CHAPTER VII."A flame! Her clear soul's essence slips,To steep for aye with mine, from her fast-whitening lips!"Several days passed before these two who, hand in hand, had looked death in the face, and felt his chill breath freezing up the current of their lives, again saw one another. Graham, after twenty-four hours, was able to be about, looking pale and ill. The congestive chill which had overcome him was the result of his having plunged into the sea while very much over-heated. The water at San Real, and indeed all along the Pacific coast, is very much colder than at the Eastern watering places of a corresponding latitude, where the genial influence of the Gulf Stream is felt. His vigorous constitution quickly threw off the effects of the terrible experience; but three long days and nights wore themselves out before Millicent's light step sounded on the stairs. Mrs. Shallop and Barbara were sitting alone at the luncheon table, when the latter caught the sound of the well-known footfall; she hastily left the room, and running up the stairs passed her arm about the feeble girl, supporting her into the room."Why did you not tell me that you were coming? Do you think it prudent, dear?""Yes, I wanted to come, and the doctor said I should do whatever I fancied," she answered a little fretfully; then she smiled, with that flashing of the eyes that always won her pardon for any little sin. It was a strange coincidence, Barbara thought, that Millicent should have come downstairs for the first time on the morning when Graham had gone to San Francisco. It was his first absence since the beginning of their visit. Why should she avoid meeting the man whose life she had saved at the risk of her own? Graham had every day begged to see her, but Millicent had not felt equal to the interview. Barbara was genuinely puzzled; but then Barbara was often puzzled by Millicent. During the days just past her gentle care and nursing had brought her much nearer to Millicent than she had been before. In those long mornings when Barbara, in a full, deep voice, read to her from her favorite books, Millicent had time to think more about her new friend; and the more she thought about her the better she liked the sweet, sound, womanly nature, with its domestic instincts, and maternal care of all creatures sick or sorry. One morning, as the invalid lay upon her couch, while Barbara's gentle hands plaited her long hair in thick strands, she said, somewhat abruptly,--"Barbara, why have you not married?""What an odd question!""If you knew what a charming wife you would make, you would think the question a most natural one. I suppose you have been in love?""I suppose so," jestingly."Bah! talk seriously for a moment with me. Why do you not marry Ferrara? The poor fellow is perfectly pathetic in his devotion to you. You know, Barbara, that matrimony would suit you delightfully; there is nothing so becoming to a woman of your type as the background of a home of her own. There you would shine like Jessica's candle in this naughty world.""I have never thought about it in the way of a background.""Of course you never did; but, Barbara, do you think you could fall in love again?""Who knows?""Then I know that you have never been in love at all,ma belle--oh, I forgot, and have broken my vow to speak English pure and simple. Well, never mind, now we will talk about my broth, for I am very hungry. I feel like little Rosalba in the 'Rose and the Ring,' when she went about crying, 'Dutess Tountess, my royal highness vely hungy.'"Long confidences had followed this conversation; and Millicent listened to Barbara's account of a childish romance with that deep interest which women all feel in the heart experiences of their sisters. Such sympathy is born in the feminine breast before the power of loving awakes there, and dies not when experience has brought nothing to it but grief and bitterness. The veriest chit of a girl of ten will read a love-story if she be allowed, while her brothers are inventing ingenious instruments for the torture of cats and nurses. The deafest grandam will listen with keen interest to her favorite grand-daughter's confession of love, and will be careful not to chill young hopes with her own sad memories. All those who have loved truly, with that love which outlasts grief, death, and human passion, which smiles at the cruelest neglect, which, like the love of the Most High, passeth all understanding, have sympathy and kindly interest for those who are in love. That "all the world loves a lover," is the truest of all sayings.As soon as they were alone, Millicent told Barbara that she was anxious to return to the Ranch the following day. Since her first meeting with John Graham, her life had danced away through bright hours passed in his company, in remembering past interviews, in looking forward to future meetings. In the long days when she lay weak and helpless, slowly recovering from the terrible drain on forces, nervous and muscular, she had thought long and deeply; and now that she was well, she did not wish to meet Graham, and avoided his presence. She realized, as she had not done before, that she deeply and irrevocably loved this man, whose name six months ago had been unknown to her. Whether this understanding of what was in her own heart came upon her in one broad flash of quickened intelligence, when she lay half swallowed up by the jaws of death, still clasping him with feeble hands, or if, in the quiet hours of introspection which followed that awful moment, she gradually learned the truth, it would be hard to say, but that she now knew it, was indubitable. The fact that the man she loved should be indebted to her for his life was a distasteful one. Not through gratitude did she wish to attract him; the very thought of it was galling to her. She loved him, and longed, with the deepest power in her soul, to arouse in his breast that answering passion, which, like a deep bass chord, mingles with the sweet treble song of woman's love, their harmony making the one perfect note to which the keystone of the universe trembles sympathetically. Sweet as was the thought that her strength had sufficed for them both, she mourned the chance which had made her hand the rescuing one. Love that springs from gratitude or from pity is earth-born and earth-bound; she would have none of it; it was as if she had a claim upon him for that gift, which if not freely given is valueless. So, with a shyness new to her, she avoided meeting Graham; and the night of his return she sought her room again and did not appear until the following morning. If Graham did not know all, he was ready enough to understand that she avoided his thanks.Mrs. Shallop passed the last evening of her guests' visit sitting with Miss Almsford, answering her many eager questions of the strange, wild days when law and order were not in the broad golden land. It seemed almost incredible to Millicent, and yet she felt it to be true, that the wife of the mining king regretted the past days of poverty and simplicity. The hard-earned crust, shared with a husband whose every thought was known to her, had tasted sweeter than the luxuries of a table at which she often sat alone, or with a partner absorbed in thoughts and enterprises in which she had no part. Her children had then been entirely hers; now they were far distant,--the boy at an English college, the girl in a French conventual school, whence they would both return grown too clever and proud to care for her simple-hearted companionship. What mattered it that she had toiled day and night to buy them food and clothing, had worn out her poor body and dulled her simple mind with anxious overstrain and grinding labor? Would they thank her for it now? When, a year before, she had visited these adored children, she had felt the distance between them and herself. If her son had not been ashamed of his poor mother, it was only because his heart was not quite weaned from hers. The girl was gentle and kind; but the pitying care with which she brought her conversation to the level of her mother's understanding was all too obvious to the sensitive woman, whose nervous strength had been shattered in the hard fight which she had made all those years ago, to keep the breath of life in their little bodies. Half her life had been passed at the wash-tub, half in the drawing-room; the transition had been too sudden for a person of her temperament. The soapsuds, which used to flash the splintered rays of light from her hands, were more appropriate to them than the diamonds with which they now glittered. Poor woman, the extremes of fortune were both known to her.Though their visit had been a delightful one, Millicent was anxious to return to the Ranch; she longed for the quiet, refined atmosphere of the place, with its simple comforts, doubly attractive after this experience of the luxurious but inappropriate house of Mr. Patrick Shallop. There is a certain fitness in things; and the ex-miner, living in the palace of the railroad king, was less at home than England's monarch could have been in the cowherd's hovel. Millicent felt the socialmalaisewhich arises from the incongruity of persons with their surroundings. Graham, interested in his portrait, which was coming on famously, was not easily affected by a personal atmosphere to which he was indifferent; while Barbara and Ferrara, used to a similar condition of things, accepted it without question.The morning of the last day of their visit dawned bright and clear; and Millicent, standing on the terrace, thought the wide view had never seemed so beautiful before. She was taking farewell of that sea which had so nearly swallowed her young life with all its hopes and fears. The waves murmured with a gentle sound, as if quite oblivious of their late rapacity. She went out into the thick pine woods behind the house, and stood for the last time among the great redwoods, which to her were so wonderful, and which everybody else accepted as a matter of course. A well-known footstep behind her on the dry leaves caused the slight pink tinge which the morning breeze had brought to her cheek to fade suddenly; the blood seemed rushing from every vein back to its source, and her heart stopped its pulsations for a moment. She did not turn her head, but stood quite silent, waiting for Graham's first word. When he was at her side, she felt her hand suddenly caught in a warm pressure which sent the blood rushing through the arteries again, tingling painfully in every fibre of her body, and loosening the cold silence of the heart, which beat out a quick answer to the words of greeting. They were but few and very earnest, the words of a brave man glad to be beholden to so fair a woman for his life. Was it gratitude that made his voice tremble, that lighted his grave eyes with a smile?She answered him sweetly and seriously, with a steady voice and calm eyes, though the rose-flush flooded and ebbed from her cheek and brow. The man did not trouble himself to analyze the feelings which gave rise to the fleeting blushes; he was too full of his own enthusiasm to notice how it affected its object. He spoke as he felt and thought of the woman standing there so full of life and beauty,--only in the light of his relation to her. He knew how he felt towards her, and told her so with admiring frankness; of her feelings towards himself he never stopped to think. His was an egotistic nature, as are those of all strong men whose personality stamps the age in which they live. Weaker men and women receive the imprint of their time; only the few strong ones leave their images impressed when the soft clay of the present is transmitted into the unmalleable granite of the past.They walked together for a time, Graham full of anxious inquiry for her health, and Millicent happy in his anxiety. When the artist learned of the proposed departure, he strongly opposed it, urging a longer stay. When he found that the young ladies had decided to leave San Real, he announced his intention of accompanying them. Mrs. Shallop shortly afterward joined the pair and handed Millicent a newspaper, at which the girl looked quite indifferently until her eyes caught her own name in large letters at the head of a column. She quickly read the article, which proved to be a highly sensational account of the rescue of Graham.A FIGHT WITH DEATH!--Heroism of a Young Girl!--John Graham rescued from Drowning by Beautiful Millicent Almsford!--The Personal Appearance of the Heroine!--Early History of the Lucky Man!These headings preceded the two-column article at which Graham laughed contemptuously, and which drew hot tears from Millicent's eyes. She had never before seen her own name in print, and the freedom with which the Anglo-Saxon press deals with the affairs of ladies who have no claim on the public interest was unknown to her. She only felt that her name was being spoken by people who never had heard of her; that the most sacred and awful hour of her life was revealed to the world; and that the event of which she had hardly spoken, and of which she barely dared to think, was now familiar to thousands of indifferent readers. The news had in fact been telegraphed to one of the large New York papers, and in the course of a week filtered down through the smaller organs of that city to the suburban press, and was read and forgotten by the careless public throughout the length and breadth of this enlightened land. To Mrs. Shallop and Barbara, accustomed to the vagaries of American journalism, the state of mind into which Millicent was thrown by the article in the San Francisco "Roarer," was entirely surprising. It was without doubt annoying, but they had both become so accustomed to seeing their own names and those of their friends in the columns of the daily journals, that Millicent's horror and indignation seemed disproportionate to the cause. This utter disrespect of the privacy of life which is the right of all men and women leading peaceable lives, breaking no law of the civil or social statutes, is the crying sin of modern journalism. When they are charged with this, the journals very tritely retort that "social news" pays better than any other class of matter; that its insertion is more often prized and sought after by the individuals mentioned than resented by them; that much of the personal news is actually furnished by the individuals whom it most concerns; and that they but supply the demand of their readers. It would be well for them to remember that to pander to the public taste is not the highest object open to journalism; to elevate that taste were a task more deserving of commendation, and less unworthy of good printer's ink and paper.The next mail brought two letters for Millicent; one from a well-known photographer asking her for an early sitting, and begging that he might have the sole privilege of photographing her. The other communication was a civil letter from the editor of a weekly journal, asking for a slight autobiographical sketch from the hand of the heroine of San Real. In the course of the morning a reporter from the California "Bugle," a rival sheet, arrived and requested an interview with Miss Almsford and Mr. Graham, from which to compile an article on "The Rescuer and the Rescued." Millicent's eyes flashed angrily when the import of the small printed visiting-card bearing the name of this nineteenth-century inquisitor was explained to her. She was heard to murmur, beneath her breath, some Italian words highly inimical to the smart young person who was taking the opportunity to examine Mrs. Shallop's drawing-room with an eye to future "notes." She was astonished when Graham quietly lighted a cigarette, and asking that the gentleman might be shown into the smoking-room, joined him there."Why does he not beat him?" she cried. "If I were a man I should thrust him from the house.""And be held up to the public as a brutal assassin?" laughed Barbara. "No, no, my dear, let Mr. Graham alone; he knows best how to manage the visitor. It never does to insult those gentlemen; they are dangerous enemies, and have the public's ear into which to pour all their grievances. Our friend will draw the fire on himself, I fancy, in order to spare you. News the news-fiend must have; he will make it himself if it be not provided for him. Poor thing! he must live, after all, as well as you or I. It is not his fault that he is obliged to interview people; it must be a very disagreeable profession."Thus kindly and with wide sympathy did Barbara Deering judge all men and women; ay, and reporters too, together with babies, Chinamen, and other unfortunate works of God. Graham returned in a quarter of an hour, having appeased his visitor with the aid of a good cigar and a champagne cocktail, compounded by the careful hand of the solemn-faced butler.Millicent was still flushed and excited, all Barbara's arguments having failed to soothe her nerves. Graham, with one sentence, banished the angry dint from her white forehead and brought a smile back to her face. The hour of the last good-bys had arrived; and the guests took leave of their kind hostess, with promises to repeat their visit before long. Little Mrs. Shallop really cried at parting with Millicent, to whom she had become greatly attached. She sighed as the carriage disappeared from view, bearing its freight of young people with their vivid lives and strong interests. When she went back to her great lonely drawing-room, with its splendid furnishings, she realized what a fitting frame it had made for the two pretty young guests, and how unsuitable it was to her simple tastes. The house was dreary without their joyous voices and quick footsteps.Just after sundown the travellers reached the San Rosario station, where Hal was awaiting them in the great red-painted wagon. The two sturdy mules were supplemented by old Sphinx harnessed before them, making what is known as a spiked team."Hail! the conquering Heroine comes! sound the trumpets, beat the drums!" cried the irrepressible young rancher. "How is our most heroic Princess, and will she deign to enter the triumphal car which her humble slave has prepared for her?"They all laughed; but, through all the lively nonsense which he reeled