Читать книгу The San Rosario Ranch - Maud Howe Elliott - Страница 6

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"And to watch you sink by the fireside now

Back again, as you mutely sit

Musing by fire-light, that great brow

And the spirit-small hand propping it."

John Douglass Graham, by birth American, by descent Scottish, by profession painter, sat looking out from his tower window. It was too dark to paint, and not yet late enough for him to light his study lamp and begin his evening work; so he sat idle, a rare thing for him. Before his window there stretched a fair landscape; and a man, a painter above other men, might well be forgiven an hour's idleness in such a place. The sun's last rays made the little copse look more golden and dreamy than did the stronger morning light. The still pool with its warm reflection of sky and trees, the mysterious dark wood beyond, all shadowy and full of dreams, made a picture which his hand never wearied of reproducing. On his easel stood a canvas which bore a reflection of the scene on which he was looking, painted in a strong, masterly manner, but not yet completed. "Ah, Heavens! no wonder that men love to paint in cities, with nothing of nature's beauty before them to shame their work. If I dwelt face to face with a brick wall and saw no motion save that of horse-cars and over-laden dray horses I might be more satisfied with what I accomplish. This picture might then seem beautiful to me. It is a different thing to look into the face of the great model and then at one's work. Only the strongest of us can do that, only our Duprés and Rousseaus. Shall I ever feel that I can even dimly picture this one view? Can I ever send my testimony of beauty to the world? Can I say the one word of truth which was given me to speak?"

Graham spoke to the four walls to which most of his conversation was addressed. The only sympathy he ever received in his bursts of enthusiasm or despair was from a portrait which hung where the first rays of light fell upon it in the morning. It was the portrait of a woman neither young nor beautiful with the beauty of youth. A tender, sad face, with those heavy lines at the mouth and nose which tell of grief and long weeping. The gray hair was smoothly brushed from the forehead, and the whole mien and costume showed that dignity of age so rarely seen in these days when grandmothers dress in rainbow-hued garments fit for their grandchildren, curl and frizzle their locks after the mode worn by the reigning beauty of the time, and in every possible way simulate a youth whose charm they have not, thus losing the real grace which belongs to their age. Before his mother's portrait the artist always kept fresh flowers, and to that dear and noble face his eyes were turned in a mute appeal for sympathy many times during the long solitary day.

The fires in the western sky burned low and finally faded out before Graham rose from his seat near the window and touched his lamp into flame. The searching light of the large astral revealed clearly the interior of the apartment in which the artist lived and worked. It was a square, high room, not very large, with a miscellaneous furnishing. One corner, half hidden by a large canvas, was devoted to his narrow wooden bed and dressing-table. Near a large casement stood his easel with palette and brushes. On the walls hung a pair of foils and masks and some boxing gloves. These, and a pair of Indian clubs in the corner, proved that the occupant of the tower was not careless of developing the splendid muscles with which he was endowed. Near the doorway hung a string of curious Japanese netshukés,--masks, monkeys, bears, men, women, and fruit, carefully carved in wood or ivory by the greatest artificers the world knows to-day. The walls were covered with pictures and sketches; the large table littered with books and tubes of paint. A group of deer antlers served as clothes-pegs, and the floor was strewn with the skins of these and many other animals. A quaint apartment, in which no attempts at the picturesque had been made, which the careless grouping together of many objects had nevertheless attained.

John Graham had reclaimed the old tower from utter desolation two years before, when he took up his residence in the ruins of the Spanish Mission. The adobe building had fallen to decay, a thick cloak of ivy and flowering vines mercifully hiding from the light of day the desolate ruin of what had been the religious centre of the country of San Rosario. The church walls had fallen to the ground; but the reredos and deserted altar stood swept by the winds of heaven, and decked with climbing roses and clinging ferns. The tower, which had been built very substantially, and with a view to defence in case of danger, still stood stanch, gray and weather-beaten. A flight of steep wooden stairs leading from what had been the vestibule of the church gave access to the room.

