"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
Dupres 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 _netshukes_,--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.