The San Rosario Ranch
"Because you will not let me."
At this moment a light step sounded on the piazza. Millicent turned her
head and saw Graham approaching her. She stepped quickly towards him,
forgetting Galbraith, the company, everything and everybody, save that
her lover had come to her. As she turned from him, Galbraith reeled
suddenly, and would have fallen had not Hal steadied him to a seat.
"I fear I am interrupting you," said the artist, in a cool voice,
betraying some annoyance.
"Indeed, no," cried the girl, "we were only trying the stupid old game
of willing people; I have succeeded in magnetizing Mr. Galbraith here."
By this time the young lawyer had recovered himself, though he looked
strangely pale and agitated. He was somewhat overcome by what had gone
before, and was not a little troubled by the power which the tall,
straight girl had exercised over him. He rebelled against it, and yet
the sensation of giving up his volition, and living for the time only by
her will and her thought had not been unmixed with a keen pleasure. If
no one had witnessed the affair, above all, if Graham had not seen it,
he would not have greatly cared; but though he had no recollection of
what he had seen and described in Millicent's mind, that evening's
experience deepened the vague antipathy he had always felt towards the
artist, into a positive dislike.
Later, as they walked together alone, Graham asked Millicent if she
would magnetize him, to which she replied in the negative.
"Do you think that you could succeed?"
"I cannot tell; but if I could, I should not be willing to do so."
"And yet you threw a spell over that fellow Galbraith?"
"Dear, there is a difference; cannot you see?"
"No; upon my soul I can't."
"I do not want to command even your thought for an instant; you must
think of me to please yourself, not because I will it."
"What a strange girl you are, Millicent! Do you really love me so very
much?"
"I love you better than my own soul."
"A dangerous thing, child; do not ever say that to me again."
"Why?"
"It shocks me; I cannot tell you why."
For answer, she gave him a rose from her breast with a childish gesture,
as if asking forgiveness. There was an awkwardness, born of an unwonted
shyness, in the movement which was more attractive to the artist than
the most graceful attitude he had ever seen her assume. He caught the
hand with the rose and crushed them both in his two strong palms, as if
to hurt her. She smiled, though her wrist reddened from the sudden
pressure. It is more sweet to bear pain from those we love, than to
receive kindness from a hand which is not dear.
As Graham was taking his leave, he asked Millicent for two books which
she had promised to lend him. Barbara had joined them, and offered to
fetch them for him.
"Thank you, Barbara, but I know just where they are."
"Is it not the Petrarch and your manuscript translation of Dante that
Mr. Graham wants?"
"Yes."
"You left them on your table. I saw them when I went up to shut the
blinds. You had better let me go, you are so tired."
"Yes, let Miss Deering get them for you; you are quite worn out with
your magnetizing." He wanted to say one last good-night to her.
His lightest wish was her law; she nodded gratefully to Barbara, who
disappeared, while Graham told her once more how lovely she was that
night. When Miss Deering came back, Graham had already mounted his
horse and Millicent was feeding the animal with sugar.
"You are sure you have the right books, Barbara?"
"Quite sure; I know them perfectly."
"Many thanks to you both, and good-night."
Millicent was in a wakeful mood that night. She went to the piano and
played for an hour or two, as she only played when alone. Her hands
drifted dreamily over the key-board, drawing out fantastic
melodies,--themes which were composed and forgotten within the hour. In
an obscure corner of the room stood a head of Beethoven. Her eyes were
fixed on the face of the master while she played, and as the notes grew
strong and sweet she smiled; when the harmony changed to a tender minor
strain, the smile faded from her face. The music expressed the thoughts
which drifted through her mind. At first she played the quick movement
of a march, through which rang out the measured beat of a horse's hoofs;
then the strain changed to a pensive nocturne suggestive of the forest
at night. A tender slumber-song followed, in which her voice took up
the melody, chanting loving words in the language of Tuscany. The
light, delicate thread of harmony now broadened into a full consonance
of sound, the chords following each other tumultuously, as if in
translating one supreme moment of leave-taking. As she was striking the
closing strains of this emotional improvisation, her powerful voice
trembling with a passionate _addio_, the sweet symphony of sounds was
interrupted by a crashing discord. She sprang from the piano startled
and trembling, to find that a heavy vase of flowers had fallen on the
key-board from the shelf above the piano. The metal jar was uninjured,
but about her feet were scattered the petals of a bunch of white roses
which Graham had plucked for her that night. So rudely was her rhapsody
interrupted! She closed the piano, and, after restlessly wandering
through the silent house, went to her own room, where she sat looking
out of her window at the moon-lit hills. She could not sleep, she was
full of unrest.
The gray morning light was filtering into Barbara Deering's room when
she was awakened by a light touch on the shoulder. Millicent stood
before her, gray as the twilight; she held in her hand a small parchment
book.
"Barbara, what books did you give Mr. Graham?"
"The Petrarch and your Dante. What is the matter, Millicent? Have n't
you been in bed?"
"No, I could not sleep. Here is the little Dante; where did you find
the book you mistook for it?"
