The San Rosario Ranch
A month previous to the opening of our story her father, widowed at her
birth, had married for the third time, his wife being a young and
uninteresting Italian woman of the middle class. The marriage, to which
Millicent was strongly opposed, had led her to accept the invitation of
her half-brother to make him an extended visit in his California home.
From the great cases she lifted, with the help of Ah Lam, the household
treasures which she had been unwilling to leave behind, in the home
which knew her as its mistress no longer. A motley collection of
articles had the great trunks enclosed: pictures, books, a large Eastern
carpet, a parchment missal of the fifteenth century with beautiful
illuminations, a guitar, a little majolica shrine with a figure of San
Antonio very much the worse for the journey, a set of delicately wrought
silken window and bed hangings of pale sea color, a pair of heavy silver
candelabra, with a ponderous packet of wax tapers, and innumerable other
knick-knacks.
With the willing and ingenious assistance of Ah Lam, this _roba_, to
borrow the untranslatable Italian phrase, was disposed about the large
room. The neat Nottingham lace curtains, at which Millicent had looked
askance, were now hidden beneath the blue-green draperies, embroidered
by the hands of the mother whose face she had never seen. The pictures
were hung upon the walls, and a deep-hued Egyptian scarf disguised the
pasteboard motto, with its friendly welcome. A book-case was improvised
by the Chinaman from some old boxes, and covered by Millicent, who
unhesitatingly cut to pieces a heavy woollen gown whose color struck her
as appropriate to that end. Beside the bed she hung the little shrine
of San Antonio, with much grief that the long journey had damaged his
saintly toes and fingers. On a table were ranged the candlesticks and
the missal, and an old copy of Dante with a mouse-gnawed cover, and
Lear's "Nonsense Book,"--this last because it was an old friend from
childhood, which she, being a creature of habit, had forgotten to
discard.
The complete metamorphosis of the apartment was a work of several days;
and only when it was entirely accomplished were Mrs. Deering and her
daughter admitted to see the change. Poor Barbara! All the pains and
trouble she had taken, all the careful stitches she had set, were
unavailing. The new carpet she had bought with her own pocket money was
entirely covered by old rugs, some of which were very faded and worn;
none of them were as bright and clean as the Kidderminster.
The warm knitted afghan had disappeared from the bed, which was covered
by a white quilt embroidered in strange floral designs. The very toilet
set had been replaced, and the pretty painted candles had been banished.
"I have made it a little like Venice," cried Millicent excitedly, "only
the walls in my bedroom there are hung in silk and all painted in
water-color, and the rooms are so high,--you remember the green room in
the Palazzo Fortunio, Mrs. Deering, with the nymphs, the sea gods, and
the green hobgoblins painted all over it?"
"Yes, indeed, Millicent. What a change you have wrought in the spare
bedroom. Ralph would hardly recognize it. I see now what was contained
in the boxes which so aroused Hal's curiosity. I am afraid you have
made your room too attractive, dear, and that we shall find difficulty
in coaxing you out of it into our more prosaic apartments."
"Oh, I always live the greater part of my life between my own four
walls: I am not a sociable person, I am afraid. At least so Barbara
thinks."
Barbara said nothing; she was hurt and disappointed. The room, with its
strange furnishing, was unnatural to her. She felt, as she looked at
Millicent with this new setting which suited her so perfectly, that
neither in the room nor in the life of Millicent Almsford was there a
place for her. She had eagerly anticipated the advent of this unknown
girl, sisterless like herself, who should grow to be so much to her, and
in whom she should find the sympathetic friend of whom she had greatly
felt the need; and now that she had come, Barbara was bitterly
disappointed. Millicent was gracious, winning, full of attractive
qualities, intellectually sympathetic to a degree which she had never
before known. And yet the tall daughter of the Ranch was cruelly
disturbed.
"I can be nothing to her; she is complete without me," she had said to
her mother; and herein lay the reason for all her disappointment. Living
among people to whom her beauty, her talent, and her warmth of heart had
been the most poetic features of their lives, Barbara Deering had grown
to value men and women according to the amount of good or pleasure she
could impart to them. Her life had been one wherein the tears and sighs
had been stifled, or hidden in the darkness of her chamber; the laughter
and smiles, the bright cheery face, the helping hand always meeting
those about her. Children loved her, and old people blessed her for her
sympathy and kindness. To her mother and brother she was sun, moon, and
stars; and to them every hour of her life was consecrated. Naturally
endowed with certain tastes which would have somewhat interfered with
the quiet plan of life laid out for her, she had systematically
neglected these gifts, sacrificing herself to an imaginary duty which
was always before her eyes. She had avoided such pursuits as might have
led her aside from the common life of the family; and happiness for her
was found in the happiness she could afford to others. Enjoyment to
her, unless her dear ones were included in it, was something like a sin;
and the pleasure she took in her music gave her pangs of conscience.