off to them on the way to the house, Millicent felt that he had been really moved by what had occurred. The grip which he gave her hand spoke a volume of approval; and the loud clap on the shoulder with which he greeted Graham expressed more than a dozen sentences of rhetorical eloquence could have done. The antics of the unicorn team were extremely diverting; and these, with the absurdities which Hal perpetrated at every step of the road, brought the quartette to the house door "in a state of merriment bordering on idiocy," as he expressed it. Mrs. Deering, with her sweet motherly greeting, made their return seem a home-coming to Millicent and Graham, as well as to Barbara, the tall daughter of the house. Her hospitality was so genuinely of the heart that the recipient of it was made to feel that it was simply his due, and that his presence was as great a favor to the hostess as her kindness was to him.Graham was warmly urged to stay over night, but he resisted the temptation of remaining. Neither Millicent's voice nor Millicent's eyes had supplemented the invitation.As they paced the path together, her hand lying on his arm, Graham told Mrs. Deering, in a low voice, of all that had happened since their departure,--of the pleasant days with their excursions; of the new impressions made on Millicent by all that she saw; of the friends whom he had met, remembering all the kind messages which had been sent to the gentlechâtelaineof San Rosario; of Barbara's sweetness and Mrs. Shallop's hospitality; of the progress he had made on the portrait of his hostess; of the thousand-and-one little items of news so welcome to people leading a life of quiet isolation. Then in graver tones he spoke of his great peril and Millicent's bravery, of the strange thoughts which had crossed his mind in that last moment of consciousness, how her face as well as his mother's had been revealed to him as in a vision. All this was listened to with that perfect sympathy that is always ready to receive confidences, and which forbears to claim them when they are not spontaneously given. Blessed among women are these rare ones to whom motherless sons can confide every hope and disappointment, sure of a quick sympathy, and in whom the mighty instinct of maternity is not satisfied in ministering to their own flesh and blood, but springs forth to succor all who are suffering for the gentle mother love.It was late when these two said good-night, and Graham went to find the others to take farewell. Barbara and Hal were singing duets. They had neither of them seen Millicent, and fancied that she must have gone to her room. With a sense of cold disappointment and injury the young man left the house. As he passed by the corner of the piazza he fancied he saw a figure standing close in the shadow of an angle. He stopped; the figure remained motionless; through the heavy drapery of the vines he could not tell whether it was a person or merely a shadow."Who is it?" he asked in a low voice. No answer came, but through the stillness of the night he thought he heard the sound of a quick-drawn breath. Putting the honeysuckle aside he stepped on the piazza, and found that his eyes had not deceived him. Millicent stood beneath the rose vines. When she saw that she was discovered she spoke with a light laugh:"I did not want you to see me, for I have been unsociable this evening, and hoped you would all think I had gone to bed.""Is it not damp for you to be sitting out-of-doors?" he asked, with a voice grown deep and tender."Oh, no! I am quite used to it. What a wonderful night! I think I never saw the stars so brilliant."The girl seated herself on the edge of the piazza, Graham placing a cushion under her feet and taking his place at her side. It was a perfectly still evening, the only sound being the far-away tinkle of a sheep bell. There was a moment of dangerous silence, which Millicent broke a little nervously, speaking of Italy, of Mrs. Shallop and their late visit, of Hal's irresistible wit, of any one of the subjects which danced through her brain. She was afraid to be silent, and feared yet longed for what might be said if she left too long a pause. The spell which kept Graham at her side when he should have been half way to his lonely tower, began to assert itself over the woman, always the last to yield. The man had long since abandoned himself to that mysterious state of being in which every nerve of brain and every pulse of heart yearns for sympathy and reaches out toward its counterpart. At last she was silent, the last commonplace dying half spoken on her trembling lips. Silence now in all the land; only the sound of heart-beats which each felt must reach the other's ears. Stars more tender than those of heaven shone close to Graham through the blue-black night; a breath sweeter than the wind stirring the honeysuckle touched his cheek. At length that silence, more musical than sweetest harmony, was broken by a low, deep voice."May I kiss you?" said the voice.What was the faint sound which the night wind wafted to his ear? Was it the whirring of the humming birds whose nest hung close by? Was it the far-off silver ripple of the brooklet, or the cadence of the distant sheep-bell? Was it that sweeter sound than note of mating bird, of falling water, or of faint bell-chime,--was it a loving woman's "Yes"?CHAPTER VIII."Oui, les premiers baisers, oui, les premiers sermentsQue deux êtres mortels échangerent sur terreCe fut au pied d' un arbre effeuillé par les vents,Sur un roc en poussière."When he awoke the next morning, John Graham gave a deep sigh. His dreams had been so sweet that no reality could equal their happiness. As he sat on the edge of his narrow bed disentangling what was real from what was dream-born in his thoughts, his eye fell upon the knot of roses which he had taken from Millicent's hair the night before, and had clasped to his lips as he fell asleep. They were faded now, but they still gave out a strong perfume. His cheek had been wounded by a thorn, but he kissed the wilted posies, for all that, placed the little bouquet tenderly in an exquisite Venetian vase, and then bounded down the stairway of his tower and across the narrow space which led to a clear deep pool where a crystal stream fell in a white cataract to a rocky basin. The foam-bubbles danced joyously in the clear dark waters, and the plashing of the fall had a sound of a sweet deep voice which had grown very dear to him. A mossy bank, shaded by two drooping trees, sloped to the edge of this natural bath, refreshing enough to have tempted Diana from the chase. As Graham plunged into the cool waters he shouted out a verse of a song he had learned long ago. Attracted by the sound of his voice, French John laid down his axe beside the young tree he was about to fell, and came down to the pool where Graham was vigorously tossing about the bright water. The old wood-cutter looked at the young man as if the sight did him good. He responded to the uproarious greeting which the artist shouted to him, by his usual silent nod of the head. Had words been worth their weight in diamond dust, the old soldier could not have been more chary of wasting them, but the look in his faded blue eyes was gentle and full of admiration. He had had a son of whom he had lost all trace since its infancy. If the boy had lived he would have been about Graham's age, and it was the man's fancy that he would have resembled his patron. He imagined he could trace in the splendidly modelled arms and legs and the strong, perfectly proportioned torso of the bather the shape into which the baby contours he remembered so well must have developed. Graham had by this time gained the green turf and stood shaking the water out of his thick hair, drawing quick panting breaths, meanwhile, and springing about to warm himself, with the grace and strength of a leopard. The old Frenchman gave a deep sigh as he looked at him."Yes; Hector certainly must resemble this young man," he murmured, as he wetted his hard hands, and, grasping the handle of his axe, smote heavily at the stem of a young pine-tree. Graham rapidly made his toilet in the open air. The plunge in the clear cold water had rather stimulated than expended the electric, nervous force which ran through his veins, quickening the life-blood in its flow. He felt ten years younger since yesterday morning. His thirty years and the gravity they had brought to him had shrunk to twenty. As he looked up at his tower he sang aloud a snatch of an old song which had been often on his lips in those happy, careless days in theRue d' Enfer,--words which he had painted over the tiny grate in the cramped apartment under the leads, where he had suffered from heat all summer, and shivered all winter:Dans un grenier qu' on est bienA vingt ans, à vingt ans!He would have liked to dance. Had his years in truth been but twenty, he would have yielded to the temptation. He would gladly have thrown his arms about the old Frenchman, for lack of another confidant, and have told him the cause of his happiness. But, after all, this reflex of youth could not entirely melt the reserve of manhood from him; he wore his thirty years lightly indeed, but could not shake them off."Give me your axe, John; I know something of your woodman's craft; let me show you how easily I can fell this young tree."He took the tool from the woodcutter, and, whirling the sharp edge in the air, laid it at the root of the tree with a ringing blow."It appears in truth that monsieur 'ave 'andled an axe before.""Surely, John. I once spent a summer with some friends of mine, who lived in a forest in Brittany; they weresabotiers.""Monsieur is jesting?""Not in the least. I not only can fell a tree,--clumsily enough, be it confessed,--but if I had the tools I could shape you a pair ofsabots, as good ones as you could buy for ten sous at Quimper; that is your town, I think?"He talked in short, jerky sentences between the strokes, while the white splinters flew about him like a hail-storm. After a few moments the knack which he seemed at first to have forgotten came back to him. The smell of the bruised bark was aromatic; the death-sigh of the young branches was musical as they trembled for the last time together, reaching out to touch their sister trees in solemn leave-taking. Their sigh was now drowned in the groan of the swaying tree."Take care, monsieur, take care; it is about to fall," cried the Frenchman.His warning was a timely one. Graham, so long unused to the exercise of the craft, had not noticed how deeply he had cut into the stem. The straight tree seemed to hesitate, tossing its branches helplessly heavenward, and then with a creaking sound crashed through the surrounding underbrush, and with a dull thud measured its slender length upon the earth. For a moment its branches shook convulsively, and then all was quiet. It seemed as if all nature paused at the fall of so fair a thing: the birds were silent in the thicket; the babble of the water-fall grew faint; and the wood creatures stirred not in their burrows. A mighty breeze crept through the forest, rustling the surrounding trees, wailing through the open gap as if in requiem, and a light cloud floated over the face of the sun, throwing its shadowy pall on the spot."That was well done, monsieur."And, at the sound of the man's voice, the cloud floated by and the sun shone out once more, the wood birds took up their song again, the squirrel in the hollow of the white oak went on cracking her nut, and the brief mourning was over.That man must feel himself indeed beloved, who fancies that the world will pause as long beside his grave as does the forest at the fall of one of its children.Not until the branches had been lopped off and the long stem cut into lengths, did Graham cease his labor. The exercise did him good, and gave him an appetite for the breakfast which old John served him in the open air. He declared that the coffee was better than could be had at theCafé de Paris; and assured John that neither Paris nor Vienna could produce such bread as that which the old man had baked in some mysterious manner in an oven of his own construction, made of flat stone sunk in the ground. Graham remembered that he had somewhere in the tower a bottle of rare old wine, which he sent John to fetch."Bring my glass and your tin cup, John."He needed sympathy, he who had lived for years without asking man or woman to share his joys or sorrows; he felt a new need in himself for human companionship; and the silent old fellow who did his bidding was the only soul to whom he could look for it. The ice which had encased his heart was broken; and instead of sternly demanding from his fellow-men honor, truth, and sincerity, he embraced the whole world in a warm, unquestioning love and sympathy. Yesterday he was a man who labored for his kind; to-day he was content to love them. Yesterday he was a reformer; to-day he was a philanthropist. The henchman returning with the wine, Graham filled the crystal goblet and the humble cup to the brim, and together these two denizens of the balmy forest drank to the new day which had dawned on the young man's life. After the long, black night which for months obscures the face of nature in the far northern land, the first rising of the sun touches the hearts of men with a deeper, more profound joy than the dwellers in a temperate zone can well understand. So was the light of this new love more glorious a thousand-fold to the man in whose life there had so long been darkness, than if it had arisen in a heart unacquainted with grief. In the first flush of happiness, his whole nature rebelled against the joyless life he had been leading; his work lost its attraction for him, and he could not have painted a stroke that day if his whole future reputation had depended upon it. The new impulse had swung him far out of his accustomed orbit; that there might be a rebound, he never for an instant fancied.He spent an hour in ransacking his tower to find the most beautiful thing he possessed to carry to Millicent. He wanted to go to her with something in his hand that might in some measure express the tide of generous feeling that flooded his whole nature. He still had a score of those treasures, souvenirs of his European residence, of which the greater part had found their way to the shelves and cabinets of his friends' houses. He spread them out before him on his one table, ruthlessly pushing aside paints, brushes, books, and drawing chalks, in a hubbub of disorder. With an intense interest he looked them all through. He had almost decided upon a rare Etruscan coin which he had seen roll from the palm of an exhumed skeleton, when his eye was caught by a tiny Tanagrine figure. The exquisite modelling of this clay toy, instinct with the beauty which pervaded every detail of Greek life, made it a more appropriate gift. The miniature woman was as truly proportioned as the Milo herself, and as surely constructed according to that greatest law of art that the world has yet seen evolved, the Greek, wherein are welded together the real and the ideal. A third article now struck his fancy as more appropriate than either of these for his first gift to Millicent. It was a crown of olive leaves of the purest gold, which might have bound Helen's brow. It had lain amidst the dust of eons which covers Troy with its pall; and now, in the nineteenth century, it was to serve as the gift of a Californian lover to his mistress. Surely, never before had the precious leaves encircled so fair a head as that which they were now destined to adorn.Among the many sins which had been laid at Graham's door by friend or foe, the vice of foppery was missing. That minute attention to every detail of dress, which is found as often in man as in woman, had no place in his busy life. He was, however, always neatly dressed; and the prosaic fashions of our time were modified as much as possible in his wardrobe, especially while he inhabited the forest. On this occasion, instead of one absent look in his small mirror, merely to ascertain if his hair were properly parted and his cravat neatly tied, a full hour was given to the process of dressing. Every suit of clothes, and each possible combination of the garments which his wardrobe afforded, were carefully considered. When at last the decision was made, the vest needed a button, which the artist laboriously attached to the garment. Taking a coarse linen thread strong enough for a halter, he made the button fast, taking several turns of the thread about its eye, as if he were belaying a rope. His cravat occupied him fully a quarter of an hour. He must have brushed his hair at least half a dozen times. He caught sight of his anxious face in the mirror, just as he was settling his cravat for the last time, and burst into a peal of laughter at his own dandyism. At the foot of the tower his sturdy mustang Tasso stood ready saddled. French John had given an extra polish to the sleek gray coat, bright enough to reflect the silver-studded Mexican bridle. A pair of red cockades, set at the ears of the beast, were made from flowers yielded by the small garden patch behind the woodcutter's cabin, where he raised flowers and vegetables for his patron and himself. The tall cock gave a condescending crow of approval as Graham mounted his horse; while the three cats sunning themselves near by hunched their backs at him, as if to express their disapproval of his idleness. It was still early in the afternoon, and it was not his wont to sally forth until the shadows were long. Where could he be going? they asked one of the other, purring inquisitively together like a group of women-folk over a cup of afternoon tea. Of all his brute friends, Tasso alone knew whither his master was going; he snorted scornfully at cats and cock, and, shaking his head playfully, sped over the bridle path with flying feet, as if conscious of the eyes that were watching for him, the ears that were strained to catch the first faint echo of his hoofs as they flashed over the stony orchard road.Those sweet eyes had not closed since they had last looked into Graham's; that white form had known no rest since it had slipped from his arms. The night, which had