungraciousness,
and would have a thousand times preferred remaining with her to joining
his mother and sister.
On being left to herself, Millicent moved to the piano which stood open
near the window, and seating herself let her white fingers stray gently
over the keys. Strange hands were Millicent's, of a whiteness that made
her pale cheek look brown by comparison. The fingers were long and
taper, at the tip of each a drop as of water ready to fall from the pink
digits. The wrists were round and very slender. On the fifth finger of
the left hand she wore a strange, small old ring of an Etruscan pattern,
which had been stripped from the fleshless hand of a princess, whose
sanctuary had been rifled by some nineteenth-century robber of graves.
The setting enclosed a small green intaglio exquisitely carved,
representing a Psyche with new-found wings.
She had a strange, white luminous face whose beauty shone from within
and lit the dark gray eyes with a rare and tender loveliness. The large
mouth was more exquisitely refined than the mere rosebud tininess of
Barbara Deering's. The teeth were very white and perfect, and the veil
of soft, golden bronze hair, in which she could have clothed herself
like Mary in the desert, was deftly massed into a great dusky knot at
the nape of her white neck. Her arms and bosom, veiled by half
transparent draperies, were white as marble from Carrara, and as finely
yet generously chiselled as those of a goddess of Phidias. She was very
tall, though her grace of movement concealed her height; her small feet
in their velvet sandals were not disproportionate to her size. Her
features were beautiful, and her hair and eyes the delight of every
artist who looked upon her. And yet that which made her so remarkable
among women had nothing to do with delicate contours or harmonious
tints. Her body seemed like a screen through which shone a flame, at
times white and gentle, again rosy and passionate. She was like the
twin opals which clasped her girdle, and was as sensitive as they to
every passing influence.
As the words of the ritual, grown to be meaningless to him by their
frequent repetition, fell upon the ears of Henry Deering he heeded them
not, and failed to make the proper responses: other sounds had struck
his ear, and soft, solemn strains of music made an under prayer to the
evening service. To these strange chords his heart made answer, and his
thoughts were raised by them far higher than was usual at that hour,
when it was their wont to run riot over the business in hand for the
next day.
As the family re-entered the drawing-room, Millicent remained seated at
the piano, now striking louder chords, and finally ending the long
rhapsody with a brilliant waltz of Chopin.
"Thank you, dear," said Barbara, as Millicent left the piano; "I am so
glad that you are musical. I find very little sympathy for my music in
the family; we will have great pleasure in practising together. I have
some very good four-hand music."
Soon after, the newly arrived guest bade good-night to the family, and
went to her room accompanied by Barbara.
"She is a little like Ralph," said Mrs. Deering, "only infinitely
handsomer. How did she please you, my son?"
"Is she handsome? I hardly noticed. It was her voice that struck me;
it has the sound of laughing waters. And can't she play, though! I
never heard such music in my life."
"I am very glad for Barbara's sake that she is musical," answered his
mother.
"Yes; I hope that Barbara and Miss Almsford _will_ get on together. But
I have my doubts," said Hal, dubiously pulling his straw-colored
mustache.
This is San Rosario to-day. Shall we go back a hundred years? It has a
history worth a word or two. To one who is familiar with the beautiful
country which lies about the old Mission of San Rosario, it is not a
little strange that the place has as yet no prominence either in history
or literature. Santa Barbara and the Mission Dolores have been
celebrated in prose and verse. San Miguel and San Fernando Rey are not
forgotten; while San Rafael and San Francisco, now grown to be important
cities, will be remembered as long as Plymouth or Manhattan.
The venerable President of the missions of Upper California, Father
Junipero Serra, founded the San Rosario Mission in 1784, the last year
of his life. It is possible that the judgment of the enthusiastic
priest was already failing when he chose this site, for the Mission was
never prosperous, and was abandoned early in the present century. While
standing among the ruins of the old church, it is not difficult to see
in fancy a picturesque scene enacted on the spot a century ago, on the
morning of the consecration of the Mission.