Barbara sat up and rubbed her eyes confusedly.
"Why, it was not where I had last seen it. I found it somewhere, in
your jewel-box, I think. I am so sorry I made a mistake; 't was just
like the Dante. Does it matter much?"
"I only wanted to know, Barbara; go to sleep again."
She spoke in a low, constrained voice, and glided quietly from the room.
Barbara, only half awake, gave a sigh, and settling her flaxen head
among the pillows, again fell asleep and dreamed that she had stabbed
Millicent with a knife, and that Graham was trying to stanch the wound
with the leaves of a little parchment book.
When Graham arrived at his lonely tower, after making his horse
comfortable for the night, he looked into French John's cabin to see
whether all was well with the old fellow. The door was fast, and
looking through the small window, the young man saw the wood-cutter
lying on his hard couch, his gun beside him, his dog curled up at his
feet. The creature growled at the sound of Graham's footsteps, but
catching sight of a familiar face through the window, he gave a
comfortable yawp, wagged his tail, and relapsed into slumber. The
artist never slept without paying this last visit to his humble friend.
He stumbled up the steep tower stairs, and after fumbling with the
clumsy lock, the door swung open and admitted him to his one room. After
groping about in the dark for a moment he struck a light, and out of the
embers on the hearth blew a little flame. He looked about the small
room and laughed; this was a home, indeed, to which to bring a bride!
It sufficed for him; and he asked for nothing more commodious or
luxurious than this old tower in the corner of the ruined church, with
its grand north light and easy chair, its open fire and pallet-bed.
If he married,--when he married, he corrected himself, for he surely
intended to marry Millicent,--there would have to be great changes in
his life. He would be obliged to abandon his old tower, and live in a
smug new house somewhere, with fuss and worry about servants, who would
not please him half so well as did the old wood-cutter John. His work,
ah, how that would suffer!--no more of the pleasant conscientious labor,
the slow painting and study of that one supreme moment of the day when
the golden copse was made tender by the light of the setting sun. He
must hie him to the city and pass his life in painting fat, over-fed
matrons in lace and diamonds, or expressionless minxes with costumes
indicative of youth and ignorance. He would, perhaps, relapse into a
mere mechanical portrait-painter, with as much imagination as a
photographer; and his pictures would be ordered as theirs are, with the
simple difference that the artist produces but one copy, while the
photographer, with equal trouble, makes a dozen or ten dozen, or a
single picture. He sighed aloud, and for consolation lit his pipe. He
caught sight of the flower which had bloomed on a fair bosom and was now
fastened to his coat, somewhat crushed but still fragrant. He carefully
unpinned the rose and placed it in a small vase of water, and then
proceeded to examine the books which Millicent had given him. Graham
liked old books, and was delighted with the yellowed parchment copy of
Petrarch. An inscription on the cover showed that it had once belonged
to a monastery. On the fly-leaf was a slight sketch of a young monk's
head seen in profile. It was a beautiful, clear-cut face, with delicate
outlines and an earnest expression; beneath it was written, "Fra
Antonio, Aetat 22."
"So this was brother Antonio, and he lived and died probably in the
peaceful quiet of a Roman monastery. I wonder if he painted too, or
whether he wrote hymns to all the pretty female saints in the calendar.
Brother Antonio must have lived and died without a helpmeet. I fancy he
did none the worse work for that."
The thought struck him as ungrateful, and, as if to make amends for it,
he took up the other little volume. It was a thin book bound in white
vellum, with Millicent's name in illuminated text upon its cover. The
covers of this small tome were closed with a gold clasp, which he
finally succeeded in opening. It proved to be a diary in manuscript; he
recognized the clear, delicate handwriting of the girl he loved. Yes,
he loved her tenderly; why else should he press the senseless pages
close to his lips, kissing the fair paper over which her fairer hand had
passed? He drew his lamp nearer to him and prepared to read the record.
It was written in Italian, and the first page bore a date five years
back. He was somewhat puzzled, but supposed he had misunderstood what
she had told him of the book. She could have been but a child then; she
was now only just past her majority. How pretty she must have been at
sixteen, before she had grown to the perfect womanhood which now became
her so well! He fancied her in all the shyness and awkwardness of young
maidenhood, with childhood reluctantly slipping from her, and girlhood
anxiously leading her forward. Again he kissed the book, but reverently
this time, and with a deep sigh as if it had been a holy one. If he
could have known her then, before he had grown to feel so old, before
she had learned that she was fair and young, how much easier it would
have been for both of them. As he sat with unseeing eyes fixed on the
faintly traced characters, beholding in fancy the little Millicent of
half-grown figure and cool, loveless eyes stooping over the book,
putting her white, childish thoughts into these words, it seemed to him
that he heard a faint sound,--a sound that was deeper than the wind
stirring the tops of the redwoods; a sound that made him shiver and turn
the bright flame of the lamp a little higher. It was like a noise heard
dimly in a dream, an echo of a woman's sob ringing faint and muffled