The San Rosario Ranch
through a space of years, was it, or of distance? It had grown quite
cold; and he heaped an armful of brushwood on the dying fire, which soon
shot up the little chimney with a cheery roar, and threw its bright
light to the farthest corner of the room, touching the picture on the
easel, bringing out the ugly little _netshukes_ from their shadowy
corner, and shining on the polished steel of the gun standing near the
maulstick and fishing-rod.
It must have been the wind, that faint sound which had seemed to find an
echo in the beating of his heart. He drew aside the heavy
window-curtains. Outside in the cool moonlight he saw the arms of the
great trees swaying to and fro; below these the desolate ruins of the
old church; all was quiet and deserted. There was the dismantled
altar,--it was surely a trick of the moonlight and the trees, that
shadowy semblance of a woman kneeling out there in the night, with wild
hair, and arms cast about the broken cross, overturned this half
century? Yes, it was a shadow surely; for a cloud passed before the
silver face of the half-moon, and when it had floated by, the shadow of
a female figure had vanished. He dropped the curtain and turned with a
sigh of relief from the mysterious half-light, with its revelations of
deserted chapels and uncared-for altars, its shattered cross and phantom
penitent. Inside his small domicile was warmth and light; and to drive
away the cold, nervous feeling which had crept about him like an
invisible network, he again took up the little parchment journal. Again
he seated himself, and turned the first leaf. As he read he smiled, and
occasionally turned over the sheets to see how many more pages remained
to be perused. Presently the smile faded from his face; and the flames
on the hearth burnt low and finally died, choked by the gray ashes. And
still Graham turned the pages of the little journal with cold fingers.
The lamp grew dim, and the moon paled and sank beneath the horizon; the
chill morning twilight crept betwixt the hangings, and showed him
sitting cold and motionless to the slow-coming dawn. The last page of
the journal had been turned long since; but he still held the book open,
his eyes fixed on the final words.
CHAPTER XI.
"Dearer than woman's love
Is yonder sunset fading in the sky!"
After that night's vigil, Graham took his gun, and packing a blanket and
a few camping utensils in his saddle-bag, mounted his horse and rode
away toward a hunting-lodge some twenty miles distant, where he
sometimes passed the night. His way led through the woods, where the
bracing air, the light footsteps of the invisible animals, the
fluttering of the birds in the trees, served to turn his mind from the
painful thoughts of the past night. He had a part in this woodland
life, and owned a kinship to the four-footed and feathered creatures who
made the forest their home. His spirit was lifted to that close and
intimate communion with Nature which is only possible to man when
unfettered by human companionship. The cool, spicy air was sweeter than
the kiss of maiden; the leafage of the restless trees more tender than
that of the gold-bronze hair he had so often praised. It seemed to him
that the only real thing in all the fair sunny earth was himself; that
the people whom he had known were but pictures seen in a dream. He
lived, and breathed the scent of the pine-trees; he lived, and heard the
cry of the blue-jays in their branches; he lived, and his eyes were
filled with the glorious beauty of his world,--all his, with nothing to
come between him and the fragrant Mother Earth. All that day he rode
and walked through the tangled paths and trackless thickets, holding
communion with sky and earth, content to live without retrospection or
anticipation. Just before sunset he shot a brace of quail for his
supper; and when dark shadows had crept through the wooded places he
built a fire on the hearth of the little cabin where he proposed
spending the night. It was a rude lodge, a trifle less comfortable than
French John's house, with wooden bunks around the walls, and trunks of
trees roughly fashioned into seats. Under a certain board in the floor,
known to him, was a hiding-place wherein were stored half a dozen tallow
candles, with a bottle to serve as candle-stick, a pack of cards, an
iron pot and spoon, a rusty jack-knife with a corkscrew, and, last of
all, a flask of brandy, which it was a matter of honor always to leave
half full. The shed had been built by himself and Henry Deering, and
was occasionally used by them and their friends when on hunting
expeditions. As there were no means of securely fastening so slight a
building, there was neither lock nor bar to door or window. Over the
fireplace was tacked a notice written in Deering's bold hand, which read
as follows:--
"Gentlemen are requested to put out the fire and latch the door before
leaving this shanty. Water to be found three rods beyond this spot to
the north."
Graham found the candles, which he finally succeeded in lighting; and
after making a meal of hard-tack and roasted quail, he filled his pipe
and sat down on one of the bunks, tired out by his long day's ride. The
painful thoughts which he had banished during the hours of daylight now
took possession of him; and the brow, which had been calm all day,
showed the three deep dints which trouble more than time had furrowed
upon its noble expanse. He was alone again!--no more friendly sounds
and sights to divert his mind and fill his eyes with beauty. Only his
sad thoughts and the one great problem which was set before him to
solve. His changeful, melancholy eyes were fixed vacantly on the floor.
They saw nothing but the shadowy vision of the night,--the figure of a
woman amidst the broken altars of the old Mission church. The words
which he had read in the little journal came thronging back to him in
riotous haste,--those pitiful words of passionate grief traced by the
slender white fingers, which so lately had lingered tremblingly in his
own strong brown hands. Could he forgive her? Poor child, poor child!
