"Again under that terrible oak; but I shall not lose you this time. Say that you will not vanish in his jealous arms."
"He opens them to me no longer; he offers me no refuge now."
"And I stand waiting for you, and hold out my hand for yours. Not for a dance now do I ask it, but for a happy walk which shall end only with our lives. Will you put your hand in mine?"
For answer a little warm palm creeps into his broad fingers; and the oak-tree sighs a blessing on the betrothal of which he is the only witness.
CHAPTER IX.
"And in the forest delicate clerks, unbrowned,
Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds.
Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air
That circled freshly in their forest dress
Made them to boys again."
The life of John Graham had been one wherein the sorrowful days far outnumbered the joyous ones. His youth had been saddened by the reverses and griefs which had pursued his parents with a relentless persistence. His home life had not been a happy one. In the large family of brothers and sisters there had been a meeting and clashing of strong, positive characters and opposing wills. An intense family pride was the one bond which united them. This sentiment, almost amounting to a passion, made the members cling closely to one another when there was little of sympathy to make a sweeter bond. Graham's parents had moved to California, from the Eastern town where they were both born, while he was still an infant. The first sixteen years of his life had been spent on the Pacific coast. At this age he was sent eastward to pursue his studies. The youth had already determined on devoting himself to art. The years passed at the famous New England college were very busy ones. The painful economies by which his beloved mother defrayed his college expenses were well known to the young man, and he held himself responsible to that dear and honored parent for every hour of his time. His active mind eagerly grasped such fruits of knowledge as were offered by that garden of learning, and his career in the university fully repaid the sacrifices which it had entailed. During all this time he never for an instant relinquished his fixed determination to become a painter. In the leisure hours when his companions were amusing themselves according to their several tastes, Graham was always found at his easel. Some wiseacre once suggested to the young man that Greek and Latin were expensive acquirements, likely to prove useless to a painter.
"And if I were to be a shoemaker, I should make better shoes for having studied the classics," was his reply to this admonition.
He had not been among the popular men of his class, being very poor in leisure time, the currency which buys that most expensive commodity, popularity. He made few friends and no enemies. His strong, earnest nature commanded the respect of his fellows; and his studious example endeared him to a few of the most serious among them. At the age of twenty Graham went to Europe, where he passed the next eight years of his life in study and hard work. The sketches which he sent home brought him money enough to live on in that quarter of Paris where the young art students congregate. Poor enough the living had sometimes been; hunger and cold were well known to the youth by actual experience. When he lived at the rate of five francs a day he thought himself rich, and gave suppers in his studio, au cinquième, Rue d' Enfer. Times there had been, while he was at work upon his great Salon picture of St. Paul, when a loaf of bread and five sous' worth of the rough red wine of the people, had sufficed for his day's provender. Those days of earnest work among the gay companions, whose lives much resembled his own, were, perhaps, the happiest time in the life of the young artist. Success had not been wanting to crown his efforts. The picture on which he toiled for weary days and months received "honorable mention" from the judges of the Salon; and to the passing fame which this success brought him, he owed his introduction to the woman who had so spoiled the happiness of his youth. She was his compatriot, the daughter of a rich Parisian American, who desired to make the acquaintance of the artist hero of the hour. The young woman was beautiful, heartless, and slightly emotional. While in the society of the handsome, spiritual painter, she yielded to the charm his strong spirit exercised over her; and it was not long before their names were linked together by the small world which knew them both. But Graham's happiness was short-lived; and a few months served to show him the cold, shallow nature of the woman who had aroused his first passion. After he had been jilted and disillusioned, he turned his back upon the city where he had learned and suffered so much, and became a wanderer on the face of Europe. One year found him painting the beauties of Southern Spain; the next saw him sketching the wonderful scenery which lies about Stockholm.
About two years before the opening of our story he had returned to San Francisco, with a portfolio of sketches, a few hundred dollars, and a prodigious store of canvases, paints, and brushes. He was welcomed by the many friends who had followed his career with interest, and soon received more orders for portraits than he could well fill. His taste led him to prefer another branch of painting; and it was for the purpose of studying the very beautiful scenery in the neighborhood of San Rosario that he had established himself in the tower of the old Spanish Mission. He was also partly induced to take this step, because he found that home life, always irksome to him, had become, after his long emancipation from domestic rules and regulations, wellnigh intolerable.