One morning, about a week after her arrival, Millicent was awakened by
the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs clattering down the stony road which
led to the orchard from the hill behind the house. She sprang up, and
throwing wide the shutters, looked out to see whence the sound came. It
was still very early. The sun had not yet clambered over the tops of
the high hills; but the sky was bright, and the shadows lay like a misty
garment over the happy valley, locked in its circle of hills. The great
bull Jupiter, the terror of the Ranch, stood near the house, sniffing
the cool morning air, and giving thunderous snorts of pleasure. The
bars had been left down, and he had gained access to the green orchard,
forbidden ground to him. The hedge of roses was hung with a wondrous
garlanding of dewdrops, and the dark-red lilies were just awakening to
the draught which the night winds had distilled in their chalices. From
every blade of grass and leaf of clover sparkled a diamond. The fair
valley had arrayed itself in jewels and fragance for another day of
light and love.
The sound of the horse's hoofs grew nearer; and as Millicent looked
expectantly along the bridle-path that descends from the mountain, there
came into sight, parting the wet boughs of the fruit trees, a horseman
mounted on a gray mustang. The rider was a strong man, who sat his
steed with the air of one to the manner born. He was dressed in corduroy
breeches, high top-boots, and flannel shirt. He had no hat. In his
belt shone a long hunting knife, and over his shoulder was slung a
rifle. Before him on the saddle lay a stag whose heavy antlers hardly
cleared the ground.
The first rays of the sun, just peeping over the hill-tops, touched his
thick brown hair, giving it a glint of bronze, shone on the wide white
forehead, flashed into the eyes, and showed her for an instant a stern
profile, exceedingly beautiful. Then she lost his face as he turned the
corner of the piazza. Here he dismounted, and lifting the deer from the
horse laid it on the grass. Perhaps the beauty of the dead creature
struck a chord of remorse in the breast of the hunter, for he gave a
sigh and turned it so that a gaping wound in the neck was not visible.
Then drawing a pencil and a bit of paper from his pocket, he wrote
something, and fastening the billet to the horns of the deer, he mounted
his horse, and giving him the rein returned slowly by the same road. As
he drew near again Millicent saw that the mustache which hid the upper
lip was golden-brown, that the throat was white and shapely, that the
mouth smiled not untenderly, while the eyes smiled not at all. These
details were noted with an artist's love of beauty: and as she watched
him out of sight, she wondered with all a woman's curiosity who he might
be.
Since Millicent's arrival there had been many visitors at the Ranch.
All the friends of the Deering family who were within calling distance
had either come to make the acquaintance of Miss Almsford, or had
signified their intention of shortly doing so.
Calling distance in California may be said to extend not over fifty
miles. The neighbor who lives half a hundred miles from you will make a
call, or in other words will come to pass the day. Calling terms cease
beyond these limits, and visits of not less than twenty-four hours are
exchanged.
In none of the people whom she had met had Millicent felt or manifested
the least interest. She had received them graciously, but with a
cordiality of manner only. Not one man or woman among the circle of
friends who were on familiar terms at the Ranch awoke in her a desire
for further acquaintance. But this one who had called at six o'clock in
the morning, and had left his visiting card pinned to the antlers of a
stag, piqued the curiosity of the indifferent young lady. Wrapping
herself in a soft gray woollen dressing-gown, she ran downstairs in the
liveliest manner.
It was a splendid animal, fine as the buck described by Browning in
"Donald." Alas, the slender legs would carry his noble body and stately
head no further; the branching horns would never again clash against the
antlers of a rival. Millicent touched the beautiful dead creature
tenderly between the horns, and tried to close the dim eyes. At that
moment she heard a step upon the piazza, and Hal Deering joined her.
"Why, Miss Almsford, what does this mean? You to be up and dressed"--he
hesitated, "well, yes, you are dressed, and very becomingly too; I like
that loose gown--at six in the morning! sighing over the fine piece of
venison, and performing the last kind offices of friendship too. Don't
believe you would do as much for me."
The young man looked at the deer approvingly, and perceiving the note,
took it from the antler and deliberately read it aloud:--
HONORED MISTRESS DEERING,--I lay myself at your feet, and with myself a
pretty bit of game I have just killed, thinking that the fair Venetian
might fancy a venison steak for her breakfast. I kiss your hand, dear my
lady, and am your most unworthy but loyal servitor,
JOHN GRAHAM.
"Of course, knew it was Graham, queer creature. Wonder why he did not
stop and take breakfast with us. He is an unaccountable fellow."
"What did you call him?"
"Graham; his full name is John Douglass Graham. Just like a hero's in a
novel. But Graham never does anything very heroic, I fancy."
"Shall you cut off his skin?"
"Whose? Graham's?"
"How foolish, Mr. Deering. I mean the deer's fur."
"Oh no, certainly not; in America we always serve game with the hide or
feathers. In fact, we usually do not remove the wool from our mutton;
but knowing that you were accustomed to seeing it dressed after the
super-civilized fashion of the Venetians, I have--"
"Mr. Deering, that is stupid. I want his skin and horns; please arrange
them for me."
"Yes, Princess; your most humble servant will obey your mandate."
He seized the creature by its slender legs, hoisted it deftly to his
shoulders, and disappeared through the side door. Millicent picked up