What was he, that he had a right to withhold his forgiveness for an
instant? Let their lives be laid side by side, with every act and every
thought bared to his view, and how did his life's record compare with
hers?
Ah, if she had but told him the story, and not left it to accident to
reveal the secret! She had deceived him! And the angry blood surged
from his heart to his brow and settled there dully red. The stern lines
of his face grew harder than the mask of a stone statue, and the
expression of the chiselled mouth was terribly relentless. He would
never see her again, never, never! What he had felt for her was not that
highest passion which melts heart and soul and body in one pure flame;
for, without a perfect faith, such love is not. So he reasoned, pity
and anger sweeping across his soul; and then, forgetting both in a great
pain, he cried, stretching out his arms, "Millicent, Millicent, come to
me!" At last the wearied muscles and tired brain and heart slowly,
half-consciously yielded to a warm, close-folding influence which
straightened out the lines on the brow, loosened the tight-drawn
muscles, stole the fire from the deep eyes and the anger from the curved
mouth. The grand head, with its thousand schemes and theories, fell
back upon the couch; the skilful hand, with its nervous, delicate
fingers, relaxed; a long, shivering sigh shook the body; and, with the
fire-light shining upon his stern beauty, Graham slept. The fire burned
low upon the hearth and finally flickered out, leaving a bed of glowing
ashes. The quiet of the night was broken by the long shrill wail of the
coyote, but Graham stirred not. A light footstep sounded near the
cabin, and a scratching noise might have been heard as the head of a
great bear was raised to the level of the window. The sleeper's breath
never quickened; and Bruin, after a long look and a vain attempt to push
the door open, gave a growl and trotted off through the underbrush
toward his own cosey cave under the rocky hillside near by. A young
owlet, flying aimlessly through the night, flapped itself through an
opening in the roof intended to let out the smoke; and finding it
difficult to escape by the place where it had entered, settled itself
comfortably near the sleeper, standing on one foot, and meditatively
regarding the strange creature on the bed. To all these noises Graham
was deaf; but when the clatter of a horse's hoofs broke the silence,
that strange half-consciousness which gives warning of an unaccustomed
sound called his slumbering senses to awaken. In a moment he was
perfectly conscious, and, after feeling for his pistol, lay quietly down
again upon the hard couch. The rider might not pause at the shanty, and
as he was in no mood for company, he would give no sign of his presence
there until it was necessary. The hope was a vain one; he heard the
rider call to his horse with an oath to stop. After a slight pause, the
door, which he had secured with a wooden bar, was roughly shaken. The
new-comer, finding the portal fast, now showed himself at the little
window and peered into the room. Seeing a recumbent figure, he cried
out,--
"Who the ---- is in this shanty?"
"John Graham; and who is outside?"
After a pause the voice answered,--
"A man as wants a night's rest bad, and has got as good a right to it as
anybody."
"Put up your shooting-irons, Horton, and I will open the door."
First striking a match and lighting his candle, Graham unfastened the
bar, and the light door swung wide. The figure out in the darkness
peered doubtfully into the room.
"Don't be afraid; I am alone," said the artist coolly, seating himself
upon his bunk, and proceeding to fill his pipe. The man came cautiously
into the cabin, looking about him once more to make sure that Graham had
spoken the truth. He was a rough-looking fellow, with a sinister
expression of countenance, in great part owing to the deep scar which
seamed his face from temple to chin.
The stranger seemed a good deal disconcerted at finding the artist
ensconced in the lodge.
"Did n't expect to find anybody--least of all you--in this shanty."
"I do not often occupy it; though I built it myself."
"Is that so? You ain't got a mouthful of bread as yer'd let a man have
as has fasted since sunrise?"
Graham's answer was to hand him a couple of rounds of hard-tack, which
he quickly devoured; and to pass his flask, filled with the rough,
strong wine from the vineyards of Los Angeles. The fellow poured half
its contents down his throat at one draught, wiping his mouth upon the
sleeve of his rough jacket. Then, with a nod of acknowledgment, he
handed back the flask with a regretful sigh, and seating himself on the
floor by the fireplace, warmed his feet in the still hot ashes.
"You never came for those last sittings, Horton; my picture is not
finished yet."
"You see, I got another job more to my taste than posturin'."
"Are you working in the neighborhood?"
"No; I am on my way to the Swindawl mines. Do you live in these yer
parts?"
"Yes. You know the old church? I live in the tower."
"Rum place, that; passed it to-day."
"If you want to earn a little money to pay your travelling expenses, I
should like to finish that picture."
The man did not answer, but stretched his great limbs and yawned.
"It's blasted cold for the season."
Graham nodded assent, blowing a great cloud of tobacco-smoke from his
lips, and composing in his mind, meanwhile, a picture in which this
wild-looking fellow, with his rough hair and coarse, strong outlines,