brought to him such peaceful dreams, was fraught with bitter memories to Millicent. She had paced her room through the long hours. No longer a half-yielding, shrinking maiden, but a woman, full of tears, before whom some great sorrow, long stifled, had risen up again. Was her nature then two-fold? While she was with other people, Millicent seemed a strong, self-reliant woman, pure and cold, with quick intellectual sympathies, and strong opinions and convictions. When in the society of the man she loved, his influence unfolded the closed petals of her heart as the sun kisses back the white leaves of the daisy, and uncovers its great golden centre to the eyes of all men. A new warmth shone from her eyes, and softened her silver voice. An unwonted shyness made her shrinking and timid under his gaze. A new life was born within her, so much stronger and more intense than any that she had ever known, that her past existence paled before it as the luminous circle of a night-lamp fades before the strong rays of morning. But when she was alone....Whatever her sombre thoughts had been, they were banished before she next met her lover. When she learned that he had come, she longed to fly from him out into the dim reaches of the forest, where he had told her half in jest that they had lived and loved before man's time began; when nymphs and dryads danced together in the shade of the oak-trees; when Pan reigned, and the earth was young. If she could have seen him in her own sanctum, where the light was softened by the dull green hanging of the wall, where the air was warm from the ever-flaming fire, and sweet with the spices burning in a great sea-shell, she would not have greatly cared; but the stereotyped drawing-room, with its blank white walls, was no place for their greeting. She went down the stairway and stood a moment before Graham; then, as he advanced towards her as if about to speak, she glided swiftly from the room across the hall and out into the sunlight.Barbara, standing near by, scattering corn to a flock of tame doves which fluttered about her, laughed as the light figure flitted by, with bare head, and delicate silken draperies fit only to rustle over soft carpets. Barbara laughed pleasantly, cheerily calling over her shoulder to her mother, who sat indoors,--"Look at Millicent racing with her own shadow.""'T is a substantial shadow, Bab, but otherwise the simile 's good," said Hal, as he passed by on his way to the dairy.And Barbara looked again, and looking sighed. Another figure had sped by her, down the orchard road towards the wood,--the figure of a man, pursuing the flying girl, with kindled face and fleet steps. She threw her last handful of grain to the circling doves, went into the stiff drawing-room, mechanically set straight the disordered chairs and drew down a shade where the light fell too hotly upon a breadth of carpet. She paused before a mirror and looked at her own pretty face clouded by a pain she would not explain. More than one lover had sued for her hand, earnestly and tenderly, but she had listened to no suit. No man had ever pursued her with fleet steps and sparkling eyes, no man had ever brought that expression of half-shamed happiness to her face which had made Millicent look just now like a child racing with her own shadow.In the forest Graham found her standing breathless beneath an oak-tree, whose branches had caught her gown and forced her to stay her flight."Again under that terrible oak; but I shall not lose you this time. Say that you will not vanish in his jealous arms.""He opens them to me no longer; he offers me no refuge now.""And I stand waiting for you, and hold out my hand for yours. Not for a dance now do I ask it, but for a happy walk which shall end only with our lives. Will you put your hand in mine?"For answer a little warm palm creeps into his broad fingers; and the oak-tree sighs a blessing on the betrothal of which he is the only witness.CHAPTER IX."And in the forest delicate clerks, unbrowned,Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds.Up with the dawn, they fancied the light airThat circled freshly in their forest dressMade them to boys again."The life of John Graham had been one wherein the sorrowful days far outnumbered the joyous ones. His youth had been saddened by the reverses and griefs which had pursued his parents with a relentless persistence. His home life had not been a happy one. In the large family of brothers and sisters there had been a meeting and clashing of strong, positive characters and opposing wills. An intense family pride was the one bond which united them. This sentiment, almost amounting to a passion, made the members cling closely to one another when there was little of sympathy to make a sweeter bond. Graham's parents had moved to California, from the Eastern town where they were both born, while he was still an infant. The first sixteen years of his life had been spent on the Pacific coast. At this age he was sent eastward to pursue his studies. The youth had already determined on devoting himself to art. The years passed at the famous New England college were very busy ones. The painful economies by which his beloved mother defrayed his college expenses were well known to the young man, and he held himself responsible to that dear and honored parent for every hour of his time. His active mind eagerly grasped such fruits of knowledge as were offered by that garden of learning, and his career in the university fully repaid the sacrifices which it had entailed. During all this time he never for an instant relinquished his fixed determination to become a painter. In the leisure hours when his companions were amusing themselves according to their several tastes, Graham was always found at his easel. Some wiseacre once suggested to the young man that Greek and Latin were expensive acquirements, likely to prove useless to a painter."And if I were to be a shoemaker, I should make better shoes for having studied the classics," was his reply to this admonition.He had not been among the popular men of his class, being very poor in leisure time, the currency which buys that most expensive commodity, popularity. He made few friends and no enemies. His strong, earnest nature commanded the respect of his fellows; and his studious example endeared him to a few of the most serious among them. At the age of twenty Graham went to Europe, where he passed the next eight years of his life in study and hard work. The sketches which he sent home brought him money enough to live on in that quarter of Paris where the young art students congregate. Poor enough the living had sometimes been; hunger and cold were well known to the youth by actual experience. When he lived at the rate of five francs a day he thought himself rich, and gave suppers in his studio,au cinquième, Rue d' Enfer. Times there had been, while he was at work upon his greatSalonpicture of St. Paul, when a loaf of bread and five sous' worth of the rough red wine of the people, had sufficed for his day's provender. Those days of earnest work among the gay companions, whose lives much resembled his own, were, perhaps, the happiest time in the life of the young artist. Success had not been wanting to crown his efforts. The picture on which he toiled for weary days and months received "honorable mention" from the judges of theSalon; and to the passing fame which this success brought him, he owed his introduction to the woman who had so spoiled the happiness of his youth. She was his compatriot, the daughter of a rich Parisian American, who desired to make the acquaintance of the artist hero of the hour. The young woman was beautiful, heartless, and slightly emotional. While in the society of the handsome, spiritual painter, she yielded to the charm his strong spirit exercised over her; and it was not long before their names were linked together by the small world which knew them both. But Graham's happiness was short-lived; and a few months served to show him the cold, shallow nature of the woman who had aroused his first passion. After he had been jilted and disillusioned, he turned his back upon the city where he had learned and suffered so much, and became a wanderer on the face of Europe. One year found him painting the beauties of Southern Spain; the next saw him sketching the wonderful scenery which lies about Stockholm.About two years before the opening of our story he had returned to San Francisco, with a portfolio of sketches, a few hundred dollars, and a prodigious store of canvases, paints, and brushes. He was welcomed by the many friends who had followed his career with interest, and soon received more orders for portraits than he could well fill. His taste led him to prefer another branch of painting; and it was for the purpose of studying the very beautiful scenery in the neighborhood of San Rosario that he had established himself in the tower of the old Spanish Mission. He was also partly induced to take this step, because he found that home life, always irksome to him, had become, after his long emancipation from domestic rules and regulations, wellnigh intolerable.Graham's character was a peculiar one, full of contradictory traits; it might be compared to a mass of white quartz, through which ran deep veins of the purest gold. In some respects it was a hard nature, with certain tender qualities; and nowhere was there to be found an ounce of base metal; a pitiless nature, which knew not how to forgive either its own faults or those of his fellow-men. If his judgments of others were harsh, his self-despair was sometimes fanatical. His ideal of manhood was as pure and noble as was that of the perfect King Arthur; that he failed a hundred times a day in living up to it, had not the effect of lowering that ideal one hair's-breadth. His highest duty was towards his own soul and its struggle to reach the perfection he held it to be capable of attaining. With the mind of an ascetic, he was endowed with a warm, sensuous temperament, having a passionate delight in beauty, light, and color, and capable of living through the senses with the keen enjoyment of a Sybarite. A strain of music, a beautiful flower, or a fair child moved him to a degree of pleasure that to any nature save an artistic one was incomprehensible. Filled with pity at the sight of distress, he would unhesitatingly give his last dollar to a needy rascal; but if appealed to for sympathy by the same sinner, the scorching contempt by which he would blast the shameful deeds for which, to him, there was no palliation, would leave the wrong-doer a sadder if not a wiser man. Because he expected so much of men, their short-comings outraged him. To a man of this character it was easier, if not better, to avoid the paths of his fellows; and his life had often been that of a hermit, even when he dwelt in the busiest cities of the world. Not willing that one shadow from the burden of his life should fall upon the paths of those who cared for him, his voice and face were always cheery when in their company. He wanted not the sympathy of man or woman, and endured what griefs were given him to bear in silence and alone. That divine mandate, "Bear ye one another's burdens," was meaningless to him; for he had ever borne his burden unsupported and unhelped. The struggle between the two sides of his nature, the ascetic and the poetic, seemed sometimes like to rend soul and body apart; at other times both contending forces seemed asleep, and the current of his life flowed peacefully on. There were periods when the tender golden veins seemed to overlap and hide the flinty quartz; then he felt alive, with thrilling pulses and lips breaking into song; then he painted rapidly, painlessly, achieving quick successes, sometimes making brilliant failures. At other periods hyper-criticism of himself seemed to weight his brush and dim his vision, to take the color from the warm earth and tender sky; then the life-blood pulsed slowly through his veins, and he forgot to sing.Into the existence of this self-centred being, with its extremes of cold and warmth, few personal influences had crept; and now, for the first time in many years, he felt his life to have become entangled, for good or ill, with that of another human creature. Since his first meeting with Millicent, on that memorable night when he had found her the central figure of a picture of warmth and comfort, his frozen existence had been thawed and made happy by the subtle influence which she wielded over him. Without reasoning with himself, he had yielded to the pleasurable charm, only amazed, and perhaps a little glad, to find that there was a woman who could rob him of his well-earned sleep, and dance through his dreams at night with a wilful persistence. If he had been obliged to characterize the influence which the girl held over him, he would probably have said that she made his life vivid, and reminded him that his nature was human and not mechanical. Day by day her presence became more necessary to him; and his work was slighted, or hastily performed, in order that he might be free the sooner to reach her side. Without retrospection or introspection he had lived through the pleasant days at San Real, when Millicent's heroic behavior had made him feel doubly grateful to her: he now owed her his life, as well as the new pleasure in that life. When the happy visit had come to an end, and he had parted with her after the return to the Ranch, it had seemed as if he could not leave her as a friend only. That one swift, silent embrace had broken the peaceful contract of friendship; and he had sealed the tumultuous untried bond of love upon her lips.Since that white night with its unspoken protestation, Time seemed to have taken unto himself new, strong wings, on which he bore the lovers through the bright weeks of the spring-tide of love all too swiftly. Few words of explanation had been necessary; each understood the other, except when that chill, impalpable something seemed to come between them like a cloud, as it had done in the first days of their acquaintance. The one note which was never absolutely in tune in their love harmony, at these times made a discord, and disagreements which grieved them both sprang up between them; but these were rare, and the pale face of the artist was less shadowy than in other days; while Millicent seemed transformed from a statue to a living being, with a heart tender and full of love towards all her kind. But her cheek grew less round than it had been in the days before this new life was poured into her veins, and long, sleepless vigils told upon her strength. She was happy with a joy of which she had never before dreamed, and yet weary nights of weeping traced dark circles about her eyes. What struggle could it be that left her pale and broken, and drew pitiful sighs from her white lips when she found herself between the four walls of her own room? One word from Graham, the sound of his horse's hoofs as he drew near the house, would banish the pained look, call back the color to the lips and cheek, and give the old brightness to her deep eyes; but when he was gone, the painful thoughts winged swiftly back to torture her.To the sweet, open-hearted Barbara, Millicent's state of mind was incomprehensible. The cool, indifferent, somewhat scornful girl had been transformed into an excitable, impulsive creature, always in one of the extremes of spirits, by turns gay with a gayety contagious, irresistible, committing every sort of extravagance; and again serious with a tragic sadness, more pathetic than the wildest weeping. Mrs. Deering, with that sublime unconsciousness which sympathetic women know how to assume at will, saw nothing.The happy summer weeks slipped all too rapidly away, and the last days of August were come. It was at this time that a long-planned excursion took place, and the family of the San Rosario Ranch went to pass the day with some friends who were camping out at a distance of fifteen miles from the house. Ever since her arrival in California, Millicent had heard of Maurice Galbraith, a friend of the family, whom a combination of circumstances had prevented her from meeting. It was to his camp that they were wending their way when Graham joined them on horseback, as they drove down the shaded road which passes through the great grove of redwoods, and leads to the dusty highway. Millicent was driving in the light phaeton with young Deering; Barbara and her mother following in the large wagon driven by Pedro, one of the Mexican helpers. Crouching on the floor of the wagon behind the seats sat Ah Lam, with his spotless linen and shining coppery countenance. He could not sit beside the "Greaser," or Mexican, and this lowly place was allotted him. His round, placid face, with its clear brown skin and oblique eyes, was not an unpleasing one. His hands and arms were finely modelled, and his sturdy figure was of a much more solid type than is usual with his race. From his position it was possible for him to hold a parasol over Mrs. Deering, which he did without varying the angle of the rather heavy umbrella one degree during the whole long journey. He had been taught that hardest of lessons for the Chinaman,--that obedience and respect to the ladies of the family are even more necessary than submission to the master. On his arrival at the Ranch he had coolly and placidly ignored all orders given him by the female members of the household as unworthy of notice. When he finally had learned the lesson that "Melican woman boss too," he had never failed in respect to the ladies.The drive was a beautiful one. The road led through deep valleys, still wet with the night dew; sometimes it curled around the side of a mountain which barred its progress, and again it plunged down to the level of a swift stream. There was a certain spot where Millicent, who was familiar with the first five miles of the route, always stopped for a few moments. Sphinx had grown accustomed to bring his sleepy gait to a standstill just at the brink of the bridge which spanned the rushing forest river, grown boisterous at this place. All about the spot stood the great hills, some green with the never-fading redwoods and madrone trees, others, stripped