In the cool of the following evening we find Clifford swinging dreamily
in a hammock on the porch, while near by is ever-busy Maud, preparing a
basket of martynias for the pickle-jar. As she deftly snipped off the
curling ends of the green pods, locally known as "Devil Claws"--a very
appropriate name indeed, when applied to the mature fruit--she cast a
glance of suspicion toward her brother, and said:--
"I never like to see you so quiet, Clifford. I have always noticed that
silent people need watching. Now, here is Rob, for instance:--Just so
long as we can hear him whistling or singing, we rest contentedly; but
the very moment he becomes quiet--ah! look out! There is mischief on
hand every time; and we are likely to miss pie from the pantry soon, or
find that the rogue has filched a bowl of cream down cellar. No, sir;
you have been so suspiciously reticent to-day that I am led to think you
have learned something since we had our talk yesterday."
"I always endeavor to store up some treasure of wisdom daily, my
sister," Clifford replied, with lazy evasion, as he swung a polished
boot to and fro over the hammock's side, and turned a feverish face
toward Maud. Then, while a look of sarcasm gleamed in his half-closed
eyes, he added, as she continued to glance askance: "Who was the
philosopher, sage, or poet that said--or should have said, at
least--something about the moral obloquy of groping through life with a
cross eye?"
"Whoever that fellow was who strangled on such a proverb, I'll bet my
boots he never clanked round of nights, like a loose horse, all the
while fancying himself sly," said Rob, with a knowing chuckle, as he
cocked his head on one side to view the horse-hair bridle-rein which he
was braiding while seated on the edge of the porch.
A loud-mouthed clamor from the dogs precluded an answer to this thrust,
and as the group on the porch looked toward the gate, Grace, Ralph, and
Scott Moreland came into the yard, and they were all soon eagerly
discussing the plan of holding a picnic in the Warlow pasture, on the
opposite side of the river from the colonel's dwelling.
Before their neighbors left it was decided that the event should take
place the last of the following week; but in the excitement of agreeing
on a programme, and the wordy debate as to the propriety of including
dancing in the list of amusements, all the leisure time of the next two
days was consumed; so nothing more was said regarding the great
discoveries which the week had revealed.
Verbal and written invitations were sown broadcast throughout the
colony, bidding their friends to the picnic; and not many days had
elapsed before Clifford had ridden down to the Estill Ranch to deliver
the compliment in person to the members of that aristocratic household.
At the door he met Hugh, who was as cordial and genial as ever, and
entered into the scheme of the picnic with his customary zest of
pleasure, sharpened now, no doubt, with the desire to meet the
fascinating Grace once again.
The call lengthened out astonishingly, as Clifford strolled back and
forth on the star-lit terrace with the vivacious heiress of Monteluma
and Estill Ranch, who promised to come up with Hugh the next day, to
practice, with a dozen others, who were to meet at Moreland's, and agree
on the music for the entertainment.
"What a delightful evening this has been!" said Clifford at a very late
hour, as they walked down to the steps, at the base of which his horse
was tied.
"Oh, charming indeed! I And don't you think that we are progressing well
with our "practicing," for here we have had all the elements of a
flirtation without the aid of either a moon or a gate," she said gaily,
as he unfastened the chain at the steps, which served to bar the way at
the top of the stairs, which led down from the terrace.
A cool "Good evening, Miss Estill," was all the answer this sally
elicited from young Warlow, as he rode away, thinking gloomily that the
proud heiress meant to show him, under the cover of her levity, that she
was only amusing herself or "practicing" the arts of "flirtation" at his
expense; and he determined that when they met again he would show her
that he understood the hint, and would give her no further opportunity
to repulse his advances.
So, accordingly, it was with a great deal of hauteur he met Miss Estill
the following afternoon at Morelands'; but either that young lady was
too indifferent to notice his behavior or had been gratified at the
result of her light remark, for she was as gay and unchanged as ever.