The tower stood within the limits of the San Rosario Ranch, the property of Mr. Ralph Almsford, which included twenty square miles of wooded country and arable land.

When Graham had asked permission to establish himself in the old tower, Mr. Almsford had readily granted the request, thinking, however, that he would weary of the solitary life in a few weeks. Two years had now passed, and the artist still inhabited his little eyrie, whose possession he disputed with the night owls which had been wont to sit blinking in the tower through the long hours of daylight. The place was five miles distant from the Deering house, and Graham's only neighbor was an old wood-cutter who lived in a cabin hard by, and who went by the name of French John. He prepared the artist's meals and took charge of his room. French John was a strange, silent old creature, whose life had been a varied one. He had served in the French army first as a soldier, then as an officer's servant. His reminiscences, when he could be induced to tell them, were full of interest. He had been in Paris in '48; his hands had helped to tear up the pavement to make the blockades and barriers. He had served in Algiers, whence he had come to America, and gone as a private to the war of the Southern Rebellion. He had finally drifted out to the San Rosario Ranch, where he would in all probability pass the remainder of his days. For some reason he had received no pension from either of the governments for the support of which he had shed his blood. In his old age this stranded bit of humanity was forced to support himself by the hard labor of a wood-cutter. His little cabin was built behind the altar, where the Lady Chapel had once stood, sheltered from the winds by the high screen of the reredos.

It was to the humble dwelling of French John that Graham proceeded after having made a toilet with unusual care. The door of the little log hut was ajar; and as he approached, the interior was entirely visible, revealed by the uncertain light of the wood-fire. The old man was stooping over the blaze with a saucepan in his hand, the contents of which he was vigorously stirring. Three cats of preternaturally grave aspect sat nearby, intently watching the culinary preparations. A mangy old hunting dog lay snoring in the corner, gray and scarred as his master. A battered fowling-piece and a greasy game-bag were flung on the wooden bench which served as table and chair to the occupant of the humble dwelling. The young man paused a moment on the threshold and sighed. The unkempt little cot with its lonely owner only differed in degree from his own tower, from himself. He had not even the companionship of the dumb beasts. When he should grow as old and battered as the wrinkled wood-cutter, would he be dependent for sympathy on a purring cat, or an old dog? Presently he spoke, but it was in a loud, cheery voice which in nowise indicated the sombre thought which had just suggested itself to his mind.

"Good-evening, John. What luck did you have to-day?"

"Four quail and two rabbits," replied the old man laconically, without returning the greeting of his visitor.

"And what have you in that old iron pot of yours? Something very good, I warrant."

"Stewed quail with bacon."

"Well, you must eat it yourself, for I do not want any supper to-night; I am going up to the house to pass the evening. Here is a package of tobacco for you. I shall be ready at the usual time for my breakfast."

The old man nodded his thanks for the present; and Graham left the hut, and proceeded to the spot where his horse was tethered. He saddled and mounted the mustang, and rode swiftly down the narrow path. Old John watched from his doorway the movements of the young man, and when he had disappeared, sat down to his solitary meal. The brief glimpses of Graham and his many kindly acts were the only human influences which touched the life of poor old French John. His dealings with Hal Deering were rare; once in a month the young man visited his cot, overlooked the work he had been engaged upon, and paid him his wages. For the occasional gifts of tobacco and wine, the chance newspaper from Paris, which were the only events of importance in the dull routine of his life, he was indebted to Graham. He gave no expression to his gratitude, and would have been sorely puzzled to do so. But the artist was none the less aware of it; and some portion of the packages which occasionally came to the tower from San Francisco never failed to find their way to the hut of the wood-cutter.