by the woodman's craft, naked and unsightly. Behind them stretched the hot, red high-road, with its group of humble cabins. In front of one of these a group of strange, wolfish-looking children had called a greeting to Pedro, the driver, who was of their kin. The narrow, weather-beaten bridge, with its shaky wooden piers, joined the highway over which they had come, to a forest road which hung over the stream and skirted the mountain's base. The gray ruin of what had once been a mill stood on the farther bank, with rusty, idle wheels and empty grain-bins. There was a small islet in the stream, between which and the near bank was a clear pool which reflected with perfect distinctness the trees and rocks, the very ferns and marsh flowers of the overhanging bank. Here the party paused for a few moments, enjoying the familiar beauty of the scene."You will paint this place one day for me, will you not? I care very much for it." Millicent was the speaker; and the artist close at her side laughed and answered,--"Your will, of course, is my law, lady; but when you can teach the bird on yonder twig a new song, you can perhaps choose a spot where a painter shall see a picture. Much that is beautiful in nature cannot be portrayed in art."For a moment longer they paused on the bank, little thinking how that scene would be graven on their memories in after days; and then Hal brandished his whip, and Sphinx started off at a brisk trot, the strong mules following at the top of their speed, while Graham led the way on his fleet mustang. It was not far from high noon when the party arrived at the place of destination, recognized by a flag floating above the low underbrush at the foot of a hill. In reply to Hal's lusty hallooing, a young man emerged from the other side of the hill, and waving his hat in greeting, hurried to help Mrs. Deering descend from the wagon."How late you are, good people!" he cried in a pleasant voice. "The fellows thought you were going to disappoint us; but I had too much faith in your word, Mrs. Deering, to doubt you. Miss Deering, you were too quick for me; your agility is only excelled by your grace. Well, Graham, glad to see you; for once you are better than your word."The young men shook hands with that punctilious politeness which gentlemen who do not quite like each other are apt to show in the presence of mutual lady friends. Deering presented their host to Miss Almsford, and at that moment the other two woodmen made their appearance,--Michael O'Neil, a jolly-looking young Irishman, and Dick Hartley, a dark-browed Englishman. The three men were intimates at the Ranch, and Millicent already knew O'Neil and Hartley; the latter was an old friend and travelling-companion of Graham. Leaving Deering and O'Neil to take care of the horses, Galbraith led the way to the camp, a sheltered spot on the south side of the protecting hill. Three small sleeping-tents here stood close together. Galbraith's was the central one; it was wonderfully luxurious, Millicent thought, with its comfortable rug and little iron bedstead, two chairs, and a writing-table. A small looking-glass had been brought from town "on purpose for the visit of the ladies," Hartley assured them; at which statement there was a general laugh at the young Englishman's expense, his personal vanity being well known. But it was of the greenwood drawing-room that the ladies expressed the highest approval. A square space of ground had been cleared of the dense undergrowth, its smooth surface being thickly carpeted by soft piles of fresh, sweet ferns. Close-growing shrubs and bushes served as walls, while the thick branches of the great trees made a roof close enough to keep out the heat of the sun. The flowers of the manzanita and the buckeye perfumed the air of this sylvan boudoir, wherein were ranged comfortable stools and camp-chairs. A wide hammock fitted with a red blanket swung between two straight tree stems. Here they sat for a while, resting from the long drive; and here it was that Millicent had time to observe more particularly the appearance of Mr. Maurice Galbraith, of whom she had heard so much. Galbraith was not, strictly speaking, a handsome man, though he had a good deal of beauty. He was tall and slender, with a finely shaped head, well set upon the shoulders. His bright, intelligent face was too thin for beauty; while the fine, brilliant eyes, with their heavy lashes, were hollow from over-work. His delicate chin and mouth were exquisitely modelled; while the nose seemed a trifle over-large through the extreme thinness of the face. The features in repose were almost stern in their look of concentrated thought; but when he laughed it was with the sudden merriment of a child, the mouth parting over the small white teeth, and the large, dark, hollow eyes flashing cheerily. Barely over thirty, he might have passed for some years older, an unflagging attention to his arduous profession having told somewhat upon his strength. Among the lawyers on the Pacific coast, Galbraith was considered a rising man, his late appointment to a district attorneyship proving the confidence which he enjoyed. Millicent thought him decidedly the most attractive of their hosts; but her quick intuition had already told her that Graham felt little cordiality towards him, and she spoke chiefly to Hartley, the rather insignificant "beauty man" of the camp. From him she learned that for several years the trio of friends had passed the summer months in camping out at some spot not far distant from the railroad, which carried them every morning to San Francisco, and which brought them back as early in the afternoon as might be. Their one henchman (of course a Chinaman) was left in charge of the camp during the day, and performed the household work necessary to so primitive aménage. Not far distant from the camp, the stream whose course they had followed spread out into a wide, deep pool, affording an opportunity for a refreshing plunge, with which the three friends were wont to begin the proceedings of the day. A breakfast eaten at the tent door was followed by a walk to the station, half a mile distant, when they bade good-by to their sylvan home. Four o'clock, or at latest five, saw them on their way from the city; and an hour or two of angling in the cool stream, wherein swam delicious trout, or a tramp through the woods with a gun, brought them to the dinner hour. Just at this point in Hartley's chronicle of their daily life, Ah Lam, who had been brought to assist the one servant of the camp in his preparations, announced that dinner was served. Millicent never learned how the evenings were passed in camp, for there was a general move towards the dining-room, another triumph of sylvan architecture. A few paces distant from the green parlor, but hidden from it by the thick intervening bushes, was a great fig-tree with wide-spreading branches laden with delicious purple fruit. At the foot of the tree stood a table laid with plates, knives and forks, and other appurtenances of civilized life. Millicent gave a little cry of delight at the prettily decorated board, which was wreathed with a garland of green leaves and covered with bright flowers. Barbara, who had been reading Dumas with that intense delight to which the first acquaintance with French romance gives rise, said that the banquet surpassed the one spread by Joseph Bassano for the Dauphine of France in the old Chateau. Millicent found herself at the table between Graham and the good-natured Irishman, O'Neil. Her lover seemed to her handsomer to-day among this band of his contemporaries than ever before; and she looked at him with her whole soul in her eyes, forgetting all in the world beside or beyond him. O'Neil, who was the wit of the camp, told funny stories at which every one laughed; but when Graham spoke, the men all listened, like soldiers waiting the words of their superior. Before they had come to the table, the artist had twined a girdle for Millicent's slender waist of some feathery green creeper, a spray of which she had wreathed about her head. When the red wine was poured, Graham spilled from his glass, as if by accident, a few drops upon the earth, then, touching his goblet to hers, he said in an undertone,--"We will drink the old toast, my nymph, to Pan,evoë, evoë!"Galbraith devoted himself to Barbara; and after dinner, when all justice had been done to the woodland fare, and the great warm figs had been eaten with the sunshine in them, the party broke up into groups. Graham, who had brought his colors, made a sketch of the view from the hilltops, Millicent sitting silently beside him, handing him the brushes as he required them, then squeezing the little tubes of paint with a childish delight. Barbara and Galbraith made their way to the pool, where Miss Deering angled successfully, landing four good-sized trout within the hour. Hal Deering and O'Neil employed the time in firing at an ace of hearts pinned to a tree; while Hartley and Mrs. Deering sat in the green parlor, where the thoughtful, motherly woman put a very necessary patch on one of Galbraith's coats, in which her quick glance had descried a rent, as it hung on a peg in his tent.As the afternoon shadows lengthened, and his sketch drew near its completion, Graham found time occasionally to speak to his companion sitting so quietly and contentedly at his side. The absolute ignoring of self possible to this intelligent girl, with her strong mind and latent talents, was incomprehensible to him. She was perfectly happy to forget her individual existence in a sympathetic interest in his work. He felt sure that should it please him she would give up her music, her studies, every other interest in life and be content to sit always as now, watching his work, giving a word of intelligent criticism when asked to do so, stifling every thought which should cloud the mirror of her mind in which he might see himself ever reflected. To the sensitive man, who had passed most of his life in solitude, this absolute, unreasoning devotion had something intensely painful about it. If he had known how to frame his thought he would have begged her to care less for him. He felt himself an ingrate, so poor a return could he make for this wealth of love poured out at his feet. Her presence was a pleasure to him; he loved to watch her graceful motions as she walked, and the beautiful poses which she all unconsciously took in sitting, standing, or moving. Her appreciation of his work, her understanding of himself, were truer than ever man or woman had shown before; and yet he sometimes was annoyed by the irksome feeling that what he had to give her was but a bankrupt's portion of love. Times there were when this feeling did not intrude itself upon him; and the day which was now drawing to its close was one of those precious ones wherein had been no slightest misunderstanding betwixt them. When Hal came to tell them that it was time to return, Graham put up his work with a sigh that it must be so soon finished, and the two lovers lingered for a moment, taking a last look over the little camp.After bidding their hosts farewell the guests turned their horses toward home, the larger wagon with Mrs. Deering and Barbara leading the way. Sphinx, whose best days were over, was tired; and Millicent soon lost sight of the swift mule team. Graham rode a little in advance of the carriage, leaving the place at Millicent's side to Mr. Galbraith, who had volunteered to accompany them for a part of the journey. She found him a most attractive person, and was much interested in his conversation. He told her anecdotes of the primitive justice which prevailed in certain remote districts of the State, and gave some personal reminiscences of his earliest cases, in which he had been called upon to defend or accuse criminals of the most desperate class. Galbraith talked with that sort of brilliancy which requires sympathetic attention from his hearers, and for the first three miles of the road he was able to win this from Miss Almsford. When, however, the girl's eyes wandered from his intelligent face to the man on horseback half a dozen rods in advance, and she mentally compared the strong, elastic figure of the distant horseman to the man at her side, Galbraith found that it was time to return to the camp and "leave them to their own fate." Millicent's parting words were doubly gracious to the young lawyer, from the fact that she thought his departure would bring her lover to her. In this hope she was however disappointed, for Graham was in one of those moods when silence was more attractive to him than Hal's amusing companionship. He would have liked to have Millicent all to himself on that pleasant homeward ride; but Millicent with the inevitable addition of Deering could not win him to her side. Suddenly the two in the carriage saw Graham's horse give a wild rear and plunge, after which he shied at some unseen object by the roadside with a force which would have unseated any ordinary horseman. The animal now stood for an instant trembling in every limb, and then seemed to fling himself and his rider in a perfect agony of terror down the high-road, his four feet beating out the startling measure of a break-neck gallop to Millicent's horrified ears. From the cloud of dust, and through the cadence of the mustang's hoofs, these words were shouted back to them,--"Look out for rattlesnakes!"They had by this time reached the spot where Graham's horse had taken fright; and old Sphinx shivered violently, tossing his head and snorting loudly. In a few moments, it seemed to Millicent an eternity, Graham rejoined them, having regained control over his fiery horse."Deering, stand by Sphinx's head and hold my horse, will you?"As he spoke John Graham dismounted, pulled his high boots over his knees, and seizing the heavy whip from the carriage, advanced cautiously to the edge of the road, while Hal soothed the startled horses. Millicent, left alone in the wagon, gave a low cry of terror. Graham was at her side in an instant."Dear one, you must help me with your courage; do not be afraid, there is really no danger," he murmured. She was silent, and tried to smile an answer.Graham now walked slowly along the road, looking intently into the grass which lined the highway. Suddenly the dread sound of the rattle was heard, awful alike to man and beast. Sphinx started again, but was soon quieted, while Tasso reared and gave a shriek of terror. Graham, raising his heavy whip, brought the thong with a tremendous force across the snake's body. The creature reared itself with blazing eyes and sprang towards its pursuer, who dealt it another blow; and before it could coil itself for a second spring, Graham ran forward, and with his iron boot-heel crushed the reptile's head into the dust. He soon despatched the writhing creature, and was stooping to cut the rattles from its lifeless body, when a warning cry from Millicent told him that the battle was not over. The mate of the dead snake was close beside him, ready to spring upon his stooping body. He straightened himself, and ran backwards, firing his revolver as he went. The shot missed the snake, whose rattle rang out a very death-knell. It leaped savagely towards him. Graham had dropped his whip, most efficient of weapons with which to meet these dangerous animals, and hastily tearing off his coat he threw it over the snake. He sprang upon the garment and stamped in every direction; finally pinning the creature low down in the body, the bristled head, with its awful tongue, reared itself from beneath the folds of the coat, wounded but furious to avenge its mate. The horrible hiss chilled Millicent's blood. She saw the forked tongue dart out and strike Graham's leg. Mercifully it struck below the knee, the fang failing to penetrate the thick leather of the boot. The creature wreathed another coil of its length from beneath the iron heel, and again made ready to strike. Graham cocked his revolver, and while the angry red throat, with its death-dealing jaws, yawned before him, he poured a volley of hot lead into the writhing body. One, two, three shots Millicent counted; and then after a pause Graham's voice rang out brisk and clear: "All right, my girl, if there are no more of the beasts." The still quivering bodies of the snakes lay in the dust of the road, and Graham, recovering his whip, carefully examined the locality from which they had emerged, to see if by chance a nest of eggs or young ones was to be found. His search was unsuccessful; and after securing the second rattle, which was a long one, proving how powerful the reptile had been, he measured the bodies of the dead snakes, and rejoined Millicent. She held out her hand to him; and Deering, who had had as much as he could do in controlling the two horses, congratulated him on his success, and was about to resume his seat in the carriage. Millicent had been perfectly quiet and composed during the time of danger; her firm hand and voice had controlled the frightened horse; her watchfulness had warned Graham of the approach of his second enemy. But now the snakes were both dead, her lover was safe, and there was no further need of her strength or composure. As Hal approached the carriage, she dropped the reins, buried her face in her hands, and burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. Hal, who had lifted one foot to the step of the vehicle, dropped it to the ground, and retreated a few paces with a frightened countenance. He would not have been afraid to encounter a nest of rattlesnakes, but a weeping girl completely unnerved him. He retreated behind the wagon, and, after a hurried conversation with Graham, without more ado, mounted that gentleman's horse and rode off as fast as the animal would carry him; while Graham quietly stepped into the vehicle, and touching Millicent lightly on the shoulder, said, "Millicent, it is I."
CHAPTER VII.
"A flame! Her clear soul's essence slips,To steep for aye with mine, from her fast-whitening lips!"
"A flame! Her clear soul's essence slips,To steep for aye with mine, from her fast-whitening lips!"
"A flame! Her clear soul's essence slips,
To steep for aye with mine, from her fast-whitening lips!"
