"Dearer than woman's love
Is yonder sunset fading in the sky!"
After that night's vigil, Graham took his gun, and packing a blanket and
a few camping utensils in his saddle-bag, mounted his horse and rode
away toward a hunting-lodge some twenty miles distant, where he
sometimes passed the night. His way led through the woods, where the
bracing air, the light footsteps of the invisible animals, the
fluttering of the birds in the trees, served to turn his mind from the
painful thoughts of the past night. He had a part in this woodland
life, and owned a kinship to the four-footed and feathered creatures who
made the forest their home. His spirit was lifted to that close and
intimate communion with Nature which is only possible to man when
unfettered by human companionship. The cool, spicy air was sweeter than
the kiss of maiden; the leafage of the restless trees more tender than
that of the gold-bronze hair he had so often praised. It seemed to him
that the only real thing in all the fair sunny earth was himself; that
the people whom he had known were but pictures seen in a dream. He
lived, and breathed the scent of the pine-trees; he lived, and heard the
cry of the blue-jays in their branches; he lived, and his eyes were
filled with the glorious beauty of his world,--all his, with nothing to
come between him and the fragrant Mother Earth. All that day he rode
and walked through the tangled paths and trackless thickets, holding
communion with sky and earth, content to live without retrospection or
anticipation. Just before sunset he shot a brace of quail for his
supper; and when dark shadows had crept through the wooded places he
built a fire on the hearth of the little cabin where he proposed
spending the night. It was a rude lodge, a trifle less comfortable than
French John's house, with wooden bunks around the walls, and trunks of
trees roughly fashioned into seats. Under a certain board in the floor,
known to him, was a hiding-place wherein were stored half a dozen tallow
candles, with a bottle to serve as candle-stick, a pack of cards, an
iron pot and spoon, a rusty jack-knife with a corkscrew, and, last of
all, a flask of brandy, which it was a matter of honor always to leave
half full. The shed had been built by himself and Henry Deering, and
was occasionally used by them and their friends when on hunting
expeditions. As there were no means of securely fastening so slight a
building, there was neither lock nor bar to door or window. Over the
fireplace was tacked a notice written in Deering's bold hand, which read
as follows:--
"Gentlemen are requested to put out the fire and latch the door before
leaving this shanty. Water to be found three rods beyond this spot to
the north."
Graham found the candles, which he finally succeeded in lighting; and
after making a meal of hard-tack and roasted quail, he filled his pipe
and sat down on one of the bunks, tired out by his long day's ride. The
painful thoughts which he had banished during the hours of daylight now
took possession of him; and the brow, which had been calm all day,
showed the three deep dints which trouble more than time had furrowed
upon its noble expanse. He was alone again!--no more friendly sounds
and sights to divert his mind and fill his eyes with beauty. Only his
sad thoughts and the one great problem which was set before him to
solve. His changeful, melancholy eyes were fixed vacantly on the floor.
They saw nothing but the shadowy vision of the night,--the figure of a
woman amidst the broken altars of the old Mission church. The words
which he had read in the little journal came thronging back to him in
riotous haste,--those pitiful words of passionate grief traced by the
slender white fingers, which so lately had lingered tremblingly in his
own strong brown hands. Could he forgive her? Poor child, poor child!
What was he, that he had a right to withhold his forgiveness for an
instant? Let their lives be laid side by side, with every act and every
thought bared to his view, and how did his life's record compare with
hers?
Ah, if she had but told him the story, and not left it to accident to
reveal the secret! She had deceived him! And the angry blood surged
from his heart to his brow and settled there dully red. The stern lines
of his face grew harder than the mask of a stone statue, and the
expression of the chiselled mouth was terribly relentless. He would
never see her again, never, never! What he had felt for her was not that
highest passion which melts heart and soul and body in one pure flame;
for, without a perfect faith, such love is not. So he reasoned, pity
and anger sweeping across his soul; and then, forgetting both in a great
pain, he cried, stretching out his arms, "Millicent, Millicent, come to
me!" At last the wearied muscles and tired brain and heart slowly,
half-consciously yielded to a warm, close-folding influence which
straightened out the lines on the brow, loosened the tight-drawn
muscles, stole the fire from the deep eyes and the anger from the curved
mouth. The grand head, with its thousand schemes and theories, fell
back upon the couch; the skilful hand, with its nervous, delicate
fingers, relaxed; a long, shivering sigh shook the body; and, with the
fire-light shining upon his stern beauty, Graham slept. The fire burned
low upon the hearth and finally flickered out, leaving a bed of glowing
ashes. The quiet of the night was broken by the long shrill wail of the
coyote, but Graham stirred not. A light footstep sounded near the
cabin, and a scratching noise might have been heard as the head of a
great bear was raised to the level of the window. The sleeper's breath
never quickened; and Bruin, after a long look and a vain attempt to push
the door open, gave a growl and trotted off through the underbrush
toward his own cosey cave under the rocky hillside near by. A young
owlet, flying aimlessly through the night, flapped itself through an
opening in the roof intended to let out the smoke; and finding it
difficult to escape by the place where it had entered, settled itself
comfortably near the sleeper, standing on one foot, and meditatively
regarding the strange creature on the bed. To all these noises Graham
was deaf; but when the clatter of a horse's hoofs broke the silence,
that strange half-consciousness which gives warning of an unaccustomed
sound called his slumbering senses to awaken. In a moment he was
perfectly conscious, and, after feeling for his pistol, lay quietly down
again upon the hard couch. The rider might not pause at the shanty, and
as he was in no mood for company, he would give no sign of his presence
there until it was necessary. The hope was a vain one; he heard the
rider call to his horse with an oath to stop. After a slight pause, the
door, which he had secured with a wooden bar, was roughly shaken. The
new-comer, finding the portal fast, now showed himself at the little
window and peered into the room. Seeing a recumbent figure, he cried
out,--
"Who the ---- is in this shanty?"
