SOON after one o’clock Dick Willoughby and Chester Munson were again in
the saddle. They galloped along the foothills for some time in silence.
But coming to the boulder-strewn wash of a mountain stream, they had
perforce to rein their horses to a walk. Conversation was now possible.
“Dick, will you give me a job as a cowboy if I quit the army?” asked
Munson abruptly.
“Surest thing you know,” replied Dick. “But why try to kid me like
that?”
“Oh,” laughed the other, “I am not jesting.”
“Well, by gad, if you feel that way already, the chances are you will
write out your resignation when you get back to the shack tonight.”
“You mean by that—”
“I mean,” said Dick, smiling benignly at his friend, “that when you have
once seen Grace Darlington you will feel like browsing on the California
range until you have learned to throw a riata.”
“Oh, it is not the thought of any mere girl that will influence my
decision. I feel like getting back to Nature—back to the soil—back to a
life of untrammeled freedom.”
“Back to unspoiled womanhood,” added Dick sententiously.
“Well, you’ve certainly got my curiosity aroused over these young ladies
at La Siesta. How much farther do we have to go?”
“Within an hour, sir, within the hour, my lord, shall you see the lady
fair. But remember,” Dick went on banteringly, “that you are not to
practise any riata-throwing on Miss Merle Farnsworth.”
“I understand. But we won’t fall out over her. You may have your
beautiful brunette. I have always been partial to blondes.”
“In the plural number,” grinned Dick. “But Grace Darlington will dim the
light of all your previous flames. She is the most perfect blonde you
have ever yet encountered.”
“You are certainly enthusiastic—for a disinterested party.”
“Well, you’ll say the same thing, Ches, my boy, when you see her.”
It was not yet four o’clock when they approached the Rancho La Siesta.
The house was of a style quite unusual in California—a miniature castle
that might have been planned by some European architect of renown. It
stood amid noble oak trees, old and gnarled and of gigantic size, but
not too numerous to hide the architectural features of the building. To
the rear the trees grew more thickly till they finally merged into one
great forest that covered the lower ridge of the mountain beyond. Far
up, just within the timber line, could be seen the red-tiled roof of a
house which Dick told his friend was the home of a Mr. Ricardo Robles.
Beneath the forest, the gently undulating lands sloped away to a
considerable stream that dashed down from one of the mountain canyons
and debouched into the great valley.
“Whew!” exclaimed Munson admiringly, as they rode up and turned their
horses over to an attendant. “Some swell architecture around here! Is
this your work, Dick?”
0055
“Oh, no!” replied Willoughby. “I had nothing to do with it. But I do
like the architectural lines of Mrs. Darlington’s home. She’s English
and has English tastes, and transplanted ideas are not always successful
in a new country. But in this case the building just seems to fit the
scenery. It has always delighted me.”
“It is certainly beautiful,” concurred Munson as they walked along a
winding graveled pathway that climbed the gentle slope and led to the
portico of the mansion.
Around them were gay beds of flowers dotting the greensward. Almost
hiding the columns of the portico were climbing roses, one bush of the
purest white, the other of deep crimson.
As they passed under the porch roof, a handsome and well-preserved lady
of middle age appeared at the top of the steps with a welcoming smile.
She descended to give them gracious greeting.
“How glad I am to see you, Mr. Willoughby. No one could be more welcome
at La Siesta.”
“Thank you,” said Dick with marked chivalry.
“Mrs. Darlington, permit me to present my friend, Lieutenant Munson.”
The introduction over, they ascended the steps together, and passed
into a spacious courtyard, with broad verandahs running all around and a
fountain playing in the centre. The hostess conducted her visitors to
a cosy corner, screened by glass panels from the open air and furnished
with rich Persian rugs, divans, cushions, tapestries, carved ebony
tabarets, all in oriental fashion. When they were comfortably settled,
she opened the conversation.
“Lieutenant, the young ladies of La Siesta are most impatient to meet
you. Mr. Willoughby has told us so much about you and yet has been so
very dilatory—yes, really you have, Mr. Willoughby—in bringing you over,
that we have put down several black marks against his name.”