Several days passed before these two who, hand in hand, had looked death in the face, and felt his chill breath freezing up the current of their lives, again saw one another. Graham, after twenty-four hours, was able to be about, looking pale and ill. The congestive chill which had overcome him was the result of his having plunged into the sea while very much over-heated. The water at San Real, and indeed all along the Pacific coast, is very much colder than at the Eastern watering places of a corresponding latitude, where the genial influence of the Gulf Stream is felt. His vigorous constitution quickly threw off the effects of the terrible experience; but three long days and nights wore themselves out before Millicent's light step sounded on the stairs. Mrs. Shallop and Barbara were sitting alone at the luncheon table, when the latter caught the sound of the well-known footfall; she hastily left the room, and running up the stairs passed her arm about the feeble girl, supporting her into the room.
"Why did you not tell me that you were coming? Do you think it prudent, dear?"
"Yes, I wanted to come, and the doctor said I should do whatever I fancied," she answered a little fretfully; then she smiled, with that flashing of the eyes that always won her pardon for any little sin. It was a strange coincidence, Barbara thought, that Millicent should have come downstairs for the first time on the morning when Graham had gone to San Francisco. It was his first absence since the beginning of their visit. Why should she avoid meeting the man whose life she had saved at the risk of her own? Graham had every day begged to see her, but Millicent had not felt equal to the interview. Barbara was genuinely puzzled; but then Barbara was often puzzled by Millicent. During the days just past her gentle care and nursing had brought her much nearer to Millicent than she had been before. In those long mornings when Barbara, in a full, deep voice, read to her from her favorite books, Millicent had time to think more about her new friend; and the more she thought about her the better she liked the sweet, sound, womanly nature, with its domestic instincts, and maternal care of all creatures sick or sorry. One morning, as the invalid lay upon her couch, while Barbara's gentle hands plaited her long hair in thick strands, she said, somewhat abruptly,--
"Barbara, why have you not married?"
"What an odd question!"
"If you knew what a charming wife you would make, you would think the question a most natural one. I suppose you have been in love?"
"I suppose so," jestingly.
"Bah! talk seriously for a moment with me. Why do you not marry Ferrara? The poor fellow is perfectly pathetic in his devotion to you. You know, Barbara, that matrimony would suit you delightfully; there is nothing so becoming to a woman of your type as the background of a home of her own. There you would shine like Jessica's candle in this naughty world."
"I have never thought about it in the way of a background."
"Of course you never did; but, Barbara, do you think you could fall in love again?"
"Who knows?"
"Then I know that you have never been in love at all,ma belle--oh, I forgot, and have broken my vow to speak English pure and simple. Well, never mind, now we will talk about my broth, for I am very hungry. I feel like little Rosalba in the 'Rose and the Ring,' when she went about crying, 'Dutess Tountess, my royal highness vely hungy.'"
Long confidences had followed this conversation; and Millicent listened to Barbara's account of a childish romance with that deep interest which women all feel in the heart experiences of their sisters. Such sympathy is born in the feminine breast before the power of loving awakes there, and dies not when experience has brought nothing to it but grief and bitterness. The veriest chit of a girl of ten will read a love-story if she be allowed, while her brothers are inventing ingenious instruments for the torture of cats and nurses. The deafest grandam will listen with keen interest to her favorite grand-daughter's confession of love, and will be careful not to chill young hopes with her own sad memories. All those who have loved truly, with that love which outlasts grief, death, and human passion, which smiles at the cruelest neglect, which, like the love of the Most High, passeth all understanding, have sympathy and kindly interest for those who are in love. That "all the world loves a lover," is the truest of all sayings.
As soon as they were alone, Millicent told Barbara that she was anxious to return to the Ranch the following day. Since her first meeting with John Graham, her life had danced away through bright hours passed in his company, in remembering past interviews, in looking forward to future meetings. In the long days when she lay weak and helpless, slowly recovering from the terrible drain on forces, nervous and muscular, she had thought long and deeply; and now that she was well, she did not wish to meet Graham, and avoided his presence. She realized, as she had not done before, that she deeply and irrevocably loved this man, whose name six months ago had been unknown to her. Whether this understanding of what was in her own heart came upon her in one broad flash of quickened intelligence, when she lay half swallowed up by the jaws of death, still clasping him with feeble hands, or if, in the quiet hours of introspection which followed that awful moment, she gradually learned the truth, it would be hard to say, but that she now knew it, was indubitable. The fact that the man she loved should be indebted to her for his life was a distasteful one. Not through gratitude did she wish to attract him; the very thought of it was galling to her. She loved him, and longed, with the deepest power in her soul, to arouse in his breast that answering passion, which, like a deep bass chord, mingles with the sweet treble song of woman's love, their harmony making the one perfect note to which the keystone of the universe trembles sympathetically. Sweet as was the thought that her strength had sufficed for them both, she mourned the chance which had made her hand the rescuing one. Love that springs from gratitude or from pity is earth-born and earth-bound; she would have none of it; it was as if she had a claim upon him for that gift, which if not freely given is valueless. So, with a shyness new to her, she avoided meeting Graham; and the night of his return she sought her room again and did not appear until the following morning. If Graham did not know all, he was ready enough to understand that she avoided his thanks.
Mrs. Shallop passed the last evening of her guests' visit sitting with Miss Almsford, answering her many eager questions of the strange, wild days when law and order were not in the broad golden land. It seemed almost incredible to Millicent, and yet she felt it to be true, that the wife of the mining king regretted the past days of poverty and simplicity. The hard-earned crust, shared with a husband whose every thought was known to her, had tasted sweeter than the luxuries of a table at which she often sat alone, or with a partner absorbed in thoughts and enterprises in which she had no part. Her children had then been entirely hers; now they were far distant,--the boy at an English college, the girl in a French conventual school, whence they would both return grown too clever and proud to care for her simple-hearted companionship. What mattered it that she had toiled day and night to buy them food and clothing, had worn out her poor body and dulled her simple mind with anxious overstrain and grinding labor? Would they thank her for it now? When, a year before, she had visited these adored children, she had felt the distance between them and herself. If her son had not been ashamed of his poor mother, it was only because his heart was not quite weaned from hers. The girl was gentle and kind; but the pitying care with which she brought her conversation to the level of her mother's understanding was all too obvious to the sensitive woman, whose nervous strength had been shattered in the hard fight which she had made all those years ago, to keep the breath of life in their little bodies. Half her life had been passed at the wash-tub, half in the drawing-room; the transition had been too sudden for a person of her temperament. The soapsuds, which used to flash the splintered rays of light from her hands, were more appropriate to them than the diamonds with which they now glittered. Poor woman, the extremes of fortune were both known to her.
Though their visit had been a delightful one, Millicent was anxious to return to the Ranch; she longed for the quiet, refined atmosphere of the place, with its simple comforts, doubly attractive after this experience of the luxurious but inappropriate house of Mr. Patrick Shallop. There is a certain fitness in things; and the ex-miner, living in the palace of the railroad king, was less at home than England's monarch could have been in the cowherd's hovel. Millicent felt the socialmalaisewhich arises from the incongruity of persons with their surroundings. Graham, interested in his portrait, which was coming on famously, was not easily affected by a personal atmosphere to which he was indifferent; while Barbara and Ferrara, used to a similar condition of things, accepted it without question.
The morning of the last day of their visit dawned bright and clear; and Millicent, standing on the terrace, thought the wide view had never seemed so beautiful before. She was taking farewell of that sea which had so nearly swallowed her young life with all its hopes and fears. The waves murmured with a gentle sound, as if quite oblivious of their late rapacity. She went out into the thick pine woods behind the house, and stood for the last time among the great redwoods, which to her were so wonderful, and which everybody else accepted as a matter of course. A well-known footstep behind her on the dry leaves caused the slight pink tinge which the morning breeze had brought to her cheek to fade suddenly; the blood seemed rushing from every vein back to its source, and her heart stopped its pulsations for a moment. She did not turn her head, but stood quite silent, waiting for Graham's first word. When he was at her side, she felt her hand suddenly caught in a warm pressure which sent the blood rushing through the arteries again, tingling painfully in every fibre of her body, and loosening the cold silence of the heart, which beat out a quick answer to the words of greeting. They were but few and very earnest, the words of a brave man glad to be beholden to so fair a woman for his life. Was it gratitude that made his voice tremble, that lighted his grave eyes with a smile?
She answered him sweetly and seriously, with a steady voice and calm eyes, though the rose-flush flooded and ebbed from her cheek and brow. The man did not trouble himself to analyze the feelings which gave rise to the fleeting blushes; he was too full of his own enthusiasm to notice how it affected its object. He spoke as he felt and thought of the woman standing there so full of life and beauty,--only in the light of his relation to her. He knew how he felt towards her, and told her so with admiring frankness; of her feelings towards himself he never stopped to think. His was an egotistic nature, as are those of all strong men whose personality stamps the age in which they live. Weaker men and women receive the imprint of their time; only the few strong ones leave their images impressed when the soft clay of the present is transmitted into the unmalleable granite of the past.
They walked together for a time, Graham full of anxious inquiry for her health, and Millicent happy in his anxiety. When the artist learned of the proposed departure, he strongly opposed it, urging a longer stay. When he found that the young ladies had decided to leave San Real, he announced his intention of accompanying them. Mrs. Shallop shortly afterward joined the pair and handed Millicent a newspaper, at which the girl looked quite indifferently until her eyes caught her own name in large letters at the head of a column. She quickly read the article, which proved to be a highly sensational account of the rescue of Graham.
A FIGHT WITH DEATH!--Heroism of a Young Girl!--John Graham rescued from Drowning by Beautiful Millicent Almsford!--The Personal Appearance of the Heroine!--Early History of the Lucky Man!
These headings preceded the two-column article at which Graham laughed contemptuously, and which drew hot tears from Millicent's eyes. She had never before seen her own name in print, and the freedom with which the Anglo-Saxon press deals with the affairs of ladies who have no claim on the public interest was unknown to her. She only felt that her name was being spoken by people who never had heard of her; that the most sacred and awful hour of her life was revealed to the world; and that the event of which she had hardly spoken, and of which she barely dared to think, was now familiar to thousands of indifferent readers. The news had in fact been telegraphed to one of the large New York papers, and in the course of a week filtered down through the smaller organs of that city to the suburban press, and was read and forgotten by the careless public throughout the length and breadth of this enlightened land. To Mrs. Shallop and Barbara, accustomed to the vagaries of American journalism, the state of mind into which Millicent was thrown by the article in the San Francisco "Roarer," was entirely surprising. It was without doubt annoying, but they had both become so accustomed to seeing their own names and those of their friends in the columns of the daily journals, that Millicent's horror and indignation seemed disproportionate to the cause. This utter disrespect of the privacy of life which is the right of all men and women leading peaceable lives, breaking no law of the civil or social statutes, is the crying sin of modern journalism. When they are charged with this, the journals very tritely retort that "social news" pays better than any other class of matter; that its insertion is more often prized and sought after by the individuals mentioned than resented by them; that much of the personal news is actually furnished by the individuals whom it most concerns; and that they but supply the demand of their readers. It would be well for them to remember that to pander to the public taste is not the highest object open to journalism; to elevate that taste were a task more deserving of commendation, and less unworthy of good printer's ink and paper.
The next mail brought two letters for Millicent; one from a well-known photographer asking her for an early sitting, and begging that he might have the sole privilege of photographing her. The other communication was a civil letter from the editor of a weekly journal, asking for a slight autobiographical sketch from the hand of the heroine of San Real. In the course of the morning a reporter from the California "Bugle," a rival sheet, arrived and requested an interview with Miss Almsford and Mr. Graham, from which to compile an article on "The Rescuer and the Rescued." Millicent's eyes flashed angrily when the import of the small printed visiting-card bearing the name of this nineteenth-century inquisitor was explained to her. She was heard to murmur, beneath her breath, some Italian words highly inimical to the smart young person who was taking the opportunity to examine Mrs. Shallop's drawing-room with an eye to future "notes." She was astonished when Graham quietly lighted a cigarette, and asking that the gentleman might be shown into the smoking-room, joined him there.
"Why does he not beat him?" she cried. "If I were a man I should thrust him from the house."
"And be held up to the public as a brutal assassin?" laughed Barbara. "No, no, my dear, let Mr. Graham alone; he knows best how to manage the visitor. It never does to insult those gentlemen; they are dangerous enemies, and have the public's ear into which to pour all their grievances. Our friend will draw the fire on himself, I fancy, in order to spare you. News the news-fiend must have; he will make it himself if it be not provided for him. Poor thing! he must live, after all, as well as you or I. It is not his fault that he is obliged to interview people; it must be a very disagreeable profession."
Thus kindly and with wide sympathy did Barbara Deering judge all men and women; ay, and reporters too, together with babies, Chinamen, and other unfortunate works of God. Graham returned in a quarter of an hour, having appeased his visitor with the aid of a good cigar and a champagne cocktail, compounded by the careful hand of the solemn-faced butler.
Millicent was still flushed and excited, all Barbara's arguments having failed to soothe her nerves. Graham, with one sentence, banished the angry dint from her white forehead and brought a smile back to her face. The hour of the last good-bys had arrived; and the guests took leave of their kind hostess, with promises to repeat their visit before long. Little Mrs. Shallop really cried at parting with Millicent, to whom she had become greatly attached. She sighed as the carriage disappeared from view, bearing its freight of young people with their vivid lives and strong interests. When she went back to her great lonely drawing-room, with its splendid furnishings, she realized what a fitting frame it had made for the two pretty young guests, and how unsuitable it was to her simple tastes. The house was dreary without their joyous voices and quick footsteps.
Just after sundown the travellers reached the San Rosario station, where Hal was awaiting them in the great red-painted wagon. The two sturdy mules were supplemented by old Sphinx harnessed before them, making what is known as a spiked team.
"Hail! the conquering Heroine comes! sound the trumpets, beat the drums!" cried the irrepressible young rancher. "How is our most heroic Princess, and will she deign to enter the triumphal car which her humble slave has prepared for her?"
They all laughed; but, through all the lively nonsense which he reeled off to them on the way to the house, Millicent felt that he had been really moved by what had occurred. The grip which he gave her hand spoke a volume of approval; and the loud clap on the shoulder with which he greeted Graham expressed more than a dozen sentences of rhetorical eloquence could have done. The antics of the unicorn team were extremely diverting; and these, with the absurdities which Hal perpetrated at every step of the road, brought the quartette to the house door "in a state of merriment bordering on idiocy," as he expressed it. Mrs. Deering, with her sweet motherly greeting, made their return seem a home-coming to Millicent and Graham, as well as to Barbara, the tall daughter of the house. Her hospitality was so genuinely of the heart that the recipient of it was made to feel that it was simply his due, and that his presence was as great a favor to the hostess as her kindness was to him.