"John Graham; and who is outside?"
After a pause the voice answered,--
"A man as wants a night's rest bad, and has got as good a right to it as
anybody."
"Put up your shooting-irons, Horton, and I will open the door."
First striking a match and lighting his candle, Graham unfastened the
bar, and the light door swung wide. The figure out in the darkness
peered doubtfully into the room.
"Don't be afraid; I am alone," said the artist coolly, seating himself
upon his bunk, and proceeding to fill his pipe. The man came cautiously
into the cabin, looking about him once more to make sure that Graham had
spoken the truth. He was a rough-looking fellow, with a sinister
expression of countenance, in great part owing to the deep scar which
seamed his face from temple to chin.
The stranger seemed a good deal disconcerted at finding the artist
ensconced in the lodge.
"Did n't expect to find anybody--least of all you--in this shanty."
"I do not often occupy it; though I built it myself."
"Is that so? You ain't got a mouthful of bread as yer'd let a man have
as has fasted since sunrise?"
Graham's answer was to hand him a couple of rounds of hard-tack, which
he quickly devoured; and to pass his flask, filled with the rough,
strong wine from the vineyards of Los Angeles. The fellow poured half
its contents down his throat at one draught, wiping his mouth upon the
sleeve of his rough jacket. Then, with a nod of acknowledgment, he
handed back the flask with a regretful sigh, and seating himself on the
floor by the fireplace, warmed his feet in the still hot ashes.
"You never came for those last sittings, Horton; my picture is not
finished yet."
"You see, I got another job more to my taste than posturin'."
"Are you working in the neighborhood?"
"No; I am on my way to the Swindawl mines. Do you live in these yer
parts?"
"Yes. You know the old church? I live in the tower."
"Rum place, that; passed it to-day."
"If you want to earn a little money to pay your travelling expenses, I
should like to finish that picture."
The man did not answer, but stretched his great limbs and yawned.
"It's blasted cold for the season."
Graham nodded assent, blowing a great cloud of tobacco-smoke from his
lips, and composing in his mind, meanwhile, a picture in which this
wild-looking fellow, with his rough hair and coarse, strong outlines,
formed the central figure. He was of a low type of humanity, with a
narrow forehead and large, heavy features; his face was tanned where the
skin was visible, the heavy beard growing high up on the cheeks, leaving
little uncovered surface. His clothes were somewhat dilapidated, but
his wide sombrero hat and high boots were strong and whole. His figure
was superbly developed, and Herculean in type. As he sat crouching on
the floor, hugging his knees, his back braced against the wall behind
him, he nodded wearily, and, after various abortive attempts at
conversation, finally fell into a sound sleep, his head resting against
the wall behind him. Graham took a charred brand from the hearth, and
with this rough tool drew, on a smooth board in the side of the cabin, a
sketch of the man before him. As he looked narrowly at his model, he
perceived that his face was disfigured by some recent scratches from
which the blood was still unwashed. They were got while riding through
a thorny thicket, the artist fancied, and thought no more about them,
touching in the details of the desolate background. The man's expression
was hardly human in his sleep, the fierce animal face was so stupid and
brutish. It is wonderful how character is expressed in a sleeping
countenance. The studied or unconscious control which we hold over our
features when awake is overthrown in slumber, and the real nature is
seen with no polite restraint or deceitful mask. A beautiful woman is
beautiful no longer while sleeping, if she have a bad heart. It is a
terrible thing to look upon one who is dear to us in sleep. Even when
the countenance shadows forth holy dreams, it is awful to watch its
still composure, so like death, and to feel that impassable distance
between the unfettered soul and our own earth-bound spirit,--that
distance which, but for the briefest spaces, is never bridged over in
our whole lives, though they flow quietly side by side through peaceful
days and happy nights.
Though the man had closed his eyes in the knowledge that it was entirely
safe for him to sleep in Graham's presence, his slumber was not an easy
one. He started often and groaned more than once; while his hand
nervously made the movement of striking with a weapon at some unseen
foe. The artist watched him for some minutes.
"I should like to have another day's work on that rascal's torso," he
said at last; "I suppose if I paid him enough he would come to the
tower."