As Graham rode up the gravel path which led to the house, he caught a glimpse of a tall, slender figure swaying out from the gloom of the piazza. A white, bare arm was stretched upward to pluck a bunch of roses from a vine twisted about the porch. Thus much he saw and nothing more, as he fastened his horse and mounted to the piazza, which had suddenly become tenantless. The house door stood hospitably open, and the young man entered the hall and passed into the library. The soft candle-light showed him the room and its one occupant, the woman whom he had seen dimly amid the climbing roses an instant before. Evidently she had not known that the hoof-beats on the road were bringing a guest; for she was kneeling upon the hearth, her graceful shoulders bent, her strong white arms steadily working a pair of bellows. The total depravity of inanimate things is never more clearly seen than in the case of a wood-fire that refuses to burn. The girl, after several unavailing efforts to rouse a flame from the smouldering mass of embers, deliberately took the fire to pieces and rebuilt it after another fashion, putting a handful of pine cones atop of the logs, and setting them alight with a roll of paper. At last she succeeded in starting the blaze, and, stretching her graceful length upon the deerskin rug, she rested her elbows on the low bench before the fender, and lay quite silent, her face supported by her hands, her dark eyes looking into the fire.

John Graham, who had watched from the doorway every movement of the unconscious young woman with the pleasure of an artist in all things which are graceful and beautiful, still stood silent, giving no sign of his presence. The warm, pleasant interior, with its comfortable easy chairs and sofas, its open piano, near which stood a work-basket, its shelves of books and vases of flowers, bore all the infallible indications which mark the inmost shrine of domestic life. This was a room where the members of the household lived. Here was a home, the centre of affection and hospitality. The shadow of the lonely old man and his desolate dwelling rose for a moment before his eyes, and at that thought he stepped forward as if irresistibly drawn toward the cheerful hearth and the graceful woman whose eyes were lighted by the dancing flames. There was a tender look about his mouth, usually so stern in expression, as he came forward into the firelight with an expectant countenance, as if he were about to meet an old friend. Hearing the footsteps, the girl without turning her head said,--

"Well, Barbara, here you see me, making myself comfortable on Graham's deerskin. It has just come home; is it not a beauty?"

Receiving no answer, Miss Millicent Almsford turned her face so that her eyes fell upon John Graham standing near her, with a smile on his lips, a flush on his cheek. Was it the sudden leaping of the fire from the heart of the great apple log, John Graham asked himself, or was it the shining of a flame from within that lighted Millicent's face with a strange radiance at the instant when her eyes met his own? For an instant, a space of time too short to be counted by seconds, for something less than one quickened heartbeat, they looked at each other, these two, the woman with his name still on her lips, the man drawn toward the warm fireside by an uncontrollable desire to take his place in the picture, to remain no longer an outsider, a looker-on. One instant, and then habit, ceremony, the second nature of both, asserted itself, and each shrank back from that too intimate glance; the girl rising slowly to her feet, the man making a ceremonious bow.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Miss Almsford; but I found the door open, and I am allowed the privilege of making myself at home at San Rosario. As there is no one here to introduce me, will you allow me to name myself as your most humble servitor, John Graham? I am vain enough to hope that my name is not quite unknown to you. Hal has perhaps spoken of me."

"Indeed, yes, they have all mentioned you frequently. Mrs. Deering and Barbara have not yet returned from the station. When you came in I thought they had returned. I think the train must be late; they drove down to meet a friend. Will you not be seated, Mr. Graham?"

Millicent had by this time quite recovered her equanimity, somewhat shaken by the sudden appearance of the man who had lived so persistently in her thoughts for the past fortnight. She seated herself near the fire, motioning Graham to a chair on the other side.

"I suppose that this fire quite shocks you? Mr. Deering cannot bear to sit in the same room with it; but I have suffered so much from the change of climate that I am allowed to have this little blaze every evening. Do you see this pretty rug? It only came home to-day. Mr. Deering had it dressed for me. It is from the deer which you brought here one morning,--a beautiful, soft piece of fur."

