Читать книгу The San Rosario Ranch - Maud Howe Elliott - Страница 5

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"Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen!

No city airs or arts pass current here.

Your rank is all reversed: let men of cloth

Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls."

Millicent Almsford awoke early on the morning after her arrival. "What is the matter?" she asked.

No one answering her question, she put another.

"Why do we not go on, what are we stopping for?" this still in a semi-somnolent voice. On opening her eyes and finding that she was not in the berth of the palace car, where she had for a week past always found herself, she laughed outright and then gave a deep sigh.

Her long journey, from the Palazzo Fortunio in Venice to the San Rosario Ranch in California, was at an end; and here she was, to use her own phrase, "planted in the wilderness for a year to come."

"Heavens! how can I bear it?" she cried, tossing restlessly to the other side of her wide bed; "it is all so new, so raw, so crude, so terrible,--just like this cotton sheet, which has chafed my chin so badly that I would rather have slept without one."

Soon a loud bell broke the silence of the morning. Millicent did not heed it, but looked about the room to find a means of summoning assistance. Happily she found the bell quite near her, and, after twice ringing, a tap at her door was heard. In answer to her "Come in," Ah Lam opened the door cautiously.

"Missie call Ah Lam?"

"I want my breakfast now," said Millicent, somewhat dismayed at the attendant she had summoned.

Soon Barbara came, carrying the breakfast tray in her strong arms.

"I am so sorry you don't feel well this morning, Millicent. What can I do for you?"

"But I feel perfectly well. Do I look so badly?"

"No, dear; but we were afraid, not seeing you--"

"Dear Barbara, you must excuse my strange foreign habits. You know I have been only a week in your country. I did not realize that you all came downstairs to breakfast. What time is it?"

"After seven."

"And you have been up since--?"

"Since six o'clock only. Hal is the early riser. Half-past four sees him overlooking the milking."

Millicent shuddered; she had indeed come to a strange land.

"I will try to learn the customs of your country," she said rather piteously, taking up her cup of coffee.

"Only learn those that please you, dear. As for our early breakfast, which I see shocks you, think no more about it. I will gladly bring it up to you every day."

"I shall unpack some of my boxes this morning, Barbara; and later we will try some of your duets, if you like."

The unpacking of her Penates gave Millicent a certain satisfaction, which was, however, tempered by the sad recollections they brought to her mind, of her own apartment with its three pretty rooms in the corner of the great Palazzo Fortunio.

Millicent Almsford was the daughter of an American gentleman who had lived in Venice since before the birth of his daughter. Here the greater portion of her life had been spent, with the interruption only of one long visit made to a relative in England.

A month previous to the opening of our story her father, widowed at her birth, had married for the third time, his wife being a young and uninteresting Italian woman of the middle class. The marriage, to which Millicent was strongly opposed, had led her to accept the invitation of her half-brother to make him an extended visit in his California home.

From the great cases she lifted, with the help of Ah Lam, the household treasures which she had been unwilling to leave behind, in the home which knew her as its mistress no longer. A motley collection of articles had the great trunks enclosed: pictures, books, a large Eastern carpet, a parchment missal of the fifteenth century with beautiful illuminations, a guitar, a little majolica shrine with a figure of San Antonio very much the worse for the journey, a set of delicately wrought silken window and bed hangings of pale sea color, a pair of heavy silver candelabra, with a ponderous packet of wax tapers, and innumerable other knick-knacks.

With the willing and ingenious assistance of Ah Lam, this roba, to borrow the untranslatable Italian phrase, was disposed about the large room. The neat Nottingham lace curtains, at which Millicent had looked askance, were now hidden beneath the blue-green draperies, embroidered by the hands of the mother whose face she had never seen. The pictures were hung upon the walls, and a deep-hued Egyptian scarf disguised the pasteboard motto, with its friendly welcome. A book-case was improvised by the Chinaman from some old boxes, and covered by Millicent, who unhesitatingly cut to pieces a heavy woollen gown whose color struck her as appropriate to that end. Beside the bed she hung the little shrine of San Antonio, with much grief that the long journey had damaged his saintly toes and fingers. On a table were ranged the candlesticks and the missal, and an old copy of Dante with a mouse-gnawed cover, and Lear's "Nonsense Book,"--this last because it was an old friend from childhood, which she, being a creature of habit, had forgotten to discard.