All of our hero's stern resolves dissolved into smiles and admiration
while he stood talking with the charming young lady; but when the
wealthy, dissolute aristocrat, Major Stork, of Devondale, came up, and
proceeded to monopolize Miss Estill, Clifford froze up completely, and
became so polite and attentive to Grace that she at length declared she
would box his ears if he did not quit persecuting her so; which
persecutions consisted merely in keeping Hugh Estill away from her
side--a crime which Clifford told her, hotly, was worse than murder in
her eyes.
"Cliff Warlow, you are a booby!" said Miss Grace, with astonishing
candor; "and you needn't come round me with any of your second-hand
attentions; for I've got a pair of eyes in my head, and know how to use
them too. The idea of your being jealous of that hawk-billed old
reprobate. Why, it's perfectly absurd," she continued, casting a glance
of scorn toward the spot where the stately major and Miss Estill were
talking. "Oh, you should remember, Cliff, that a girl who is worth
having is not going to fall into a fellow's mouth like a ripe persimmon
whenever he shakes the tree."
Then in a tone of confidence she continued, with a look of wisdom, which
Clifford thought, with an ill-concealed smile, resembled that of a
prairie-owl: "Girls are very apt to pretend a great coldness toward a
fellow that they want to catch; that is, after they see they have made a
safe impression on him; and to see such a girl begin manoeuvring
around another fellow, one too that you know she can't care a straw for,
why, it always shows plain enough that it is only to decoy fellow number
one."
"There you are now far beyond my comprehension," Clifford interrupted,
with returning good humor; and as Hugh Estill joined them he added: "I
will now retire in favor of number one."
Emboldened by Grace's homily, young Warlow sought Miss Estill's side,
and in her vivacious friendliness he soon found the happiness that had
taken flight on the appearance of the major; but the returning bud of
confidence, which her smiles had called forth, was nipped by a most
untimely frost in the appearance of a new rival--John Downels, of
Diamond Springs.
Mr. Downels was a _debonair_, graceful specimen of the gilded youth of
New York, from whose make-up the last remaining trace of effeminacy had
been eliminated by a stern course of ranch-life in the West. He appeared
to be an old friend of Miss Estill, who presented him to Clifford; but
after a moment's civility, young Warlow took his leave and retired,
while the late comer devoted himself to the heiress.
While pretending to discuss music with Mrs. Warfield, Clifford watched
the pair furtively. He began to realize that now he had just cause for
uneasiness; for there was an air of culture and polished ease about the
blonde-haired young ranchman which made him very attractive, and young
Warlow became so absorbed and miserable that he only half realized what
he was saying.
"Do you think we shall have time at the picnic to sing all the songs on
the programme before dinner?" Mrs. Warfield inquired.
"Why, no; I believe it would be a better plan to dish it out by the
quart to the individual tables," he replied, absently; then seeing a
puzzled look sweep over her face, he hastened to add: "You know it would
be more liable to melt if it was in such small quantities."
The situation flashed at once upon the keen-eyed lady, and although
flirtation, jealousy, music, and ice-cream was a combination sufficient
to upset the gravity of a sexton, yet she replied in a tone of perfect
suavity while toying with her bracelet of jet and gold:
"A very good plan indeed, Mr. Warlow."
When evening came, and with its brooding shadows the company dispersed,
our hero returned home with a heavy heart. As he pondered over each word
and action of Miss Estill, he had to confess that there was nothing in
her demeanor towards him but friendly courtesy at all times. The only
way that he could interpret her remark on the terrace, regarding their
"flirtation" and "practicing," was that she had seen his growing
attachment for herself, and she had in that way shown him that it was
only a flirtation, and that his case was hopeless. "Yes; she was too
genuinely a lady to encourage his suit, then discard him at the last
moment," he concluded, despondently.
A miserable day followed a sleepless night, and Clifford busied himself
with the farm duties, trying vainly to forget the bewitching voice that
was ever haunting him, and which, as he drove the reaper over the wild
meadow, seemed to be singing above the clang and ring of the sickle the
sweet refrain,--
"There blooms no rose upon the plain
But costs the night a thousand tears,"--
in the tones of luscious melody that he never--no, never--could forget.