"Yes, it is well arranged too. Did I understand you, Miss Almsford, to say that Miss Deering had gone to meet some visitors?"

"Yes, but you need not mind,"--her quick ear had caught the shade of annoyance in his voice,--"it is only poor Ferrara."

"Poor Ferrara? Ah, I see you have already guessed his secret."

"Who could help it when it was so very evident? Do you think Barbara will ever say yes?"

"I cannot tell. I sometimes hope so, but she is over-fastidious."

"Fastidious? Is that the term to use? Surely you would not have her marry him unless she loved him? To a woman like Barbara such a fate would be intolerable."

"I do not quite agree with you. You know that self-sacrifice is Miss Deering's greatest idea of happiness."

"I cannot comprehend it; truly I think I do not understand Barbara, though I do appreciate her and admire her. They have been expecting a visit from you for some time. Mr. Deering said he should ride over to your tower and look you up to-morrow."

"I have been very much occupied of late, or I should have paid my respects to you before this time. If you have heard anything about me, you must have heard that I am an undependable person, and never do the things which people expect of me. Besides, I am a hard-working creature, and not of the butterfly genus of man like our good Ferrara. Tell me a little how this new country strikes you. What a change it must be, this sudden transplantation from Venice to California!"

"I have suffered terribly. Ah! Mr. Graham, you who have known my Venice can feel for me. None of them here can understand it. I feel like a plant which has been torn suddenly from a garden beautiful with flowers and sunshine, gentle showers and happy birds, and placed with its roots all torn and bleeding on a barren mountain-side, with no flowers near it, only sturdy, useful herbs, which neither shrivel in the terrible sun, nor wither in the keen mountain winds. But I fade and die. There is no room for me in this great New World, where all are so busy and have so much work to do. The few beauties which they have, their blue skies and grand hills, they neither understand nor love. They have no time to look back into the glorious past with its memories; they know not how to seize the present with its actualities; they live and toil ever for the future, which they will not live to see. I have nought in common with them. I belong to the land of my birth, where the present is beautiful with the splendors of the past. What are my books, my studies, to these people? Nothing. They tolerate my eccentricity; they listen patronizingly to the tales of what has been; but they bemoan my wasted time, and would fain teach me to throw away my embroidery needle and learn to use their horrible sewing-machines. My music is my saving grace, but they approve of it more than they enjoy it."

Millicent spoke rapidly and with shining eyes. She had at last found a soul which, if not kindred to her own, was at least capable of an intelligent sympathy.

"It is not strange that you should feel as you do; and, believe me, I can sympathize with you; and yet, do not be hurt if I tell you that this very transplanting is the thing which you needed. Do you know how the finest peaches are produced? To borrow another simile from nature, it is by taking a slip from an old tree and grafting it to the sturdy trunk of a young fruit tree, that the most perfect fruit is obtained. Be not afraid; the wound will heal; and the strong, vigorous sap of the young tree will make the blossom, which now droops, bloom as a rare fruit."

"I do not want it. I do not belong here. I have no part, no sympathy with it," she said rebelliously. "I hate it, this land, where you all strive for money, not for art, and where fame is measured out with ingots for weights."

"When I was in Venice," said Graham, "there was with me a fellow artist, a student like myself. We took our first trip through the Grand Canal together. I remember his first criticism. Shall I tell it to you? It was this: 'How terrible to see cabbage leaves floating on the Grand Canal!' It was the feature which first struck him. For years after he lived in the wonderful city, loving it better, painting it more truly, day by day. He has long since forgotten the cabbage leaves which at first annoyed his nice English taste. Believe me, you will find, above and beneath the things which now jar and shock your nerves, much that is grand in this country which you will one day be proud to call your own."

"Never, never!" she cried impetuously.