The complete metamorphosis of the apartment was a work of several days; and only when it was entirely accomplished were Mrs. Deering and her daughter admitted to see the change. Poor Barbara! All the pains and trouble she had taken, all the careful stitches she had set, were unavailing. The new carpet she had bought with her own pocket money was entirely covered by old rugs, some of which were very faded and worn; none of them were as bright and clean as the Kidderminster.

The warm knitted afghan had disappeared from the bed, which was covered by a white quilt embroidered in strange floral designs. The very toilet set had been replaced, and the pretty painted candles had been banished.

"I have made it a little like Venice," cried Millicent excitedly, "only the walls in my bedroom there are hung in silk and all painted in water-color, and the rooms are so high,--you remember the green room in the Palazzo Fortunio, Mrs. Deering, with the nymphs, the sea gods, and the green hobgoblins painted all over it?"

"Yes, indeed, Millicent. What a change you have wrought in the spare bedroom. Ralph would hardly recognize it. I see now what was contained in the boxes which so aroused Hal's curiosity. I am afraid you have made your room too attractive, dear, and that we shall find difficulty in coaxing you out of it into our more prosaic apartments."

"Oh, I always live the greater part of my life between my own four walls: I am not a sociable person, I am afraid. At least so Barbara thinks."

Barbara said nothing; she was hurt and disappointed. The room, with its strange furnishing, was unnatural to her. She felt, as she looked at Millicent with this new setting which suited her so perfectly, that neither in the room nor in the life of Millicent Almsford was there a place for her. She had eagerly anticipated the advent of this unknown girl, sisterless like herself, who should grow to be so much to her, and in whom she should find the sympathetic friend of whom she had greatly felt the need; and now that she had come, Barbara was bitterly disappointed. Millicent was gracious, winning, full of attractive qualities, intellectually sympathetic to a degree which she had never before known. And yet the tall daughter of the Ranch was cruelly disturbed.

"I can be nothing to her; she is complete without me," she had said to her mother; and herein lay the reason for all her disappointment. Living among people to whom her beauty, her talent, and her warmth of heart had been the most poetic features of their lives, Barbara Deering had grown to value men and women according to the amount of good or pleasure she could impart to them. Her life had been one wherein the tears and sighs had been stifled, or hidden in the darkness of her chamber; the laughter and smiles, the bright cheery face, the helping hand always meeting those about her. Children loved her, and old people blessed her for her sympathy and kindness. To her mother and brother she was sun, moon, and stars; and to them every hour of her life was consecrated. Naturally endowed with certain tastes which would have somewhat interfered with the quiet plan of life laid out for her, she had systematically neglected these gifts, sacrificing herself to an imaginary duty which was always before her eyes. She had avoided such pursuits as might have led her aside from the common life of the family; and happiness for her was found in the happiness she could afford to others. Enjoyment to her, unless her dear ones were included in it, was something like a sin; and the pleasure she took in her music gave her pangs of conscience.

One morning, about a week after her arrival, Millicent was awakened by the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs clattering down the stony road which led to the orchard from the hill behind the house. She sprang up, and throwing wide the shutters, looked out to see whence the sound came. It was still very early. The sun had not yet clambered over the tops of the high hills; but the sky was bright, and the shadows lay like a misty garment over the happy valley, locked in its circle of hills. The great bull Jupiter, the terror of the Ranch, stood near the house, sniffing the cool morning air, and giving thunderous snorts of pleasure. The bars had been left down, and he had gained access to the green orchard, forbidden ground to him. The hedge of roses was hung with a wondrous garlanding of dewdrops, and the dark-red lilies were just awakening to the draught which the night winds had distilled in their chalices. From every blade of grass and leaf of clover sparkled a diamond. The fair valley had arrayed itself in jewels and fragance for another day of light and love.

