The San Rosario Ranch
was ajar; and as he approached, the interior was entirely visible,
revealed by the uncertain light of the wood-fire. The old man was
stooping over the blaze with a saucepan in his hand, the contents of
which he was vigorously stirring. Three cats of preternaturally grave
aspect sat nearby, intently watching the culinary preparations. A mangy
old hunting dog lay snoring in the corner, gray and scarred as his
master. A battered fowling-piece and a greasy game-bag were flung on
the wooden bench which served as table and chair to the occupant of the
humble dwelling. The young man paused a moment on the threshold and
sighed. The unkempt little cot with its lonely owner only differed in
degree from his own tower, from himself. He had not even the
companionship of the dumb beasts. When he should grow as old and
battered as the wrinkled wood-cutter, would he be dependent for sympathy
on a purring cat, or an old dog? Presently he spoke, but it was in a
loud, cheery voice which in nowise indicated the sombre thought which
had just suggested itself to his mind.
"Good-evening, John. What luck did you have to-day?"
"Four quail and two rabbits," replied the old man laconically, without
returning the greeting of his visitor.
"And what have you in that old iron pot of yours? Something very good,
I warrant."
"Stewed quail with bacon."
"Well, you must eat it yourself, for I do not want any supper to-night;
I am going up to the house to pass the evening. Here is a package of
tobacco for you. I shall be ready at the usual time for my breakfast."
The old man nodded his thanks for the present; and Graham left the hut,
and proceeded to the spot where his horse was tethered. He saddled and
mounted the mustang, and rode swiftly down the narrow path. Old John
watched from his doorway the movements of the young man, and when he had
disappeared, sat down to his solitary meal. The brief glimpses of
Graham and his many kindly acts were the only human influences which
touched the life of poor old French John. His dealings with Hal Deering
were rare; once in a month the young man visited his cot, overlooked the
work he had been engaged upon, and paid him his wages. For the
occasional gifts of tobacco and wine, the chance newspaper from Paris,
which were the only events of importance in the dull routine of his
life, he was indebted to Graham. He gave no expression to his
gratitude, and would have been sorely puzzled to do so. But the artist
was none the less aware of it; and some portion of the packages which
occasionally came to the tower from San Francisco never failed to find
their way to the hut of the wood-cutter.
As Graham rode up the gravel path which led to the house, he caught a
glimpse of a tall, slender figure swaying out from the gloom of the
piazza. A white, bare arm was stretched upward to pluck a bunch of
roses from a vine twisted about the porch. Thus much he saw and nothing
more, as he fastened his horse and mounted to the piazza, which had
suddenly become tenantless. The house door stood hospitably open, and
the young man entered the hall and passed into the library. The soft
candle-light showed him the room and its one occupant, the woman whom he
had seen dimly amid the climbing roses an instant before. Evidently she
had not known that the hoof-beats on the road were bringing a guest; for
she was kneeling upon the hearth, her graceful shoulders bent, her
strong white arms steadily working a pair of bellows. The total
depravity of inanimate things is never more clearly seen than in the
case of a wood-fire that refuses to burn. The girl, after several
unavailing efforts to rouse a flame from the smouldering mass of embers,
deliberately took the fire to pieces and rebuilt it after another
fashion, putting a handful of pine cones atop of the logs, and setting
them alight with a roll of paper. At last she succeeded in starting the
blaze, and, stretching her graceful length upon the deerskin rug, she
rested her elbows on the low bench before the fender, and lay quite
silent, her face supported by her hands, her dark eyes looking into the
fire.
John Graham, who had watched from the doorway every movement of the
unconscious young woman with the pleasure of an artist in all things
which are graceful and beautiful, still stood silent, giving no sign of
his presence. The warm, pleasant interior, with its comfortable easy
chairs and sofas, its open piano, near which stood a work-basket, its
shelves of books and vases of flowers, bore all the infallible
indications which mark the inmost shrine of domestic life. This was a
room where the members of the household lived. Here was a home, the
centre of affection and hospitality. The shadow of the lonely old man
and his desolate dwelling rose for a moment before his eyes, and at that
thought he stepped forward as if irresistibly drawn toward the cheerful
hearth and the graceful woman whose eyes were lighted by the dancing
flames. There was a tender look about his mouth, usually so stern in
expression, as he came forward into the firelight with an expectant
countenance, as if he were about to meet an old friend. Hearing the
footsteps, the girl without turning her head said,--
"Well, Barbara, here you see me, making myself comfortable on Graham's
deerskin. It has just come home; is it not a beauty?"
Receiving no answer, Miss Millicent Almsford turned her face so that her
eyes fell upon John Graham standing near her, with a smile on his lips,
a flush on his cheek. Was it the sudden leaping of the fire from the
heart of the great apple log, John Graham asked himself, or was it the
shining of a flame from within that lighted Millicent's face with a
strange radiance at the instant when her eyes met his own? For an
instant, a space of time too short to be counted by seconds, for
something less than one quickened heartbeat, they looked at each other,
these two, the woman with his name still on her lips, the man drawn
toward the warm fireside by an uncontrollable desire to take his place
in the picture, to remain no longer an outsider, a looker-on. One
instant, and then habit, ceremony, the second nature of both, asserted
itself, and each shrank back from that too intimate glance; the girl
rising slowly to her feet, the man making a ceremonious bow.