Graham was warmly urged to stay over night, but he resisted the temptation of remaining. Neither Millicent's voice nor Millicent's eyes had supplemented the invitation.
As they paced the path together, her hand lying on his arm, Graham told Mrs. Deering, in a low voice, of all that had happened since their departure,--of the pleasant days with their excursions; of the new impressions made on Millicent by all that she saw; of the friends whom he had met, remembering all the kind messages which had been sent to the gentlechâtelaineof San Rosario; of Barbara's sweetness and Mrs. Shallop's hospitality; of the progress he had made on the portrait of his hostess; of the thousand-and-one little items of news so welcome to people leading a life of quiet isolation. Then in graver tones he spoke of his great peril and Millicent's bravery, of the strange thoughts which had crossed his mind in that last moment of consciousness, how her face as well as his mother's had been revealed to him as in a vision. All this was listened to with that perfect sympathy that is always ready to receive confidences, and which forbears to claim them when they are not spontaneously given. Blessed among women are these rare ones to whom motherless sons can confide every hope and disappointment, sure of a quick sympathy, and in whom the mighty instinct of maternity is not satisfied in ministering to their own flesh and blood, but springs forth to succor all who are suffering for the gentle mother love.
It was late when these two said good-night, and Graham went to find the others to take farewell. Barbara and Hal were singing duets. They had neither of them seen Millicent, and fancied that she must have gone to her room. With a sense of cold disappointment and injury the young man left the house. As he passed by the corner of the piazza he fancied he saw a figure standing close in the shadow of an angle. He stopped; the figure remained motionless; through the heavy drapery of the vines he could not tell whether it was a person or merely a shadow.
"Who is it?" he asked in a low voice. No answer came, but through the stillness of the night he thought he heard the sound of a quick-drawn breath. Putting the honeysuckle aside he stepped on the piazza, and found that his eyes had not deceived him. Millicent stood beneath the rose vines. When she saw that she was discovered she spoke with a light laugh:
"I did not want you to see me, for I have been unsociable this evening, and hoped you would all think I had gone to bed."
"Is it not damp for you to be sitting out-of-doors?" he asked, with a voice grown deep and tender.
"Oh, no! I am quite used to it. What a wonderful night! I think I never saw the stars so brilliant."
The girl seated herself on the edge of the piazza, Graham placing a cushion under her feet and taking his place at her side. It was a perfectly still evening, the only sound being the far-away tinkle of a sheep bell. There was a moment of dangerous silence, which Millicent broke a little nervously, speaking of Italy, of Mrs. Shallop and their late visit, of Hal's irresistible wit, of any one of the subjects which danced through her brain. She was afraid to be silent, and feared yet longed for what might be said if she left too long a pause. The spell which kept Graham at her side when he should have been half way to his lonely tower, began to assert itself over the woman, always the last to yield. The man had long since abandoned himself to that mysterious state of being in which every nerve of brain and every pulse of heart yearns for sympathy and reaches out toward its counterpart. At last she was silent, the last commonplace dying half spoken on her trembling lips. Silence now in all the land; only the sound of heart-beats which each felt must reach the other's ears. Stars more tender than those of heaven shone close to Graham through the blue-black night; a breath sweeter than the wind stirring the honeysuckle touched his cheek. At length that silence, more musical than sweetest harmony, was broken by a low, deep voice.
"May I kiss you?" said the voice.
What was the faint sound which the night wind wafted to his ear? Was it the whirring of the humming birds whose nest hung close by? Was it the far-off silver ripple of the brooklet, or the cadence of the distant sheep-bell? Was it that sweeter sound than note of mating bird, of falling water, or of faint bell-chime,--was it a loving woman's "Yes"?
CHAPTER VIII.
"Oui, les premiers baisers, oui, les premiers sermentsQue deux êtres mortels échangerent sur terreCe fut au pied d' un arbre effeuillé par les vents,Sur un roc en poussière."
"Oui, les premiers baisers, oui, les premiers sermentsQue deux êtres mortels échangerent sur terreCe fut au pied d' un arbre effeuillé par les vents,Sur un roc en poussière."
"Oui, les premiers baisers, oui, les premiers serments
Que deux êtres mortels échangerent sur terre
Ce fut au pied d' un arbre effeuillé par les vents,
Sur un roc en poussière."
When he awoke the next morning, John Graham gave a deep sigh. His dreams had been so sweet that no reality could equal their happiness. As he sat on the edge of his narrow bed disentangling what was real from what was dream-born in his thoughts, his eye fell upon the knot of roses which he had taken from Millicent's hair the night before, and had clasped to his lips as he fell asleep. They were faded now, but they still gave out a strong perfume. His cheek had been wounded by a thorn, but he kissed the wilted posies, for all that, placed the little bouquet tenderly in an exquisite Venetian vase, and then bounded down the stairway of his tower and across the narrow space which led to a clear deep pool where a crystal stream fell in a white cataract to a rocky basin. The foam-bubbles danced joyously in the clear dark waters, and the plashing of the fall had a sound of a sweet deep voice which had grown very dear to him. A mossy bank, shaded by two drooping trees, sloped to the edge of this natural bath, refreshing enough to have tempted Diana from the chase. As Graham plunged into the cool waters he shouted out a verse of a song he had learned long ago. Attracted by the sound of his voice, French John laid down his axe beside the young tree he was about to fell, and came down to the pool where Graham was vigorously tossing about the bright water. The old wood-cutter looked at the young man as if the sight did him good. He responded to the uproarious greeting which the artist shouted to him, by his usual silent nod of the head. Had words been worth their weight in diamond dust, the old soldier could not have been more chary of wasting them, but the look in his faded blue eyes was gentle and full of admiration. He had had a son of whom he had lost all trace since its infancy. If the boy had lived he would have been about Graham's age, and it was the man's fancy that he would have resembled his patron. He imagined he could trace in the splendidly modelled arms and legs and the strong, perfectly proportioned torso of the bather the shape into which the baby contours he remembered so well must have developed. Graham had by this time gained the green turf and stood shaking the water out of his thick hair, drawing quick panting breaths, meanwhile, and springing about to warm himself, with the grace and strength of a leopard. The old Frenchman gave a deep sigh as he looked at him.
"Yes; Hector certainly must resemble this young man," he murmured, as he wetted his hard hands, and, grasping the handle of his axe, smote heavily at the stem of a young pine-tree. Graham rapidly made his toilet in the open air. The plunge in the clear cold water had rather stimulated than expended the electric, nervous force which ran through his veins, quickening the life-blood in its flow. He felt ten years younger since yesterday morning. His thirty years and the gravity they had brought to him had shrunk to twenty. As he looked up at his tower he sang aloud a snatch of an old song which had been often on his lips in those happy, careless days in theRue d' Enfer,--words which he had painted over the tiny grate in the cramped apartment under the leads, where he had suffered from heat all summer, and shivered all winter:
Dans un grenier qu' on est bienA vingt ans, à vingt ans!
Dans un grenier qu' on est bienA vingt ans, à vingt ans!
Dans un grenier qu' on est bien
A vingt ans, à vingt ans!
He would have liked to dance. Had his years in truth been but twenty, he would have yielded to the temptation. He would gladly have thrown his arms about the old Frenchman, for lack of another confidant, and have told him the cause of his happiness. But, after all, this reflex of youth could not entirely melt the reserve of manhood from him; he wore his thirty years lightly indeed, but could not shake them off.
"Give me your axe, John; I know something of your woodman's craft; let me show you how easily I can fell this young tree."
He took the tool from the woodcutter, and, whirling the sharp edge in the air, laid it at the root of the tree with a ringing blow.
"It appears in truth that monsieur 'ave 'andled an axe before."
"Surely, John. I once spent a summer with some friends of mine, who lived in a forest in Brittany; they weresabotiers."
"Monsieur is jesting?"
"Not in the least. I not only can fell a tree,--clumsily enough, be it confessed,--but if I had the tools I could shape you a pair ofsabots, as good ones as you could buy for ten sous at Quimper; that is your town, I think?"
He talked in short, jerky sentences between the strokes, while the white splinters flew about him like a hail-storm. After a few moments the knack which he seemed at first to have forgotten came back to him. The smell of the bruised bark was aromatic; the death-sigh of the young branches was musical as they trembled for the last time together, reaching out to touch their sister trees in solemn leave-taking. Their sigh was now drowned in the groan of the swaying tree.
"Take care, monsieur, take care; it is about to fall," cried the Frenchman.
His warning was a timely one. Graham, so long unused to the exercise of the craft, had not noticed how deeply he had cut into the stem. The straight tree seemed to hesitate, tossing its branches helplessly heavenward, and then with a creaking sound crashed through the surrounding underbrush, and with a dull thud measured its slender length upon the earth. For a moment its branches shook convulsively, and then all was quiet. It seemed as if all nature paused at the fall of so fair a thing: the birds were silent in the thicket; the babble of the water-fall grew faint; and the wood creatures stirred not in their burrows. A mighty breeze crept through the forest, rustling the surrounding trees, wailing through the open gap as if in requiem, and a light cloud floated over the face of the sun, throwing its shadowy pall on the spot.
"That was well done, monsieur."
And, at the sound of the man's voice, the cloud floated by and the sun shone out once more, the wood birds took up their song again, the squirrel in the hollow of the white oak went on cracking her nut, and the brief mourning was over.
That man must feel himself indeed beloved, who fancies that the world will pause as long beside his grave as does the forest at the fall of one of its children.
Not until the branches had been lopped off and the long stem cut into lengths, did Graham cease his labor. The exercise did him good, and gave him an appetite for the breakfast which old John served him in the open air. He declared that the coffee was better than could be had at theCafé de Paris; and assured John that neither Paris nor Vienna could produce such bread as that which the old man had baked in some mysterious manner in an oven of his own construction, made of flat stone sunk in the ground. Graham remembered that he had somewhere in the tower a bottle of rare old wine, which he sent John to fetch.
"Bring my glass and your tin cup, John."
He needed sympathy, he who had lived for years without asking man or woman to share his joys or sorrows; he felt a new need in himself for human companionship; and the silent old fellow who did his bidding was the only soul to whom he could look for it. The ice which had encased his heart was broken; and instead of sternly demanding from his fellow-men honor, truth, and sincerity, he embraced the whole world in a warm, unquestioning love and sympathy. Yesterday he was a man who labored for his kind; to-day he was content to love them. Yesterday he was a reformer; to-day he was a philanthropist. The henchman returning with the wine, Graham filled the crystal goblet and the humble cup to the brim, and together these two denizens of the balmy forest drank to the new day which had dawned on the young man's life. After the long, black night which for months obscures the face of nature in the far northern land, the first rising of the sun touches the hearts of men with a deeper, more profound joy than the dwellers in a temperate zone can well understand. So was the light of this new love more glorious a thousand-fold to the man in whose life there had so long been darkness, than if it had arisen in a heart unacquainted with grief. In the first flush of happiness, his whole nature rebelled against the joyless life he had been leading; his work lost its attraction for him, and he could not have painted a stroke that day if his whole future reputation had depended upon it. The new impulse had swung him far out of his accustomed orbit; that there might be a rebound, he never for an instant fancied.
He spent an hour in ransacking his tower to find the most beautiful thing he possessed to carry to Millicent. He wanted to go to her with something in his hand that might in some measure express the tide of generous feeling that flooded his whole nature. He still had a score of those treasures, souvenirs of his European residence, of which the greater part had found their way to the shelves and cabinets of his friends' houses. He spread them out before him on his one table, ruthlessly pushing aside paints, brushes, books, and drawing chalks, in a hubbub of disorder. With an intense interest he looked them all through. He had almost decided upon a rare Etruscan coin which he had seen roll from the palm of an exhumed skeleton, when his eye was caught by a tiny Tanagrine figure. The exquisite modelling of this clay toy, instinct with the beauty which pervaded every detail of Greek life, made it a more appropriate gift. The miniature woman was as truly proportioned as the Milo herself, and as surely constructed according to that greatest law of art that the world has yet seen evolved, the Greek, wherein are welded together the real and the ideal. A third article now struck his fancy as more appropriate than either of these for his first gift to Millicent. It was a crown of olive leaves of the purest gold, which might have bound Helen's brow. It had lain amidst the dust of eons which covers Troy with its pall; and now, in the nineteenth century, it was to serve as the gift of a Californian lover to his mistress. Surely, never before had the precious leaves encircled so fair a head as that which they were now destined to adorn.
Among the many sins which had been laid at Graham's door by friend or foe, the vice of foppery was missing. That minute attention to every detail of dress, which is found as often in man as in woman, had no place in his busy life. He was, however, always neatly dressed; and the prosaic fashions of our time were modified as much as possible in his wardrobe, especially while he inhabited the forest. On this occasion, instead of one absent look in his small mirror, merely to ascertain if his hair were properly parted and his cravat neatly tied, a full hour was given to the process of dressing. Every suit of clothes, and each possible combination of the garments which his wardrobe afforded, were carefully considered. When at last the decision was made, the vest needed a button, which the artist laboriously attached to the garment. Taking a coarse linen thread strong enough for a halter, he made the button fast, taking several turns of the thread about its eye, as if he were belaying a rope. His cravat occupied him fully a quarter of an hour. He must have brushed his hair at least half a dozen times. He caught sight of his anxious face in the mirror, just as he was settling his cravat for the last time, and burst into a peal of laughter at his own dandyism. At the foot of the tower his sturdy mustang Tasso stood ready saddled. French John had given an extra polish to the sleek gray coat, bright enough to reflect the silver-studded Mexican bridle. A pair of red cockades, set at the ears of the beast, were made from flowers yielded by the small garden patch behind the woodcutter's cabin, where he raised flowers and vegetables for his patron and himself. The tall cock gave a condescending crow of approval as Graham mounted his horse; while the three cats sunning themselves near by hunched their backs at him, as if to express their disapproval of his idleness. It was still early in the afternoon, and it was not his wont to sally forth until the shadows were long. Where could he be going? they asked one of the other, purring inquisitively together like a group of women-folk over a cup of afternoon tea. Of all his brute friends, Tasso alone knew whither his master was going; he snorted scornfully at cats and cock, and, shaking his head playfully, sped over the bridle path with flying feet, as if conscious of the eyes that were watching for him, the ears that were strained to catch the first faint echo of his hoofs as they flashed over the stony orchard road.
