The San Rosario Ranch
Canal!' It was the feature which first struck him. For years after he
lived in the wonderful city, loving it better, painting it more truly,
day by day. He has long since forgotten the cabbage leaves which at
first annoyed his nice English taste. Believe me, you will find, above
and beneath the things which now jar and shock your nerves, much that is
grand in this country which you will one day be proud to call your own."
"Never, never!" she cried impetuously.
At this moment voices sounded in the hall, and several persons entered
the library. These were Barbara and her mother, Hal Deering, and a
short gentleman with a very large round head, on which the coarse black
hair, closely cropped, stood straight in air, like the hobbed mane of a
Mexican pony. His piercing black eyes were set too close to the
well-shaped aquiline nose; and the black mustache curled fiercely from
the upper lip, revealing a good mouth set with strong white teeth. His
forehead was deeply seared with lines which betokened frequent frowns,
but the wrinkles about the mouth looked as if it might be in the habit
of laughing constantly. A good olive complexion made the face not
ill-looking, while the small, well-modelled hands and feet redeemed the
rather unwieldy little body from absolute ugliness. On seeing Graham,
the new-comer frowned fiercely and twisted his mustache upward in an
irritated manner. When the artist stepped forward so that the light
from the lamp fell on his face, the irate expression died from the
countenance of the little gentleman; and, with a fat, good-natured
laugh, he shook him warmly by the hand, turning his mustachios downward
so that they resembled drooping commas. This act altered the expression
of his countenance to an extraordinary degree, half its ferocity having
disappeared with the tight upward twist of the mustache.
By some coincidence or providence this had been a red-letter day in the
lives of several in the party. The morning mail had brought young
Deering the welcome news that his favorite pair of oxen had taken a
prize at a cattle-show the day before. The gentle mother had received a
letter by the same mail from her wandering son-in-law, Ralph Almsford,
full of affection and promising a speedy return to the Ranch. Ferrara
was greatly elated by Barbara's having driven down to the station to
meet him; and Millicent seemed, for the first time since her arrival at
the Ranch, to be thoroughly alive and awake. Her pale cheek was softly
flushed, the color shining through the luminous skin like the fire of an
opal seen beneath its milky veil. Her eyes, usually deep and earnest,
but without great animation, were lit by a flame which was not reflected
from the firelight. Barbara was happy because those about her were so.
Her musical little laugh was not mechanical to-night; she was really in
good spirits and in no need of feigning them. Graham's rather frozen
existence seemed to be melted by the genial company; and the evening
passed by with that lightning rapidity unknown in social gatherings, no
matter how magnificently they be appointed, where the spirit of
cordiality and good-fellowship is lacking. Music was not wanting to
complete the jollity. Ferrara sang some delightful Spanish songs with
more animation than voice; and, to the astonishment of the company,
Millicent, who until that moment had not sung a note, at Graham's
request seated herself at the piano, and sang, with a voice of rare
beauty and power, ballads tender and war-songs gay, old Italian music of
masters long forgotten.
"Sweet Mistress Deering, will you not give us some music?" asked Graham,
as Millicent left the piano.
"After such singing as Millicent's and Mr. Ferrara's, my little thread
of a voice could hardly be heard, Graham."
"Play for us then, my lady. Miss Barbara, are you not in the mood for a
dance?"
"Of course she is," said Hal, "and so is Ferrara. Come, Princess, I
will give you your first lesson in the American waltz."
The young men rolled back the huge rugs, leaving the hard-wood floor
exposed. Mrs. Deering placed herself at the piano and struck up a
little old-fashioned waltz which she had learned in her youth, and
Millicent was whirled off her feet by her energetic partner. Not till
she had danced twice with Deering and Ferrara, did Graham claim her hand
for a waltz; and not till Mrs. Deering struck the last chords of the
music did he loose her waist from his circling arm. Then a stroll on the
piazza was proposed, and it was not till the last stroke of twelve
warned them that the new day had begun that the party broke up. Barbara
and Millicent stood together watching for Hal, who had gone to fetch
Graham's horse, when the artist joined them on the piazza and bade them
good-night. Millicent, with her foreign breeding, never had conformed
to the American habit of hand-shaking, but when Graham wished her
good-night she instinctively and unconsciously gave him her hand. He
held it possibly a half second longer than was necessary, and then
sprang on his horse. As he rode down the dark path, he turned in his
saddle and took a last look at the house. Barbara had gone indoors; one
figure alone stood beneath the rose-vine with bare white arms, the
figure he had seen on his arrival earlier in the evening.
"Good-night to you," he cried. The deep, musical tones were answered by
a farewell greeting from the girl who stood there alone in the night
watching his retreating form.
CHAPTER IV.
"Then, in the boyhood of the year,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Rode through the coverts of the deer
With blissful treble ringing clear;
She seemed a part of joyous Spring."