As he swung in the hammock again that evening, while Maud's guitar and
the sweet strains of "Silver Threads" lulled him into a drowsy reverie,
he remembered suddenly the incident of the "Moated Grange" which, Mora
laughingly said, had secured her such "a round scolding" because she had
neglected her household duties through too much reading of that
affecting poem. Why should she have felt such sympathy for the forlorn
Mariana, unless the pathetic cry,
"'He cometh not--he cometh not,' she said,"
had found an echo in her heart also?
"Yes; she was heart-free, and waiting for some one to come and fill its
empty chambers with the treasures of his love," mentally concluded our
hero in a flash of joyful conviction. But again the doubt and
despondency prevailed; and in no very enviable mood he rode down to
Estill's ranch alone the next day, to join the company that were to
meet and practice for the coming musical festival, which now was the
all-absorbing theme of the colony.
As he rode slowly along, Maud and Ralph passed him in a gallop, flinging
back some gay badinage--something about "a laggard in love"--which he
affected not to understand; then, as he saw Hugh and Grace cantering up
the road behind, he put spurs to his horse, and arrived at the imposing
mansion just in time to see young Downels and the military Stork alight
from the latter's carriage, and, in the most amicable manner imaginable,
both seek the young hostess and rain a shower of compliments upon her
gracious head.
While these two devoted cavaliers, or rather charioteers--for they had
ridden over in the barouche of Devondale, a vehicle sumptuous and
costly--were engaged in a graceful skirmish of wit and verbiage with
Miss Estill, our hero, after bowing coldly, passed on to the piano,
where Mrs. Estill was chatting in a good-natured strain with a group of
friends.
"You are late, Mr. Warlow, and we have been waiting for some one to
'break the ice' at the piano," she said, with her pleasing smile, as she
shook hands with Clifford. "Let's see," she continued, "the quartette,
'My Native Hills,' is the first on the programme, I am very eager to
hear your tenor since Mrs. Warfield said you made her home-sick when you
sang it at the Moreland rehearsal," concluded the hostess, innocently.
"It would require a large bump of self-esteem to construe that into a
compliment," thought Clifford; but meeting Mrs. Warfield's amused look,
he said, with a smile:--
"I hope her longing for home was not of the same nature as that which a
hand-organ inspires, Mrs. Estill."
"No, indeed, Mr. Warlow; but you will excuse my faulty compliment, and
only remember that I've been totally isolated from society for a quarter
of a century, and am apt to say the wrong thing in the right place."
"There she goes again!" the face of Mrs. Warfield seemed to say; but
Clifford only answered with polite gravity:--
"Thank you, Mrs. Estill. I shall never forget that you are very kind;
and if Mrs. Warfield will promise not to leave at once we will proceed
with the singing," he added, with a twinkle of humor in his blue eyes.
"I will promise to stay as long as you are singing a tenor like an
alpine horn," replied Mrs. Warfield, graciously.
"Well! good-bye, then?" said Clifford, as he joined the singers; and
soon his voice was heard, clear and ringing, like the soft tones of a
church-bell in some quiet mountain valley--pealing out with soaring,
crystal notes, or floating down the wind with a vibrant, thrilling
sweetness, that caused even the garrulous major to pause and say at the
end:--
"Why, pon honah, Miss Estill, this young Warlow is a wonderful singah;
indeed he quite reminds me of Mario, the enchanting, velvet-toned
tennah, you know, whom I often have heard at the grand opera--aw--in
delightful Paree. What a pity that he is--aw--only a pooah homesteadah,
or was until of late, I heah."
"I am certain he is an earnest, industrious gentleman at all times,
Major," said Miss Estill, with just enough reproof in her tone to cause
the dissolute aristocrat to wince; then, pausing, only to see that her
arrow had hit the mark, she continued:--
"His father was a wealthy planter who was ruined financially by the war;
but we certainly respect the energy that has enabled him to repair his
fortunes and found such a delightful home, as you will find the Warlow
homestead to be. His example should encourage others to a similar
course, instead of remaining in the overcrowded East or South to
struggle along, hopelessly, amid the scenes of their misfortune."