Those sweet eyes had not closed since they had last looked into Graham's; that white form had known no rest since it had slipped from his arms. The night, which had brought to him such peaceful dreams, was fraught with bitter memories to Millicent. She had paced her room through the long hours. No longer a half-yielding, shrinking maiden, but a woman, full of tears, before whom some great sorrow, long stifled, had risen up again. Was her nature then two-fold? While she was with other people, Millicent seemed a strong, self-reliant woman, pure and cold, with quick intellectual sympathies, and strong opinions and convictions. When in the society of the man she loved, his influence unfolded the closed petals of her heart as the sun kisses back the white leaves of the daisy, and uncovers its great golden centre to the eyes of all men. A new warmth shone from her eyes, and softened her silver voice. An unwonted shyness made her shrinking and timid under his gaze. A new life was born within her, so much stronger and more intense than any that she had ever known, that her past existence paled before it as the luminous circle of a night-lamp fades before the strong rays of morning. But when she was alone....
Whatever her sombre thoughts had been, they were banished before she next met her lover. When she learned that he had come, she longed to fly from him out into the dim reaches of the forest, where he had told her half in jest that they had lived and loved before man's time began; when nymphs and dryads danced together in the shade of the oak-trees; when Pan reigned, and the earth was young. If she could have seen him in her own sanctum, where the light was softened by the dull green hanging of the wall, where the air was warm from the ever-flaming fire, and sweet with the spices burning in a great sea-shell, she would not have greatly cared; but the stereotyped drawing-room, with its blank white walls, was no place for their greeting. She went down the stairway and stood a moment before Graham; then, as he advanced towards her as if about to speak, she glided swiftly from the room across the hall and out into the sunlight.
Barbara, standing near by, scattering corn to a flock of tame doves which fluttered about her, laughed as the light figure flitted by, with bare head, and delicate silken draperies fit only to rustle over soft carpets. Barbara laughed pleasantly, cheerily calling over her shoulder to her mother, who sat indoors,--
"Look at Millicent racing with her own shadow."
"'T is a substantial shadow, Bab, but otherwise the simile 's good," said Hal, as he passed by on his way to the dairy.
And Barbara looked again, and looking sighed. Another figure had sped by her, down the orchard road towards the wood,--the figure of a man, pursuing the flying girl, with kindled face and fleet steps. She threw her last handful of grain to the circling doves, went into the stiff drawing-room, mechanically set straight the disordered chairs and drew down a shade where the light fell too hotly upon a breadth of carpet. She paused before a mirror and looked at her own pretty face clouded by a pain she would not explain. More than one lover had sued for her hand, earnestly and tenderly, but she had listened to no suit. No man had ever pursued her with fleet steps and sparkling eyes, no man had ever brought that expression of half-shamed happiness to her face which had made Millicent look just now like a child racing with her own shadow.
In the forest Graham found her standing breathless beneath an oak-tree, whose branches had caught her gown and forced her to stay her flight.
"Again under that terrible oak; but I shall not lose you this time. Say that you will not vanish in his jealous arms."
"He opens them to me no longer; he offers me no refuge now."
"And I stand waiting for you, and hold out my hand for yours. Not for a dance now do I ask it, but for a happy walk which shall end only with our lives. Will you put your hand in mine?"
For answer a little warm palm creeps into his broad fingers; and the oak-tree sighs a blessing on the betrothal of which he is the only witness.
CHAPTER IX.
"And in the forest delicate clerks, unbrowned,Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds.Up with the dawn, they fancied the light airThat circled freshly in their forest dressMade them to boys again."
"And in the forest delicate clerks, unbrowned,Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds.Up with the dawn, they fancied the light airThat circled freshly in their forest dressMade them to boys again."
"And in the forest delicate clerks, unbrowned,
Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds.
Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air
That circled freshly in their forest dress
Made them to boys again."
The life of John Graham had been one wherein the sorrowful days far outnumbered the joyous ones. His youth had been saddened by the reverses and griefs which had pursued his parents with a relentless persistence. His home life had not been a happy one. In the large family of brothers and sisters there had been a meeting and clashing of strong, positive characters and opposing wills. An intense family pride was the one bond which united them. This sentiment, almost amounting to a passion, made the members cling closely to one another when there was little of sympathy to make a sweeter bond. Graham's parents had moved to California, from the Eastern town where they were both born, while he was still an infant. The first sixteen years of his life had been spent on the Pacific coast. At this age he was sent eastward to pursue his studies. The youth had already determined on devoting himself to art. The years passed at the famous New England college were very busy ones. The painful economies by which his beloved mother defrayed his college expenses were well known to the young man, and he held himself responsible to that dear and honored parent for every hour of his time. His active mind eagerly grasped such fruits of knowledge as were offered by that garden of learning, and his career in the university fully repaid the sacrifices which it had entailed. During all this time he never for an instant relinquished his fixed determination to become a painter. In the leisure hours when his companions were amusing themselves according to their several tastes, Graham was always found at his easel. Some wiseacre once suggested to the young man that Greek and Latin were expensive acquirements, likely to prove useless to a painter.
"And if I were to be a shoemaker, I should make better shoes for having studied the classics," was his reply to this admonition.
He had not been among the popular men of his class, being very poor in leisure time, the currency which buys that most expensive commodity, popularity. He made few friends and no enemies. His strong, earnest nature commanded the respect of his fellows; and his studious example endeared him to a few of the most serious among them. At the age of twenty Graham went to Europe, where he passed the next eight years of his life in study and hard work. The sketches which he sent home brought him money enough to live on in that quarter of Paris where the young art students congregate. Poor enough the living had sometimes been; hunger and cold were well known to the youth by actual experience. When he lived at the rate of five francs a day he thought himself rich, and gave suppers in his studio,au cinquième, Rue d' Enfer. Times there had been, while he was at work upon his greatSalonpicture of St. Paul, when a loaf of bread and five sous' worth of the rough red wine of the people, had sufficed for his day's provender. Those days of earnest work among the gay companions, whose lives much resembled his own, were, perhaps, the happiest time in the life of the young artist. Success had not been wanting to crown his efforts. The picture on which he toiled for weary days and months received "honorable mention" from the judges of theSalon; and to the passing fame which this success brought him, he owed his introduction to the woman who had so spoiled the happiness of his youth. She was his compatriot, the daughter of a rich Parisian American, who desired to make the acquaintance of the artist hero of the hour. The young woman was beautiful, heartless, and slightly emotional. While in the society of the handsome, spiritual painter, she yielded to the charm his strong spirit exercised over her; and it was not long before their names were linked together by the small world which knew them both. But Graham's happiness was short-lived; and a few months served to show him the cold, shallow nature of the woman who had aroused his first passion. After he had been jilted and disillusioned, he turned his back upon the city where he had learned and suffered so much, and became a wanderer on the face of Europe. One year found him painting the beauties of Southern Spain; the next saw him sketching the wonderful scenery which lies about Stockholm.
About two years before the opening of our story he had returned to San Francisco, with a portfolio of sketches, a few hundred dollars, and a prodigious store of canvases, paints, and brushes. He was welcomed by the many friends who had followed his career with interest, and soon received more orders for portraits than he could well fill. His taste led him to prefer another branch of painting; and it was for the purpose of studying the very beautiful scenery in the neighborhood of San Rosario that he had established himself in the tower of the old Spanish Mission. He was also partly induced to take this step, because he found that home life, always irksome to him, had become, after his long emancipation from domestic rules and regulations, wellnigh intolerable.
Graham's character was a peculiar one, full of contradictory traits; it might be compared to a mass of white quartz, through which ran deep veins of the purest gold. In some respects it was a hard nature, with certain tender qualities; and nowhere was there to be found an ounce of base metal; a pitiless nature, which knew not how to forgive either its own faults or those of his fellow-men. If his judgments of others were harsh, his self-despair was sometimes fanatical. His ideal of manhood was as pure and noble as was that of the perfect King Arthur; that he failed a hundred times a day in living up to it, had not the effect of lowering that ideal one hair's-breadth. His highest duty was towards his own soul and its struggle to reach the perfection he held it to be capable of attaining. With the mind of an ascetic, he was endowed with a warm, sensuous temperament, having a passionate delight in beauty, light, and color, and capable of living through the senses with the keen enjoyment of a Sybarite. A strain of music, a beautiful flower, or a fair child moved him to a degree of pleasure that to any nature save an artistic one was incomprehensible. Filled with pity at the sight of distress, he would unhesitatingly give his last dollar to a needy rascal; but if appealed to for sympathy by the same sinner, the scorching contempt by which he would blast the shameful deeds for which, to him, there was no palliation, would leave the wrong-doer a sadder if not a wiser man. Because he expected so much of men, their short-comings outraged him. To a man of this character it was easier, if not better, to avoid the paths of his fellows; and his life had often been that of a hermit, even when he dwelt in the busiest cities of the world. Not willing that one shadow from the burden of his life should fall upon the paths of those who cared for him, his voice and face were always cheery when in their company. He wanted not the sympathy of man or woman, and endured what griefs were given him to bear in silence and alone. That divine mandate, "Bear ye one another's burdens," was meaningless to him; for he had ever borne his burden unsupported and unhelped. The struggle between the two sides of his nature, the ascetic and the poetic, seemed sometimes like to rend soul and body apart; at other times both contending forces seemed asleep, and the current of his life flowed peacefully on. There were periods when the tender golden veins seemed to overlap and hide the flinty quartz; then he felt alive, with thrilling pulses and lips breaking into song; then he painted rapidly, painlessly, achieving quick successes, sometimes making brilliant failures. At other periods hyper-criticism of himself seemed to weight his brush and dim his vision, to take the color from the warm earth and tender sky; then the life-blood pulsed slowly through his veins, and he forgot to sing.
Into the existence of this self-centred being, with its extremes of cold and warmth, few personal influences had crept; and now, for the first time in many years, he felt his life to have become entangled, for good or ill, with that of another human creature. Since his first meeting with Millicent, on that memorable night when he had found her the central figure of a picture of warmth and comfort, his frozen existence had been thawed and made happy by the subtle influence which she wielded over him. Without reasoning with himself, he had yielded to the pleasurable charm, only amazed, and perhaps a little glad, to find that there was a woman who could rob him of his well-earned sleep, and dance through his dreams at night with a wilful persistence. If he had been obliged to characterize the influence which the girl held over him, he would probably have said that she made his life vivid, and reminded him that his nature was human and not mechanical. Day by day her presence became more necessary to him; and his work was slighted, or hastily performed, in order that he might be free the sooner to reach her side. Without retrospection or introspection he had lived through the pleasant days at San Real, when Millicent's heroic behavior had made him feel doubly grateful to her: he now owed her his life, as well as the new pleasure in that life. When the happy visit had come to an end, and he had parted with her after the return to the Ranch, it had seemed as if he could not leave her as a friend only. That one swift, silent embrace had broken the peaceful contract of friendship; and he had sealed the tumultuous untried bond of love upon her lips.
Since that white night with its unspoken protestation, Time seemed to have taken unto himself new, strong wings, on which he bore the lovers through the bright weeks of the spring-tide of love all too swiftly. Few words of explanation had been necessary; each understood the other, except when that chill, impalpable something seemed to come between them like a cloud, as it had done in the first days of their acquaintance. The one note which was never absolutely in tune in their love harmony, at these times made a discord, and disagreements which grieved them both sprang up between them; but these were rare, and the pale face of the artist was less shadowy than in other days; while Millicent seemed transformed from a statue to a living being, with a heart tender and full of love towards all her kind. But her cheek grew less round than it had been in the days before this new life was poured into her veins, and long, sleepless vigils told upon her strength. She was happy with a joy of which she had never before dreamed, and yet weary nights of weeping traced dark circles about her eyes. What struggle could it be that left her pale and broken, and drew pitiful sighs from her white lips when she found herself between the four walls of her own room? One word from Graham, the sound of his horse's hoofs as he drew near the house, would banish the pained look, call back the color to the lips and cheek, and give the old brightness to her deep eyes; but when he was gone, the painful thoughts winged swiftly back to torture her.
To the sweet, open-hearted Barbara, Millicent's state of mind was incomprehensible. The cool, indifferent, somewhat scornful girl had been transformed into an excitable, impulsive creature, always in one of the extremes of spirits, by turns gay with a gayety contagious, irresistible, committing every sort of extravagance; and again serious with a tragic sadness, more pathetic than the wildest weeping. Mrs. Deering, with that sublime unconsciousness which sympathetic women know how to assume at will, saw nothing.
The happy summer weeks slipped all too rapidly away, and the last days of August were come. It was at this time that a long-planned excursion took place, and the family of the San Rosario Ranch went to pass the day with some friends who were camping out at a distance of fifteen miles from the house. Ever since her arrival in California, Millicent had heard of Maurice Galbraith, a friend of the family, whom a combination of circumstances had prevented her from meeting. It was to his camp that they were wending their way when Graham joined them on horseback, as they drove down the shaded road which passes through the great grove of redwoods, and leads to the dusty highway. Millicent was driving in the light phaeton with young Deering; Barbara and her mother following in the large wagon driven by Pedro, one of the Mexican helpers. Crouching on the floor of the wagon behind the seats sat Ah Lam, with his spotless linen and shining coppery countenance. He could not sit beside the "Greaser," or Mexican, and this lowly place was allotted him. His round, placid face, with its clear brown skin and oblique eyes, was not an unpleasing one. His hands and arms were finely modelled, and his sturdy figure was of a much more solid type than is usual with his race. From his position it was possible for him to hold a parasol over Mrs. Deering, which he did without varying the angle of the rather heavy umbrella one degree during the whole long journey. He had been taught that hardest of lessons for the Chinaman,--that obedience and respect to the ladies of the family are even more necessary than submission to the master. On his arrival at the Ranch he had coolly and placidly ignored all orders given him by the female members of the household as unworthy of notice. When he finally had learned the lesson that "Melican woman boss too," he had never failed in respect to the ladies.