Though the greater part of his time was spent in the old tower, John
Graham was well known in San Francisco. His studio, at the top of a
tall apartment-house in one of the unfrequented thoroughfares of the
city, was familiar to most of its aspirants to artistic fame. In this
large bare room, with its strong north light, there assembled every
morning a dozen young men who were busily engaged in cast drawing and
model painting. To the instruction of these youths two days of the week
were devoted by the artist, whose only recompense was in the gratitude
of his scholars. One morning not long after his meeting with Miss
Almsford, John Graham might have been seen carefully examining his
pupils' work, giving a word of advice here, a criticism there, and a
hearty encouragement to all. On his return from Paris he had opened his
studio to all those who were desirous of studying art. The first year
he had had but three students; at the end of the second year the number
had quadrupled. On the morning in question Graham had arrived with a
new model,--a rough-looking fellow whom he had met in the street, and
induced to accompany him to the studio. On a platform at the end of the
room stood the stalwart model; while the artist, standing beside him,
gave an off-hand lecture on anatomy, the students sketched the man or
took notes of what their master was saying. It was not Graham's habit
to do any work at the studio; but this morning, after he had finished
his discourse, he placed himself at a vacant easel, and with a strong,
bold hand made a free drawing of the superbly modelled figure. As he
worked he forgot his class, his lecture, everything but the canvas
before him and the subject he was studying. As the sketch grew beneath
his hand the scholars one by one forsook their work, and stood watching
him silently. The perfect confidence with which he worked--never
hesitating, never altering what was already done--was fascinating to the
younger men; and even the sculptor, Arthur Northcote, who inhabited the
adjoining studio, stopped on his way upstairs and joined the group
behind his chair. When the model declared himself unable longer to
maintain the pose in which he had been placed, Graham threw down his
brush with a sigh, saying,--
"Well, Horton, you may go now if you must, but do not fail to come
to-morrow. I have your name correctly,--Daniel Horton? Where do you
live?"
The stranger declined to give his address, and promised to come the next
day at the appointed hour. After he had left the room the artist had
something to say about expression, characterizing the face of the model
as one indicative of brutal cunning and impudent daring.
As Graham quitted the studio the young sculptor joined him, and they
walked together toward the station. Northcote was a slender, delicately
built man some years Graham's junior. His face was instinct with the
poetry of art, but was lacking in force. By the side of Graham's
strong, resolute countenance his delicate features appeared weak and
effeminate. The younger man took his friend's arm, as if relying on him
for physical as well as moral support, and said as they walked along,--
"Graham, where did you pick up that model this morning?"
"I found him lounging about the station. Why do you ask?"
"He has such a bad face. You should be more careful about the men you
engage to pose for you."
"And why, Arthur?"
"Because you lead such an unprotected life in that terrible old ruin."
"What a fanciful creature you are, Northcote. As if there was anything
to be gained in molesting a beggarly artist in an inaccessible fortress.
You have never seen my tower, or you would not think that it would be an
attractive spot to thieves."
"Did you not hear," continued Northcote, "of that case of abduction in
Cathgate County last week? A man was carried off by a pair of brigands,
and kept for a week until a large sum of money was paid for his ransom."
"What manner of man was he?"
"The president of the county bank."
"Well, my dear Arthur, when I become a bank president, or even a
railroad treasurer, I will take better care of my worthless self. At
present I am not a promising prize to the most sanguine kidnapper. I
can fancy your feelings on receiving a notice that, unless five thousand
dollars be left in the hollow of a blasted pine-tree on the high-road at
San Rosario, a slice of my right ear would be forwarded by way of a
reminder! When are you coming out to pass the night with me?"
"When I have sold my Diana, or when Patrick Shallop gives me an order
for a life-size statue of himself."
"Come with me to-day. It will do you good to pass an afternoon in the
woods."
"Do not ask me. I will take nothing more from you, Graham,--I
cannot,--not even a piece of bread, until--"
"Well, if you are so obstinate, farewell to you. I must hurry or I shall
miss my train."
The two men shook hands the sculptor turning into a dingy restaurant,
the artist walking rapidly in the direction of the railroad station.
Arthur Northcote made a light repast,--for he was poorer than usual that
day,--and soon returned to his studio, whose rental was defrayed by his
friend's slender purse.
Graham caught his train, and reached San Rosario at about three o'clock.
He found his horse at the station, and rode toward the house. At a
distant point he caught a glimpse of two figures on the piazza, which he
recognized as those of Miss Almsford and Hal Deering, who were talking
together, quite unconscious of his approach.
"So you like Graham?" Henry Deering was the speaker.
"Of course I like him. I told you I should, from the moment you
described his queer tower and his solitary life to me. I always like
people who have something to characterize them and set them apart from
the mere dead-level rank and file of mediocrity," answered Millicent.
"But may not a hermit like Graham be mediocre like everybody else?"
"No, the fact of his living alone does not make him interesting; but he