"Ah! indeed--a plantah before the wah? Why, really, that is another
mattah, Miss Estill. My fathah was also a plantah; but when the wah
began he sold his niggahs and left Kentuckah, but finally returned and
located thah again."
"You appear so sad, Mr. Downels, that I fear you are not enjoying our
rehearsal," said Mora, ignoring the transaction in "niggahs," and
turning with a questioning look to young Downels, who stood by her side
yet, but seemingly lost in reverie since the music had ceased.
"Pardon the ungallantry, Miss Estill; but that song carried me back to
the Hudson, and I almost fancied myself rambling over the hills and
dales of my boyhood's home once again." But his sadness was seen to melt
into an amused smile as Grace sang in a rich brogue:--
"Ould bachelor's hall--what a quare luking place it is!
Kape me from sich all the days of me loife;
Och! sure an' methinks what a burnin' disgrace it is,
Niver at all to be takin a woife.
Pots, dishes, and pans, and sich greasy commodities--
Ashes and tater-skins kiver the floor;
His cupboard's a store-house of comical oddities--
Things that were niver heard tell of before!"
Several glees followed; then Miss Estill took her place at the
rich-toned piano, which was banked in a bed of wild-flowers, where the
flame-colored blossoms of the desert-sage and the golden sunflowers were
relieved by sprays of snow-powdered lace-plant and rose-colored
convolvuli, mingled with tufts of white and purple mignonette, which
grew in fragrant profusion over all the surrounding hills. As the grand
strains of Schubert's "Serenade" floated out through the open windows,
or reverberated along the arched and frescoed ceiling of the elegant
apartment, the listeners preserved an appreciative silence,--all the
more flattering when we remember that not a baker's dozen of the
audience understood a word of German.
"It was all very fine and grand, no doubt, but still perfect Greek, or
Dutch--which is about the same--to my poor, untutored ears," said Grace
at the close of the celebrated song, as she turned to Rob and spoke in
an undertone.
"Well, it was not all quite plain," returned that youth, with a droll
grimace; "but it was certainly p-r-r-r-r-rrretty." Then, as Grace
strangled and recovered from an effort at swallowing her own chin, he
added facetiously: "Didn't you recognize the place where the old fellow
shuffled out in his wooden shoes, and, after threatening the serenader
with 'a schlock on the coop,' finally turned the bull-dog loose?"
"No, I just did nothing of the kind; and I don't believe you understood
one word of that heathen gibberish either," said Grace, with a sniff of
suspicion.
"Oh, that only shows you can't interpret operatic music," Rob replied,
with a derisive grin.
"Rob Warlow, you horrible creature! I never know when you are in
earnest," she retorted, with a puzzled look, as she smoothed down the
fluffy ruffles of her white muslin gown.
"Why, no--honest injun!--any one can learn to understand this classic
music. It only requires a sufficient stretch of imagination, and then
all is clear as--mud. Now, when Maud is playing Mendelssohn's 'Wedding
March,' I can hear the cat squall like a panther when the baby pulls its
tail; and she--that is Mrs. 'Sohn--takes an awful tantrum when 'Sohn
wants her to get up of a cold morning and make a fire; and the way they
shout and gabble--all in Dutch--would scare a krout-barrel," said Rob,
with perfect gravity.
"Oh, humbug!" she replied with a shrug, as she flounced away to where
Maud stood examining a book of engravings.
"Cliff and Mora are acting like a couple of idiots, Maud," whispered
Grace, as she surveyed the elegant and finished picture, "The Carnival
in Venice," with a critical glance that reminded one of a wren; but as
Maud failed to reply to this personal comment, she continued in an
undaunted undertone:--
"I don't pretend to understand flirtations, but if I did, I'd say that
Mora Estill was a pronounced coquette. She bears all the ear-marks of a
born flirt, and the way she throws herself at the head of young
Downels--the sophisticated creature!--is just shameful. But still my
fingers itch none the less to pull Cliff's ears; for there he goes, with
his lip hanging so low you could step on it--and all on her account,
too."