“Oh, thank you,” stammered the young officer, reddening. “I quite agree
with you about Willoughby, for I have been pleading with him to present
me from the very first day of my arrival.” Turning to Mrs. Darlington,
Dick laughingly protested: “My dear Mrs. Darlington, that is the first
whopper you have heard from my esteemed friend. You have yet to learn
that he always speaks in the superlative degree.”
At this moment Grace Darlington stepped through one of the French
windows. As she stood hesitating for a moment, Chester Munson there
and then agreed with all the preliminary praise Dick Willoughby had
bestowed. She was certainly a vision of loveliness, with a wealth of
golden hair and eyes of sapphire blue; petite, her figure plump but
beautifully molded, her cheeks aglow with the red roses of health and
youth and happiness.
“My daughter Grace,” announced Mrs. Darlington, rising and formally
introducing the lieutenant to her as she joined the group.
Again Munson blushed and stammered. Dick was chuckling; he saw that
the gallant son of battle, with a penchant for blonde beauties, had
succumbed to the first glance from Grace Darlington’s eyes.
“Delighted to meet you, Lieutenant Munson,” she declared with frank
friendliness as they shook hands.
“Where’s Merle?” asked Dick almost before Grace had time to turn to him.
“There now, Mr. Impatience,” she replied, shaking her finger teasingly
at, him, “Merle will be here in her own good time. She’s busy with Bob
just now.”
“Who the dickens is Bob?” asked Dick, visibly disconcerted.
“Oh, her new Irish terrier,” laughed Grace, her voice ringing with
mischievous merriment. “And such a beauty!”
Dick breathed again. The lieutenant had recovered his composure; it was
his turn now to bestow a sardonic smile upon his comrade.
“We’ll have afternoon tea,” suggested Mrs. Darlington. “And of course
you two young men will stay for dinner.”
Both uttered a simultaneous protest—they were only in riding clothes.
But Mrs. Darlington made short work of the argument, and touched a
pushbutton by her side. A maid responded, the extra covers for dinner
were ordered, and meanwhile tea was to be sent on to the verandah.
Pleasant small talk succeeded, the lieutenant being called upon for his
first impressions of California.
Of a sudden Grace exclaimed in a voice, half of joy, half of surprise:
“Why, here comes Mr. Robles!”
Advancing along the verandah, hat in hand, was a man of striking
presence and dignity, perhaps fifty years of age. His jet black hair was
streaked with gray, the full beard almost verging on whiteness. Olive
complexion and brown eyes, together with the courtly manner of his
salutation, indicated the thoroughbred Castilian.
He bowed and raised to his lips the hand of his hostess. To Grace he
paid the same deference. Next he turned to Dick Willoughby and extended
his hand.
“I have met Mr. Willoughby. I am pleased, sir, to see you again.”
Then his eyes rested on Lieutenant Munson, and Mrs. Darlington presented
the young army officer.
“And where, I pray, is Miss Merle?” Mr. Robles finally asked, glancing
around.
“That’s what I want to know,” blurted out Dick. Then he reddened just a
little.
The older man looked kindly at Dick, and smilingly said: “The audacity
of youth.”
“Yes,” put in Grace, “the audacity and the impatience as well.”
But just at that moment there floated from the recesses of the home the
fragment of a song: “I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and
serfs at my side.”
“Ah, here comes the recreant now,” exclaimed Mrs. Darlington.
The song stopped abruptly, and a moment later Merle Farnsworth appeared.
She went first of all to Mr. Robles and greeted him warmly, giving him
both her hands, which he kissed in his princely fashion. For Willoughby
she had a pleasant smile, and for his friend, the lieutenant, a kindly
welcome to California.
The tea tray had meanwhile arrived, and soon both the young ladies
were busy attending to their guests. While he sipped his tea, Munson
completed his inspection of Merle Farnsworth—dispassionately, for the
brunette type of beauty had never yet made his pulses beat faster. But
he could none the less admire. She was a stately girl, taller than Grace
Darlington, with fine, regular features and brown eyes that matched the
dark heavy braids of her hair. Her manner was alert and vivacious, yet
there was the quiet dignity of gentle breeding even in her smile.