The little band of priests and soldiers have come to the end of their
journey; the pleasant valley set in sheltering green hills has been
chosen for the site of the new Mission. The tall thin figure of Father
Junipero first strikes the eye. In spite of his great age, and the
mortal disease with which he is afflicted, it is his hand that tugs
lustily at the rope which swings the great bronze bell, hung in the arms
of a gigantic redwood. It is he who shouts aloud the summons, "Hear,
hear! all ye Gentiles! come to the holy Church!" Close to the President
stand two priests,--one, a middle-aged man with a head which indicates
great power and a dogged persistence; the other, a delicate looking
youth with the face of an enthusiast, beautiful and dreamy. The handful
of soldiers who serve the Fathers as an escort are making fast the
slight church tent which they have just set up. From the neighboring
thicket the cries of the startled birds mingle with the earnest tones of
Father Junipero and the deep notes of the bronze bell. Hardly less
timorous than the wood creatures are the Indians, who peer cautiously
from behind the great trees at the strange spectacle before them. They
are invited to draw near, and the bolder ones come close to the
black-robed figures, and stare curiously at the simple ceremonials with
which the ground is consecrated to the service of the heavenly kingdom.
Through the indefatigable energy of the President and the two priests,
the few buildings of the Mission were completed within a year. The
adobe church was unusually large and well built, as one can see to-day.
The tower, the base of which is strongly fortified, is still standing,
though the roof of the church has long since fallen to the earthen
floor. Little trace now remains of the less important buildings, for
the Mission was abandoned thirty years after its establishment, and the
property passed into the hands of its present owner, Mr. Ralph Almsford,
some fifteen years before the opening of our story.
A century has elapsed since that day when the Fathers planted the cross
amidst the stately aisles of madrone trees; the Mission is now almost
forgotten, but the San Rosario Ranch is well known for its famous breed
of cattle, and for its fine dairy, which supplies the San Francisco
market with choice butter and cream.
The two priests--he of the hard-favored countenance, and he of the
gentle eyes--lie side by side at the foot of the crumbling altar. The
Indians who were reclaimed by them from barbarism have gone to their
happy hunting-grounds, and the brilliant future prophesied by Father
Junipero is proven to be a dream and nothing more.
CHAPTER II.
"Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen!
No city airs or arts pass current here.
Your rank is all reversed: let men of cloth
Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls."
Millicent Almsford awoke early on the morning after her arrival. "What
is the matter?" she asked.
No one answering her question, she put another.
"Why do we not go on, what are we stopping for?" this still in a
semi-somnolent voice. On opening her eyes and finding that she was not
in the berth of the palace car, where she had for a week past always
found herself, she laughed outright and then gave a deep sigh.
Her long journey, from the Palazzo Fortunio in Venice to the San Rosario
Ranch in California, was at an end; and here she was, to use her own
phrase, "planted in the wilderness for a year to come."
"Heavens! how can I bear it?" she cried, tossing restlessly to the other
side of her wide bed; "it is all so new, so raw, so crude, so
terrible,--just like this cotton sheet, which has chafed my chin so
badly that I would rather have slept without one."
Soon a loud bell broke the silence of the morning. Millicent did not
heed it, but looked about the room to find a means of summoning
assistance. Happily she found the bell quite near her, and, after twice
ringing, a tap at her door was heard. In answer to her "Come in," Ah
Lam opened the door cautiously.
"Missie call Ah Lam?"
"I want my breakfast now," said Millicent, somewhat dismayed at the
attendant she had summoned.
Soon Barbara came, carrying the breakfast tray in her strong arms.
"I am so sorry you don't feel well this morning, Millicent. What can I
do for you?"
"But I feel perfectly well. Do I look so badly?"
"No, dear; but we were afraid, not seeing you--"
"Dear Barbara, you must excuse my strange foreign habits. You know I
have been only a week in your country. I did not realize that you all
came downstairs to breakfast. What time is it?"
"After seven."
"And you have been up since--?"
"Since six o'clock only. Hal is the early riser. Half-past four sees
him overlooking the milking."
Millicent shuddered; she had indeed come to a strange land.
"I will try to learn the customs of your country," she said rather
piteously, taking up her cup of coffee.
"Only learn those that please you, dear. As for our early breakfast,
which I see shocks you, think no more about it. I will gladly bring it
up to you every day."
"I shall unpack some of my boxes this morning, Barbara; and later we
will try some of your duets, if you like."
The unpacking of her Penates gave Millicent a certain satisfaction,
which was, however, tempered by the sad recollections they brought to
her mind, of her own apartment with its three pretty rooms in the corner
of the great Palazzo Fortunio.
Millicent Almsford was the daughter of an American gentleman who had
lived in Venice since before the birth of his daughter. Here the
greater portion of her life had been spent, with the interruption only
of one long visit made to a relative in England.