As he spoke he tore a leaf from his notebook, and writing a few lines
upon it placed it in the fellow's nerveless hands, lest he should steal
away before morning. Then he threw himself back and slept again long
and heavily. When he awoke it was broad daylight in the cabin of which
he found himself the sole occupant. At first he wondered if he had
dreamed that his lodging had been shared by a rough companion; but no,
there was the sketch upon the wall of the sleeping figure crouching by
the fireplace. Besides, his visitor had left a trace of his presence.
Near the spot where he had sat lay a handkerchief. The artist
carelessly picked up the square of white linen, somewhat surprised to
find that it was of the finest quality. A red stain on one corner
induced him to examine it more carefully. It was neatly stitched with
an odd pattern which was not unfamiliar to him, and in one corner was an
embroidered monogram of an intricate form. The letters were cunningly
twisted together, and it took him several minutes to distinguish them.
Two L's, an I, a T, an E, an N, and a C, all enclosed in a large M.
Nobody in the world could have so many initials, not even a Spanish
grandee. It must be a name, probably one beginning with M, as that was
the most prominent letter in the _chiffre_. He studied it for an
instant, and suddenly cried aloud that name which had become so dear to
him,--"Millicent!"
What could it mean? Millicent's handkerchief in the possession of that
ruffianly fellow, the dark crimson stain of blood marring its whiteness?
What could have befallen her? He dared not even think of what this
portended; and thrusting it into his breast, he ran to the door and
looked all about him. Silence everywhere; no movement in the copse
before the door; no trace of his late visitor save the broken branch of
a buckeye near which his horse had been tethered.
Graham was a brave man, with nerves at once sensitive and strong; but
the picture which rose before his eyes unmanned him for the moment
completely. He leaned against the door-post quaking with terror, too
much confused to know what next to do. He could not think; he only saw
that villanous face before him in its heavy sleep, that clinching of the
hand, that motion as of stabbing with a knife. In the breast of what
victim had that weapon been buried? At the recollection of what crime
had he groaned aloud?
The neighing of his horse in the thicket near by roused him from the
benumbing horror which had bound him like a trance. He mounted the
fiery animal, and struck him fiercely with his spur. The mustang darted
forward at a breakneck speed, and with flying hoofs carried his rider
over the steep trail which led from the cabin to the house of the San
Rosario Ranch. It was a rude road, sometimes merely indicated by signs
on the trees, at other places worn by the feet of cattle; it led through
dry river-courses and down precipitous planes, through tangled brakes
and over desolate, blackened spaces where fire had passed and blasted
the trees, leaving them dead and gray, with naked branches and bare
roots. No vegetation was here; only black, dry soil. It was a
dangerous journey, none too safe at any time; but neither rider nor
steed hesitated at sharp turns or steep descents; and the pace slackened
not, though the horse foamed at the mouth and the man's face and hands
were cut to bleeding by the low-hanging branches of the thorn-tree.
Twenty-five miles, at the lowest rating, lay between the cabin and the
house. How well Graham knew the way! How often he had passed over it
with Hal and O'Neil!--a jolly trio of sportsmen. The very day before he
had loitered along the same route, taking the whole day to accomplish
the distance, walking sometimes with his horse following him, and never
travelling at a greater speed than an easy trot. How different his
thoughts had been then, when he had fancied that he had found a closer
companionship than that of a loving woman's heart. Now he saw not the
trees nor the wood creatures,--only that one villanous face, with its
freshly bleeding wounds, with its old scar red and ugly.
Five miles accomplished: here is the great oak-tree which the lightning
had struck half a century ago; but twenty miles now lie before him.
Another landmark is passed,--the iron spring, with its red mouth framed
in green ferns, where he had once journeyed to bring _her_ a flask of
the strengthening water. On and on they fly, startling the birds in the
thickets and the foxes in their coverts, racing with the lazy breeze
which puffs slowly along and is soon left behind by the horse's speed.
At the spring on the hillside, where Millicent's hand had checked his
shooting of the deer, the rider draws rein and springs to the ground;
while the gasping horse stands for a brief breathing-space, drawing
long, painful breaths. Graham cools his heated brow in the rocky basin,
and gives his horse a mouthful of the refreshing water. Then they start
away again towards the house where so many happy hours of his life have
been spent; where he first saw Millicent! It is a terrible ride, and
one that the man never will forget to his dying day. The anguish of
doubt and fear, the awful pace at which he rides, which makes every mile
he accomplishes seem like to be the last, will never be forgotten by him
in the quiet after-years. Now but ten miles separate him from the
vine-clad house; quickly are they accomplished; and in a space of time
too short to be credited by those towards whom he rides, he reaches the
high hill which looks down upon the valley. The familiar look of the
surroundings surprises him. A blue feather of smoke curls about the red
chimney; the trees in the orchard, the cattle browsing on the hills,
look just as he has seen them a thousand times before; nothing betokens
any unusual state of affairs within the quiet house. The brave horse
gathers himself together for a last gallop; and the stones of the
hillside fly from his hoofs as man and beast thunder down the rocky path
which loses itself in the wide farm-road at the edge of the orchard.
From this point he commands a view of Millicent's window. He gives a
low groan as he looks up for some sign of life,--the heavy blinds are
tightly closed.