The drive was a beautiful one. The road led through deep valleys, still wet with the night dew; sometimes it curled around the side of a mountain which barred its progress, and again it plunged down to the level of a swift stream. There was a certain spot where Millicent, who was familiar with the first five miles of the route, always stopped for a few moments. Sphinx had grown accustomed to bring his sleepy gait to a standstill just at the brink of the bridge which spanned the rushing forest river, grown boisterous at this place. All about the spot stood the great hills, some green with the never-fading redwoods and madrone trees, others, stripped by the woodman's craft, naked and unsightly. Behind them stretched the hot, red high-road, with its group of humble cabins. In front of one of these a group of strange, wolfish-looking children had called a greeting to Pedro, the driver, who was of their kin. The narrow, weather-beaten bridge, with its shaky wooden piers, joined the highway over which they had come, to a forest road which hung over the stream and skirted the mountain's base. The gray ruin of what had once been a mill stood on the farther bank, with rusty, idle wheels and empty grain-bins. There was a small islet in the stream, between which and the near bank was a clear pool which reflected with perfect distinctness the trees and rocks, the very ferns and marsh flowers of the overhanging bank. Here the party paused for a few moments, enjoying the familiar beauty of the scene.
"You will paint this place one day for me, will you not? I care very much for it." Millicent was the speaker; and the artist close at her side laughed and answered,--
"Your will, of course, is my law, lady; but when you can teach the bird on yonder twig a new song, you can perhaps choose a spot where a painter shall see a picture. Much that is beautiful in nature cannot be portrayed in art."
For a moment longer they paused on the bank, little thinking how that scene would be graven on their memories in after days; and then Hal brandished his whip, and Sphinx started off at a brisk trot, the strong mules following at the top of their speed, while Graham led the way on his fleet mustang. It was not far from high noon when the party arrived at the place of destination, recognized by a flag floating above the low underbrush at the foot of a hill. In reply to Hal's lusty hallooing, a young man emerged from the other side of the hill, and waving his hat in greeting, hurried to help Mrs. Deering descend from the wagon.
"How late you are, good people!" he cried in a pleasant voice. "The fellows thought you were going to disappoint us; but I had too much faith in your word, Mrs. Deering, to doubt you. Miss Deering, you were too quick for me; your agility is only excelled by your grace. Well, Graham, glad to see you; for once you are better than your word."
The young men shook hands with that punctilious politeness which gentlemen who do not quite like each other are apt to show in the presence of mutual lady friends. Deering presented their host to Miss Almsford, and at that moment the other two woodmen made their appearance,--Michael O'Neil, a jolly-looking young Irishman, and Dick Hartley, a dark-browed Englishman. The three men were intimates at the Ranch, and Millicent already knew O'Neil and Hartley; the latter was an old friend and travelling-companion of Graham. Leaving Deering and O'Neil to take care of the horses, Galbraith led the way to the camp, a sheltered spot on the south side of the protecting hill. Three small sleeping-tents here stood close together. Galbraith's was the central one; it was wonderfully luxurious, Millicent thought, with its comfortable rug and little iron bedstead, two chairs, and a writing-table. A small looking-glass had been brought from town "on purpose for the visit of the ladies," Hartley assured them; at which statement there was a general laugh at the young Englishman's expense, his personal vanity being well known. But it was of the greenwood drawing-room that the ladies expressed the highest approval. A square space of ground had been cleared of the dense undergrowth, its smooth surface being thickly carpeted by soft piles of fresh, sweet ferns. Close-growing shrubs and bushes served as walls, while the thick branches of the great trees made a roof close enough to keep out the heat of the sun. The flowers of the manzanita and the buckeye perfumed the air of this sylvan boudoir, wherein were ranged comfortable stools and camp-chairs. A wide hammock fitted with a red blanket swung between two straight tree stems. Here they sat for a while, resting from the long drive; and here it was that Millicent had time to observe more particularly the appearance of Mr. Maurice Galbraith, of whom she had heard so much. Galbraith was not, strictly speaking, a handsome man, though he had a good deal of beauty. He was tall and slender, with a finely shaped head, well set upon the shoulders. His bright, intelligent face was too thin for beauty; while the fine, brilliant eyes, with their heavy lashes, were hollow from over-work. His delicate chin and mouth were exquisitely modelled; while the nose seemed a trifle over-large through the extreme thinness of the face. The features in repose were almost stern in their look of concentrated thought; but when he laughed it was with the sudden merriment of a child, the mouth parting over the small white teeth, and the large, dark, hollow eyes flashing cheerily. Barely over thirty, he might have passed for some years older, an unflagging attention to his arduous profession having told somewhat upon his strength. Among the lawyers on the Pacific coast, Galbraith was considered a rising man, his late appointment to a district attorneyship proving the confidence which he enjoyed. Millicent thought him decidedly the most attractive of their hosts; but her quick intuition had already told her that Graham felt little cordiality towards him, and she spoke chiefly to Hartley, the rather insignificant "beauty man" of the camp. From him she learned that for several years the trio of friends had passed the summer months in camping out at some spot not far distant from the railroad, which carried them every morning to San Francisco, and which brought them back as early in the afternoon as might be. Their one henchman (of course a Chinaman) was left in charge of the camp during the day, and performed the household work necessary to so primitive aménage. Not far distant from the camp, the stream whose course they had followed spread out into a wide, deep pool, affording an opportunity for a refreshing plunge, with which the three friends were wont to begin the proceedings of the day. A breakfast eaten at the tent door was followed by a walk to the station, half a mile distant, when they bade good-by to their sylvan home. Four o'clock, or at latest five, saw them on their way from the city; and an hour or two of angling in the cool stream, wherein swam delicious trout, or a tramp through the woods with a gun, brought them to the dinner hour. Just at this point in Hartley's chronicle of their daily life, Ah Lam, who had been brought to assist the one servant of the camp in his preparations, announced that dinner was served. Millicent never learned how the evenings were passed in camp, for there was a general move towards the dining-room, another triumph of sylvan architecture. A few paces distant from the green parlor, but hidden from it by the thick intervening bushes, was a great fig-tree with wide-spreading branches laden with delicious purple fruit. At the foot of the tree stood a table laid with plates, knives and forks, and other appurtenances of civilized life. Millicent gave a little cry of delight at the prettily decorated board, which was wreathed with a garland of green leaves and covered with bright flowers. Barbara, who had been reading Dumas with that intense delight to which the first acquaintance with French romance gives rise, said that the banquet surpassed the one spread by Joseph Bassano for the Dauphine of France in the old Chateau. Millicent found herself at the table between Graham and the good-natured Irishman, O'Neil. Her lover seemed to her handsomer to-day among this band of his contemporaries than ever before; and she looked at him with her whole soul in her eyes, forgetting all in the world beside or beyond him. O'Neil, who was the wit of the camp, told funny stories at which every one laughed; but when Graham spoke, the men all listened, like soldiers waiting the words of their superior. Before they had come to the table, the artist had twined a girdle for Millicent's slender waist of some feathery green creeper, a spray of which she had wreathed about her head. When the red wine was poured, Graham spilled from his glass, as if by accident, a few drops upon the earth, then, touching his goblet to hers, he said in an undertone,--
"We will drink the old toast, my nymph, to Pan,evoë, evoë!"
Galbraith devoted himself to Barbara; and after dinner, when all justice had been done to the woodland fare, and the great warm figs had been eaten with the sunshine in them, the party broke up into groups. Graham, who had brought his colors, made a sketch of the view from the hilltops, Millicent sitting silently beside him, handing him the brushes as he required them, then squeezing the little tubes of paint with a childish delight. Barbara and Galbraith made their way to the pool, where Miss Deering angled successfully, landing four good-sized trout within the hour. Hal Deering and O'Neil employed the time in firing at an ace of hearts pinned to a tree; while Hartley and Mrs. Deering sat in the green parlor, where the thoughtful, motherly woman put a very necessary patch on one of Galbraith's coats, in which her quick glance had descried a rent, as it hung on a peg in his tent.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened, and his sketch drew near its completion, Graham found time occasionally to speak to his companion sitting so quietly and contentedly at his side. The absolute ignoring of self possible to this intelligent girl, with her strong mind and latent talents, was incomprehensible to him. She was perfectly happy to forget her individual existence in a sympathetic interest in his work. He felt sure that should it please him she would give up her music, her studies, every other interest in life and be content to sit always as now, watching his work, giving a word of intelligent criticism when asked to do so, stifling every thought which should cloud the mirror of her mind in which he might see himself ever reflected. To the sensitive man, who had passed most of his life in solitude, this absolute, unreasoning devotion had something intensely painful about it. If he had known how to frame his thought he would have begged her to care less for him. He felt himself an ingrate, so poor a return could he make for this wealth of love poured out at his feet. Her presence was a pleasure to him; he loved to watch her graceful motions as she walked, and the beautiful poses which she all unconsciously took in sitting, standing, or moving. Her appreciation of his work, her understanding of himself, were truer than ever man or woman had shown before; and yet he sometimes was annoyed by the irksome feeling that what he had to give her was but a bankrupt's portion of love. Times there were when this feeling did not intrude itself upon him; and the day which was now drawing to its close was one of those precious ones wherein had been no slightest misunderstanding betwixt them. When Hal came to tell them that it was time to return, Graham put up his work with a sigh that it must be so soon finished, and the two lovers lingered for a moment, taking a last look over the little camp.
After bidding their hosts farewell the guests turned their horses toward home, the larger wagon with Mrs. Deering and Barbara leading the way. Sphinx, whose best days were over, was tired; and Millicent soon lost sight of the swift mule team. Graham rode a little in advance of the carriage, leaving the place at Millicent's side to Mr. Galbraith, who had volunteered to accompany them for a part of the journey. She found him a most attractive person, and was much interested in his conversation. He told her anecdotes of the primitive justice which prevailed in certain remote districts of the State, and gave some personal reminiscences of his earliest cases, in which he had been called upon to defend or accuse criminals of the most desperate class. Galbraith talked with that sort of brilliancy which requires sympathetic attention from his hearers, and for the first three miles of the road he was able to win this from Miss Almsford. When, however, the girl's eyes wandered from his intelligent face to the man on horseback half a dozen rods in advance, and she mentally compared the strong, elastic figure of the distant horseman to the man at her side, Galbraith found that it was time to return to the camp and "leave them to their own fate." Millicent's parting words were doubly gracious to the young lawyer, from the fact that she thought his departure would bring her lover to her. In this hope she was however disappointed, for Graham was in one of those moods when silence was more attractive to him than Hal's amusing companionship. He would have liked to have Millicent all to himself on that pleasant homeward ride; but Millicent with the inevitable addition of Deering could not win him to her side. Suddenly the two in the carriage saw Graham's horse give a wild rear and plunge, after which he shied at some unseen object by the roadside with a force which would have unseated any ordinary horseman. The animal now stood for an instant trembling in every limb, and then seemed to fling himself and his rider in a perfect agony of terror down the high-road, his four feet beating out the startling measure of a break-neck gallop to Millicent's horrified ears. From the cloud of dust, and through the cadence of the mustang's hoofs, these words were shouted back to them,--
"Look out for rattlesnakes!"
They had by this time reached the spot where Graham's horse had taken fright; and old Sphinx shivered violently, tossing his head and snorting loudly. In a few moments, it seemed to Millicent an eternity, Graham rejoined them, having regained control over his fiery horse.
"Deering, stand by Sphinx's head and hold my horse, will you?"
As he spoke John Graham dismounted, pulled his high boots over his knees, and seizing the heavy whip from the carriage, advanced cautiously to the edge of the road, while Hal soothed the startled horses. Millicent, left alone in the wagon, gave a low cry of terror. Graham was at her side in an instant.
"Dear one, you must help me with your courage; do not be afraid, there is really no danger," he murmured. She was silent, and tried to smile an answer.
Graham now walked slowly along the road, looking intently into the grass which lined the highway. Suddenly the dread sound of the rattle was heard, awful alike to man and beast. Sphinx started again, but was soon quieted, while Tasso reared and gave a shriek of terror. Graham, raising his heavy whip, brought the thong with a tremendous force across the snake's body. The creature reared itself with blazing eyes and sprang towards its pursuer, who dealt it another blow; and before it could coil itself for a second spring, Graham ran forward, and with his iron boot-heel crushed the reptile's head into the dust. He soon despatched the writhing creature, and was stooping to cut the rattles from its lifeless body, when a warning cry from Millicent told him that the battle was not over. The mate of the dead snake was close beside him, ready to spring upon his stooping body. He straightened himself, and ran backwards, firing his revolver as he went. The shot missed the snake, whose rattle rang out a very death-knell. It leaped savagely towards him. Graham had dropped his whip, most efficient of weapons with which to meet these dangerous animals, and hastily tearing off his coat he threw it over the snake. He sprang upon the garment and stamped in every direction; finally pinning the creature low down in the body, the bristled head, with its awful tongue, reared itself from beneath the folds of the coat, wounded but furious to avenge its mate. The horrible hiss chilled Millicent's blood. She saw the forked tongue dart out and strike Graham's leg. Mercifully it struck below the knee, the fang failing to penetrate the thick leather of the boot. The creature wreathed another coil of its length from beneath the iron heel, and again made ready to strike. Graham cocked his revolver, and while the angry red throat, with its death-dealing jaws, yawned before him, he poured a volley of hot lead into the writhing body. One, two, three shots Millicent counted; and then after a pause Graham's voice rang out brisk and clear: "All right, my girl, if there are no more of the beasts." The still quivering bodies of the snakes lay in the dust of the road, and Graham, recovering his whip, carefully examined the locality from which they had emerged, to see if by chance a nest of eggs or young ones was to be found. His search was unsuccessful; and after securing the second rattle, which was a long one, proving how powerful the reptile had been, he measured the bodies of the dead snakes, and rejoined Millicent. She held out her hand to him; and Deering, who had had as much as he could do in controlling the two horses, congratulated him on his success, and was about to resume his seat in the carriage. Millicent had been perfectly quiet and composed during the time of danger; her firm hand and voice had controlled the frightened horse; her watchfulness had warned Graham of the approach of his second enemy. But now the snakes were both dead, her lover was safe, and there was no further need of her strength or composure. As Hal approached the carriage, she dropped the reins, buried her face in her hands, and burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. Hal, who had lifted one foot to the step of the vehicle, dropped it to the ground, and retreated a few paces with a frightened countenance. He would not have been afraid to encounter a nest of rattlesnakes, but a weeping girl completely unnerved him. He retreated behind the wagon, and, after a hurried conversation with Graham, without more ado, mounted that gentleman's horse and rode off as fast as the animal would carry him; while Graham quietly stepped into the vehicle, and touching Millicent lightly on the shoulder, said, "Millicent, it is I."