At this moment voices sounded in the hall, and several persons entered the library. These were Barbara and her mother, Hal Deering, and a short gentleman with a very large round head, on which the coarse black hair, closely cropped, stood straight in air, like the hobbed mane of a Mexican pony. His piercing black eyes were set too close to the well-shaped aquiline nose; and the black mustache curled fiercely from the upper lip, revealing a good mouth set with strong white teeth. His forehead was deeply seared with lines which betokened frequent frowns, but the wrinkles about the mouth looked as if it might be in the habit of laughing constantly. A good olive complexion made the face not ill-looking, while the small, well-modelled hands and feet redeemed the rather unwieldy little body from absolute ugliness. On seeing Graham, the new-comer frowned fiercely and twisted his mustache upward in an irritated manner. When the artist stepped forward so that the light from the lamp fell on his face, the irate expression died from the countenance of the little gentleman; and, with a fat, good-natured laugh, he shook him warmly by the hand, turning his mustachios downward so that they resembled drooping commas. This act altered the expression of his countenance to an extraordinary degree, half its ferocity having disappeared with the tight upward twist of the mustache.

By some coincidence or providence this had been a red-letter day in the lives of several in the party. The morning mail had brought young Deering the welcome news that his favorite pair of oxen had taken a prize at a cattle-show the day before. The gentle mother had received a letter by the same mail from her wandering son-in-law, Ralph Almsford, full of affection and promising a speedy return to the Ranch. Ferrara was greatly elated by Barbara's having driven down to the station to meet him; and Millicent seemed, for the first time since her arrival at the Ranch, to be thoroughly alive and awake. Her pale cheek was softly flushed, the color shining through the luminous skin like the fire of an opal seen beneath its milky veil. Her eyes, usually deep and earnest, but without great animation, were lit by a flame which was not reflected from the firelight. Barbara was happy because those about her were so. Her musical little laugh was not mechanical to-night; she was really in good spirits and in no need of feigning them. Graham's rather frozen existence seemed to be melted by the genial company; and the evening passed by with that lightning rapidity unknown in social gatherings, no matter how magnificently they be appointed, where the spirit of cordiality and good-fellowship is lacking. Music was not wanting to complete the jollity. Ferrara sang some delightful Spanish songs with more animation than voice; and, to the astonishment of the company, Millicent, who until that moment had not sung a note, at Graham's request seated herself at the piano, and sang, with a voice of rare beauty and power, ballads tender and war-songs gay, old Italian music of masters long forgotten.

"Sweet Mistress Deering, will you not give us some music?" asked Graham, as Millicent left the piano.

"After such singing as Millicent's and Mr. Ferrara's, my little thread of a voice could hardly be heard, Graham."

"Play for us then, my lady. Miss Barbara, are you not in the mood for a dance?"

"Of course she is," said Hal, "and so is Ferrara. Come, Princess, I will give you your first lesson in the American waltz."

The young men rolled back the huge rugs, leaving the hard-wood floor exposed. Mrs. Deering placed herself at the piano and struck up a little old-fashioned waltz which she had learned in her youth, and Millicent was whirled off her feet by her energetic partner. Not till she had danced twice with Deering and Ferrara, did Graham claim her hand for a waltz; and not till Mrs. Deering struck the last chords of the music did he loose her waist from his circling arm. Then a stroll on the piazza was proposed, and it was not till the last stroke of twelve warned them that the new day had begun that the party broke up. Barbara and Millicent stood together watching for Hal, who had gone to fetch Graham's horse, when the artist joined them on the piazza and bade them good-night. Millicent, with her foreign breeding, never had conformed to the American habit of hand-shaking, but when Graham wished her good-night she instinctively and unconsciously gave him her hand. He held it possibly a half second longer than was necessary, and then sprang on his horse. As he rode down the dark path, he turned in his saddle and took a last look at the house. Barbara had gone indoors; one figure alone stood beneath the rose-vine with bare white arms, the figure he had seen on his arrival earlier in the evening.

"Good-night to you," he cried. The deep, musical tones were answered by a farewell greeting from the girl who stood there alone in the night watching his retreating form.