The sound of the horse's hoofs grew nearer; and as Millicent looked expectantly along the bridle-path that descends from the mountain, there came into sight, parting the wet boughs of the fruit trees, a horseman mounted on a gray mustang. The rider was a strong man, who sat his steed with the air of one to the manner born. He was dressed in corduroy breeches, high top-boots, and flannel shirt. He had no hat. In his belt shone a long hunting knife, and over his shoulder was slung a rifle. Before him on the saddle lay a stag whose heavy antlers hardly cleared the ground.

The first rays of the sun, just peeping over the hill-tops, touched his thick brown hair, giving it a glint of bronze, shone on the wide white forehead, flashed into the eyes, and showed her for an instant a stern profile, exceedingly beautiful. Then she lost his face as he turned the corner of the piazza. Here he dismounted, and lifting the deer from the horse laid it on the grass. Perhaps the beauty of the dead creature struck a chord of remorse in the breast of the hunter, for he gave a sigh and turned it so that a gaping wound in the neck was not visible. Then drawing a pencil and a bit of paper from his pocket, he wrote something, and fastening the billet to the horns of the deer, he mounted his horse, and giving him the rein returned slowly by the same road. As he drew near again Millicent saw that the mustache which hid the upper lip was golden-brown, that the throat was white and shapely, that the mouth smiled not untenderly, while the eyes smiled not at all. These details were noted with an artist's love of beauty: and as she watched him out of sight, she wondered with all a woman's curiosity who he might be.

Since Millicent's arrival there had been many visitors at the Ranch. All the friends of the Deering family who were within calling distance had either come to make the acquaintance of Miss Almsford, or had signified their intention of shortly doing so.

Calling distance in California may be said to extend not over fifty miles. The neighbor who lives half a hundred miles from you will make a call, or in other words will come to pass the day. Calling terms cease beyond these limits, and visits of not less than twenty-four hours are exchanged.

In none of the people whom she had met had Millicent felt or manifested the least interest. She had received them graciously, but with a cordiality of manner only. Not one man or woman among the circle of friends who were on familiar terms at the Ranch awoke in her a desire for further acquaintance. But this one who had called at six o'clock in the morning, and had left his visiting card pinned to the antlers of a stag, piqued the curiosity of the indifferent young lady. Wrapping herself in a soft gray woollen dressing-gown, she ran downstairs in the liveliest manner.

It was a splendid animal, fine as the buck described by Browning in "Donald." Alas, the slender legs would carry his noble body and stately head no further; the branching horns would never again clash against the antlers of a rival. Millicent touched the beautiful dead creature tenderly between the horns, and tried to close the dim eyes. At that moment she heard a step upon the piazza, and Hal Deering joined her.

"Why, Miss Almsford, what does this mean? You to be up and dressed"--he hesitated, "well, yes, you are dressed, and very becomingly too; I like that loose gown--at six in the morning! sighing over the fine piece of venison, and performing the last kind offices of friendship too. Don't believe you would do as much for me."

The young man looked at the deer approvingly, and perceiving the note, took it from the antler and deliberately read it aloud:--

HONORED MISTRESS DEERING,--I lay myself at your feet, and with myself a pretty bit of game I have just killed, thinking that the fair Venetian might fancy a venison steak for her breakfast. I kiss your hand, dear my lady, and am your most unworthy but loyal servitor,

JOHN GRAHAM.

"Of course, knew it was Graham, queer creature. Wonder why he did not stop and take breakfast with us. He is an unaccountable fellow."

"What did you call him?"

"Graham; his full name is John Douglass Graham. Just like a hero's in a novel. But Graham never does anything very heroic, I fancy."

"Shall you cut off his skin?"

"Whose? Graham's?"

"How foolish, Mr. Deering. I mean the deer's fur."

"Oh no, certainly not; in America we always serve game with the hide or feathers. In fact, we usually do not remove the wool from our mutton; but knowing that you were accustomed to seeing it dressed after the super-civilized fashion of the Venetians, I have--"

"Mr. Deering, that is stupid. I want his skin and horns; please arrange them for me."

"Yes, Princess; your most humble servant will obey your mandate."