"Well, Grace, let's reserve our sympathy and censure for the future,"
said Maud, in a tone meant to discourage any further discussion of the
subject; and as the supper-bell announced the unfashionable hour of six,
and the guests were preparing to follow Mrs. Estill and Major Stork into
the long, fresco-paneled dining-room, Grace ceased her comments, and
soon forgot all about her friends while leaning on the arm of Hugh
Estill and hurrying into the damask-draped and luxury-laden table.
However, she noticed that Clifford and Mrs. Warfield sat next to Mora
and young Downels when they were, at length, all seated, and that while
the latter couple were silent, the former kept up a semi-animated,
constrained run of small talk during the meal; but she soon became so
engrossed while listening to Hugh's not over-brilliant wit that all
else was devoid of interest.
When the many luxuries had been discussed, and the guests were loitering
in the parlor or sauntering out upon the terrace in groups of twos
and--well, twos also, I believe--Clifford walked out alone to the
fountain, and sat down on a stone seat near the basin, which was
brimming with water. Here the broad-leaved lilies floated, with their
blossoms of pale rose and cream, distilling an odor of entrancing
sweetness for yards around the cool, moss-set brim. As he sat lost in
bitter meditations, the twilight began to deepen, the cicadas tuned
their shrill pipes, and Venus shone out with unclouded splendor over the
tree-tops of the valley below, followed, as she has ever been, by an
ardent host of glittering stars and planets. That great midsummer
constellation, the Scorpion, seemed stinging the "milky way" with its
venomous tail, while the jeweled Sickle sank in the west--an omen that
the harvest-days were nearly ended. A shrill katydid, overhead in the
branches, heralded the coming frost, while a low ripple of voices
mingled with the faint notes of the piano and snatches of song from
within the house.
As Clifford sat, trailing a lily through the water, thinking, alas! of
the time when he had strolled here with Mora, only two short weeks
before, and how trustfully she had told him of "the mystery that seemed
haunting the very air of late," he found it hard to realize that another
had supplanted him, and that henceforth they were to be as strangers.
But slowly it began to dawn upon him that their paths had diverged
since that fatal night upon the star-lit terrace, when she so lightly
remarked upon their "practicing" and "flirtation," until now he felt
they were rapidly and surely becoming totally estranged.
"It is better that I should never, never look upon her fair, proud face
again; for when I meet her eyes--ah! what can it mean?--there seems such
a look of pleading, mingled with pride and--something that I can never
understand--that it totally unmans me, and I can not trust my lips to
speak a word for fear of betraying the secret of my love. No; she will
find that the Warlow pride will be a match for her own; for I would
rather tear my heart out and fling it at her feet, than have her spurn
my love, as only a proud creature like her can.
"To know that she looks upon me as a fortune hunter, and scans me with
those haughty--oh, lovely--violet eyes, classing me as 'poor and proud,'
but far beneath her caste,--oh, Heaven! it is more than I can or will
bear!" mentally exclaimed fiery young Warlow with a flash of hot
wrath,--which is about the best remedy known for a sore heart, I really
believe.
"A fortune hunter? Well, can't a fellow who has yearned all his life to
meet a high-bred, dainty, and elegant woman, dare to love her when he
does meet such an ideal, for fear of being called by that contemptible
name?" continued our hero, impatiently plucking another water-lily, and
beginning to pace up and down the path in nervous haste, and resuming
his meditations, saying, half audibly:--
"If she had only waited a few more days I could have shown her that
Colonel Warlow's son was not the poor homesteader--that pariah of the
cattle-king--which she seems to consider me in her high pride. But no;
she must throw cold water on a poor devil before he has made too big a
fool of himself to offend her pride by a declaration of his folly.