After half an hour of general conversation, Mr. Robles arose to take
his leave, notwithstanding Mrs. Darlington’s pressing invitation that he
should remain and join the dinner party.
“My home is not far away,” he said when shaking hands with Munson, “up
in the woods yonder. Perhaps you may have seen it as you came along the
road.”
“Yes,” observed Dick, “I pointed it out to the lieutenant.”
“Well, both you gentlemen are cordially invited to pay me a visit any
time you are riding through this part of the country. Although I live
far away from the busy world, and am a recluse by choice, I have some
things that may interest you—pictures, old manuscripts and books of the
Spanish days.”
“Pictures?” interposed Dick, inquiringly.
“Yes, a few that I picked up during several visits to Europe.”
“If people only knew it,” remarked Mrs. Darlington, “Mr. Robles has
perhaps one of the finest private picture galleries in America.”
“Then I’m certainly coming to see you,” said Dick, eagerly.
“Me or my pictures?” asked Mr. Robles with a quizzical smile.
“Both,” and the young fellow showed he meant it by a cordial hand grip.
“You will pass our door, Mr. Willoughby?” exclaimed Merle in
half-laughing reproachfulness. “You will dare to give the go-by to La
Siesta?”
“Well, art is art,” replied Dick sturdily, although he did not trust
himself to look at Merle while he answered.
“But perhaps the young ladies will show you the way through the oak
forest,” suggested Mr. Robles.
“That would be great,” said Lieutenant Munson, with his eyes fixed on
Grace Darlington.
“Delightful,” she blushingly assented.
“Well, arrange it among yourselves. For the present, adios.” And with a
sweeping bow the senor took his departure.
A stroll through the gardens and orchards, dinner and sprightly
conversation, an hour of piano-playing and singing to follow—altogether
a delightful evening was spent. The nearly full moon had risen before
the young men found themselves on the homeward trail.
As side by side they rode down into the valley, Munson said:
“Dick, boy, there’s no use talking. You have introduced me to some
perfectly charming people today—they’re wonderful.”
“What did I tell you?” asked Dick.
“You surely did not tell me the half,” replied the other. “I think Grace
Darlington is the prettiest girl I have ever seen.”
“Guess you’ll be writing out your resignation and sending it to army
headquarters,” laughed Dick. “Quien sabe?”
The lieutenant made no reply, and quickening their pace, they pushed on
in silence.
At last they were nearing home—passing round the last spur of the
mountain. The moon was now riding high overhead, bathing the whole
landscape in bright effulgence. Willoughby brought his pony to a walk,
and Munson, coming up behind, soon joined him.
“How do you like riding by the light of the California moon?” asked
Willoughby.
“Really, Dick, you call even the moon a California moon, as if the same
moon didn’t shine in New York City or in Paris.”
“Not in the same way,” said Dick soberly. “The truth is, the moon really
looks larger and brighter here, and the stars, too, are more brilliant.
Haven’t you noticed it?”
“I have noticed that the atmosphere is exceedingly clear,” replied
Munson, and, as if to verify his observation, he cast a glance up to the
rock-ribbed flank of the mountain above the belt of timber.
“Good God, what’s that?” he added breathlessly grasping the arm of his
friend.
Instinctively both halted their horses as they continued to gaze.
0105
The bent form of the old Indian squaw Guadalupe was unmistakable as she
toiled slowly along a narrow ledge on the face of the precipice. But
following close behind her was a vague, shadowy figure—the figure of
some four-footed beast, bigger than a big dog.
“The white wolf!” gasped Dick.
“Is it real, or is it a spectre?” whispered Munson.
Just then a scudding cloud momentarily obscured the moon, and when the
full light again shone forth, both woman and wolf had vanished.
The young men looked into each other’s eyes in awe and wonderment.