"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Miss Almsford; but I found the
door open, and I am allowed the privilege of making myself at home at
San Rosario. As there is no one here to introduce me, will you allow me
to name myself as your most humble servitor, John Graham? I am vain
enough to hope that my name is not quite unknown to you. Hal has
perhaps spoken of me."
"Indeed, yes, they have all mentioned you frequently. Mrs. Deering and
Barbara have not yet returned from the station. When you came in I
thought they had returned. I think the train must be late; they drove
down to meet a friend. Will you not be seated, Mr. Graham?"
Millicent had by this time quite recovered her equanimity, somewhat
shaken by the sudden appearance of the man who had lived so persistently
in her thoughts for the past fortnight. She seated herself near the
fire, motioning Graham to a chair on the other side.
"I suppose that this fire quite shocks you? Mr. Deering cannot bear to
sit in the same room with it; but I have suffered so much from the
change of climate that I am allowed to have this little blaze every
evening. Do you see this pretty rug? It only came home to-day. Mr.
Deering had it dressed for me. It is from the deer which you brought
here one morning,--a beautiful, soft piece of fur."
"Yes, it is well arranged too. Did I understand you, Miss Almsford, to
say that Miss Deering had gone to meet some visitors?"
"Yes, but you need not mind,"--her quick ear had caught the shade of
annoyance in his voice,--"it is only poor Ferrara."
"Poor Ferrara? Ah, I see you have already guessed his secret."
"Who could help it when it was so very evident? Do you think Barbara
will ever say yes?"
"I cannot tell. I sometimes hope so, but she is over-fastidious."
"Fastidious? Is that the term to use? Surely you would not have her
marry him unless she loved him? To a woman like Barbara such a fate
would be intolerable."
"I do not quite agree with you. You know that self-sacrifice is Miss
Deering's greatest idea of happiness."
"I cannot comprehend it; truly I think I do not understand Barbara,
though I do appreciate her and admire her. They have been expecting a
visit from you for some time. Mr. Deering said he should ride over to
your tower and look you up to-morrow."
"I have been very much occupied of late, or I should have paid my
respects to you before this time. If you have heard anything about me,
you must have heard that I am an undependable person, and never do the
things which people expect of me. Besides, I am a hard-working
creature, and not of the butterfly genus of man like our good Ferrara.
Tell me a little how this new country strikes you. What a change it
must be, this sudden transplantation from Venice to California!"
"I have suffered terribly. Ah! Mr. Graham, you who have known my
Venice can feel for me. None of them here can understand it. I feel
like a plant which has been torn suddenly from a garden beautiful with
flowers and sunshine, gentle showers and happy birds, and placed with
its roots all torn and bleeding on a barren mountain-side, with no
flowers near it, only sturdy, useful herbs, which neither shrivel in the
terrible sun, nor wither in the keen mountain winds. But _I_ fade and
die. There is no room for me in this great New World, where all are so
busy and have so much work to do. The few beauties which they have,
their blue skies and grand hills, they neither understand nor love.
They have no time to look back into the glorious past with its memories;
they know not how to seize the present with its actualities; they live
and toil ever for the future, which they will not live to see. I have
nought in common with them. I belong to the land of my birth, where the
present is beautiful with the splendors of the past. What are my books,
my studies, to these people? Nothing. They tolerate my eccentricity;
they listen patronizingly to the tales of what has been; but they bemoan
my wasted time, and would fain teach me to throw away my embroidery
needle and learn to use their horrible sewing-machines. My music is my
saving grace, but they approve of it more than they enjoy it."
Millicent spoke rapidly and with shining eyes. She had at last found a
soul which, if not kindred to her own, was at least capable of an
intelligent sympathy.
"It is not strange that you should feel as you do; and, believe me, I
can sympathize with you; and yet, do not be hurt if I tell you that this
very transplanting is the thing which you needed. Do you know how the
finest peaches are produced? To borrow another simile from nature, it is
by taking a slip from an old tree and grafting it to the sturdy trunk of
a young fruit tree, that the most perfect fruit is obtained. Be not
afraid; the wound will heal; and the strong, vigorous sap of the young
tree will make the blossom, which now droops, bloom as a rare fruit."
"I do not want it. I do not belong here. I have no part, no sympathy
with it," she said rebelliously. "I hate it, this land, where you all
strive for money, not for art, and where fame is measured out with
ingots for weights."
"When I was in Venice," said Graham, "there was with me a fellow artist,
a student like myself. We took our first trip through the Grand Canal
together. I remember his first criticism. Shall I tell it to you? It
was this: 'How terrible to see cabbage leaves floating on the Grand