"But she has all the refined instincts of her class at any rate, and can
send a disheartened, despairing wretch like me on a life-long journey of
dreary longing, with a sweet graciousness that I must admire, though I
curse it ever so bitterly!" Then, as there rose vividly to his mind a
picture of that proud but vivacious face, lit by eyes of violet-blue,
and framed by the mass of raven, wavy hair; the coral, tender lips and
creamy, dimpled cheeks so soft and tinted; the graceful form, in its
filmy, flower-wrought robe of white,--he leaned against the elm-tree,
and covered his face with his hands as though to shut the lovely vision
from his sight, and murmured in tones of deepest agony:--
"Oh, Mora, Mora, my lost love! how can I give you up? It seems as if I
have loved you from eternity; and to lose you now is like the pangs of
death!"
Rousing himself as the sound of retreating wheels was heard below the
terrace, Clifford walked back to the hall-way, where he met several
departing guests; and as he came into the hall, with a slow leaden
step, he saw, with a start, that Miss Estill was standing alone by the
stairs, where she had turned after bidding some of the guests
good-night! When she saw his face, with its look of white, tense misery,
she said quickly:--
"Oh, Mr. Warlow! I have missed you for an hour. You are ill, I fear."
"Yes, Miss Estill, I am--sick of the world; but it is a very slight
matter--only a broken heart," young Warlow replied, in a low, husky
tone, while his eyes flashed like purple amethysts.
She turned deadly white, and gave him a look wherein he read a proud
pity, that sent a flash of hot indignation to his face; then he bowed
and walked away without glancing back.
As he came into the glare of the lighted parlor, Maud met him, and,
after giving him a glance of deep sympathy, she said with her accustomed
tact:--
"Clifford, you are no better, I fear; so let's return home. Most of the
guests are starting already, although it is only nine; but we have, like
them, also a long drive before us to-night."
So, bidding their hostess good-night, the Warlow and Moreland party
started toward the hall; but at the door Miss Estill met them, looking
pale and _distrait_, though regretful at their early departure.
She tarried a moment at the door, talking to Maud and Grace regarding
the details of the picnic; and as she stood under the full light of a
large lamp, held by a marble statue of Mercury, the wonderful grace and
beauty of her creole face came into dazzling relief, and Clifford
paused with a look of hungry longing on his face, while the remainder of
the group hurried on to where the carriage waited, leaving him alone
with Mora.
"I will say farewell here, Miss Estill. We shall meet at the picnic,
Friday, but there will be little chance to bid you adieu there. I start
for South America the next morning to stay indefinitely; so
good-bye--forever!"
Even now in this trying moment, while his heart turned cold with an
agony that not even death could equal, Clifford was true to the
instincts of a gentleman, and waited immovably for her to offer her
hand; but she only stood and toyed with her dainty fan, saying with the
same cold, proud look that she had given him once before that evening:--
"This is very sudden. Indeed you can not be in earnest; so I shall
reserve my adieus until the very last. I will try at the picnic to
persuade you to abandon such an unkind course, and remain with us."
"Very well, Miss Estill, but I had forgotten to tell you that I have a
disclosure to make at the picnic--one of grave import to you--and beg
for an hour of your time while there. I would prefer the morning, if you
please."
"With pleasure, certainly," she replied; but their talk was interrupted
by some guests preparing to depart; so young Warlow hurriedly said
good-night, and joined Maud and the others in the carriage.
Soon they were rapidly whirling homeward up the level, winding road;
but as no one seemed to be in a talking mood, the journey was rather a
silent one, the monotony only relieved by a scurrying flock of
wild-grouse or the dim and retreating form of a startled jack-rabbit,
looming large and indistinct upon the level prairie. In places the tall
blue-stem moved in the wind with a rolling, wave-like motion; then again
giving place to vistas of open glades, carpeted by the buffalo-grass,
that the rains and sun had bleached almost white.
A forecast of autumn was felt in the rising gales, which moaned
through the tall cottonwoods along the stream; the water flashed cold
and bright under the starlight, and the buffalo-birds--our Western
whip-poor-will--swooped down with a bellowing roar close to the heads of
our friends as they drove by, indicating that a rain was near at hand.