He seized the creature by its slender legs, hoisted it deftly to his shoulders, and disappeared through the side door. Millicent picked up the bit of a note, smoothed it, and laid it at Mrs. Deering's plate on the breakfast table.

Millicent asked Barbara later on in the day who and what John Graham might be. She was told that the man with the bronze hair and strange eyes was a near neighbor, and that she would without doubt soon make his acquaintance.

With this answer Millicent was fain to be content. She thought about him all that day and dreamed of him that night; the next morning his face was not so distinctly in her mind, but her thoughts were constantly busy with weaving romances in which John Graham played a conspicuous part. The girl was indeed a creature "of the stuff which dreams are made of;" the web of her daily life, no matter how common-place its actual experience might be, was rich with her own vivid imaginings, like the gold thread that a weaver twists through a sad-colored fabric.

"Mr. Deering, take me to the dairy. I have not yet seen it," said Millicent one afternoon, as they all sat together on the wide piazza, after the early dinner. The young man rose slowly, his great length unfolding itself as he left his chair; and for answer put down his pipe and reached up for Millicent's hat, which he had hung on a peg high above her reach. The two young people passed down the gravel walk between the broad flower beds fragrant with the wonderful roses which grow only upon the shores of the Pacific. A geranium tree twelve feet high, with its great scarlet bunches, and the vine of Maréchal roses which climbed up the piazza and tapped with its heavy blossoms at her casement, aroused Millicent's enthusiasm.

The dairy, Hal told her, was fully thirty years old. But her own palace had frowned grim and black upon the Grand Canal before the passengers on the good ship "Mayflower" had landed in Plymouth. The dairy was a plain, neat frame-building painted white, looking out upon a great farm-yard. Here the pretty cows all stood crowded together, waiting their turn to offer up their evening tribute. Two black-browed Mexicans were milking, and a tall Yankee was overseeing the straining of the milk. He stood by a large trough and received the brimming buckets from the milkers, pouring their contents through a strainer into the great receptacle. In the midst of the herd lay Jupiter, the splendid bull, lazily chewing his cud and switching away the sand flies with his thick black tail.

In a cool inner room were long shelves ranged about the brick walls, whereon stood a shining array of pans filled with milk in different stages. Millicent was one of those people who are always stimulated with a desire to accomplish whatever other people are engaged in doing. She now announced her intention of learning to milk. This suggestion was promptly vetoed by Hal, who, to divert her attention, called to one of the men to bring him the skimming utensils. He placed a large stone jar beneath the shelf, and taking one of the milk pans which was covered with a rich coating of yellow cream, proceeded to skim it. His only tool was a little wooden wand, resembling a sculptor's modelling stick. With this he separated the yellow disk of cream from the sides of the pan, tipping it slightly so that the whole mass of cream slipped off unbroken, leaving the pale-blue skimmed milk in the vessel. Millicent was delighted with the operation which Hal accomplished with such skill, and after many unsuccessful attempts finally performed the feat in a manner very creditable to a beginner.

"If you will find your way back to the house, Princess, I will help the men to finish the milking," said young Deering, when Millicent had announced her intention of returning.

She nodded her assent, and walking a few steps stopped and leaned over the gate of the farm-yard. Presently Deering came out from the dairy, having donned his rough overalls and jersey, and, placing himself on a three-legged stool, proceeded to milk a tall white cow. Millicent looked at him musingly for a few minutes, and then took her way down the path which led to the house. It was but a short distance, and lay within sight of both farm and dwelling-house, and yet she was somewhat astonished at the young man's allowing her to return alone. To see him milking, too, at work with the common laborers, had greatly perplexed her. She cast a glance over her shoulder to reassure herself that it was really Hal's hatless head which was bending forward, almost touching the side of the white cow. "And yet he is a gentleman," she said aloud; and, remembering the white hands of her papa and the gentlemen whom she had known in the Old World, was reminded of the truth, which when it is spoken seems a truism, and yet which is often lost sight of, that the proof of gentlehood lies neither in the skin of the body, nor its raiment.

Neither goodly clothes nor skin

Show the gentleman within.