The San Rosario Ranch

by Maud Howe Elliott

Graham's character was a peculiar one, full of contradictory traits; it might be compared to a mass of white quartz, through which ran deep veins of the purest gold. In some respects it was a hard nature, with certain tender qualities; and nowhere was there to be found an ounce of base metal; a pitiless nature, which knew not how to forgive either its own faults or those of his fellow-men. If his judgments of others were harsh, his self-despair was sometimes fanatical. His ideal of manhood was as pure and noble as was that of the perfect King Arthur; that he failed a hundred times a day in living up to it, had not the effect of lowering that ideal one hair's-breadth. His highest duty was towards his own soul and its struggle to reach the perfection he held it to be capable of attaining. With the mind of an ascetic, he was endowed with a warm, sensuous temperament, having a passionate delight in beauty, light, and color, and capable of living through the senses with the keen enjoyment of a Sybarite. A strain of music, a beautiful flower, or a fair child moved him to a degree of pleasure that to any nature save an artistic one was incomprehensible. Filled with pity at the sight of distress, he would unhesitatingly give his last dollar to a needy rascal; but if appealed to for sympathy by the same sinner, the scorching contempt by which he would blast the shameful deeds for which, to him, there was no palliation, would leave the wrong-doer a sadder if not a wiser man. Because he expected so much of men, their short-comings outraged him. To a man of this character it was easier, if not better, to avoid the paths of his fellows; and his life had often been that of a hermit, even when he dwelt in the busiest cities of the world. Not willing that one shadow from the burden of his life should fall upon the paths of those who cared for him, his voice and face were always cheery when in their company. He wanted not the sympathy of man or woman, and endured what griefs were given him to bear in silence and alone. That divine mandate, "Bear ye one another's burdens," was meaningless to him; for he had ever borne his burden unsupported and unhelped. The struggle between the two sides of his nature, the ascetic and the poetic, seemed sometimes like to rend soul and body apart; at other times both contending forces seemed asleep, and the current of his life flowed peacefully on. There were periods when the tender golden veins seemed to overlap and hide the flinty quartz; then he felt alive, with thrilling pulses and lips breaking into song; then he painted rapidly, painlessly, achieving quick successes, sometimes making brilliant failures. At other periods hyper-criticism of himself seemed to weight his brush and dim his vision, to take the color from the warm earth and tender sky; then the life-blood pulsed slowly through his veins, and he forgot to sing.

Into the existence of this self-centred being, with its extremes of cold and warmth, few personal influences had crept; and now, for the first time in many years, he felt his life to have become entangled, for good or ill, with that of another human creature. Since his first meeting with Millicent, on that memorable night when he had found her the central figure of a picture of warmth and comfort, his frozen existence had been thawed and made happy by the subtle influence which she wielded over him. Without reasoning with himself, he had yielded to the pleasurable charm, only amazed, and perhaps a little glad, to find that there was a woman who could rob him of his well-earned sleep, and dance through his dreams at night with a wilful persistence. If he had been obliged to characterize the influence which the girl held over him, he would probably have said that she made his life vivid, and reminded him that his nature was human and not mechanical. Day by day her presence became more necessary to him; and his work was slighted, or hastily performed, in order that he might be free the sooner to reach her side. Without retrospection or introspection he had lived through the pleasant days at San Real, when Millicent's heroic behavior had made him feel doubly grateful to her: he now owed her his life, as well as the new pleasure in that life. When the happy visit had come to an end, and he had parted with her after the return to the Ranch, it had seemed as if he could not leave her as a friend only. That one swift, silent embrace had broken the peaceful contract of friendship; and he had sealed the tumultuous untried bond of love upon her lips.

Since that white night with its unspoken protestation, Time seemed to have taken unto himself new, strong wings, on which he bore the lovers through the bright weeks of the spring-tide of love all too swiftly. Few words of explanation had been necessary; each understood the other, except when that chill, impalpable something seemed to come between them like a cloud, as it had done in the first days of their acquaintance. The one note which was never absolutely in tune in their love harmony, at these times made a discord, and disagreements which grieved them both sprang up between them; but these were rare, and the pale face of the artist was less shadowy than in other days; while Millicent seemed transformed from a statue to a living being, with a heart tender and full of love towards all her kind. But her cheek grew less round than it had been in the days before this new life was poured into her veins, and long, sleepless vigils told upon her strength. She was happy with a joy of which she had never before dreamed, and yet weary nights of weeping traced dark circles about her eyes. What struggle could it be that left her pale and broken, and drew pitiful sighs from her white lips when she found herself between the four walls of her own room? One word from Graham, the sound of his horse's hoofs as he drew near the house, would banish the pained look, call back the color to the lips and cheek, and give the old brightness to her deep eyes; but when he was gone, the painful thoughts winged swiftly back to torture her.

To the sweet, open-hearted Barbara, Millicent's state of mind was incomprehensible. The cool, indifferent, somewhat scornful girl had been transformed into an excitable, impulsive creature, always in one of the extremes of spirits, by turns gay with a gayety contagious, irresistible, committing every sort of extravagance; and again serious with a tragic sadness, more pathetic than the wildest weeping. Mrs. Deering, with that sublime unconsciousness which sympathetic women know how to assume at will, saw nothing.

The happy summer weeks slipped all too rapidly away, and the last days of August were come. It was at this time that a long-planned excursion took place, and the family of the San Rosario Ranch went to pass the day with some friends who were camping out at a distance of fifteen miles from the house. Ever since her arrival in California, Millicent had heard of Maurice Galbraith, a friend of the family, whom a combination of circumstances had prevented her from meeting. It was to his camp that they were wending their way when Graham joined them on horseback, as they drove down the shaded road which passes through the great grove of redwoods, and leads to the dusty highway. Millicent was driving in the light phaeton with young Deering; Barbara and her mother following in the large wagon driven by Pedro, one of the Mexican helpers. Crouching on the floor of the wagon behind the seats sat Ah Lam, with his spotless linen and shining coppery countenance. He could not sit beside the "Greaser," or Mexican, and this lowly place was allotted him. His round, placid face, with its clear brown skin and oblique eyes, was not an unpleasing one. His hands and arms were finely modelled, and his sturdy figure was of a much more solid type than is usual with his race. From his position it was possible for him to hold a parasol over Mrs. Deering, which he did without varying the angle of the rather heavy umbrella one degree during the whole long journey. He had been taught that hardest of lessons for the Chinaman,--that obedience and respect to the ladies of the family are even more necessary than submission to the master. On his arrival at the Ranch he had coolly and placidly ignored all orders given him by the female members of the household as unworthy of notice. When he finally had learned the lesson that "Melican woman boss too," he had never failed in respect to the ladies.

The drive was a beautiful one. The road led through deep valleys, still wet with the night dew; sometimes it curled around the side of a mountain which barred its progress, and again it plunged down to the level of a swift stream. There was a certain spot where Millicent, who was familiar with the first five miles of the route, always stopped for a few moments. Sphinx had grown accustomed to bring his sleepy gait to a standstill just at the brink of the bridge which spanned the rushing forest river, grown boisterous at this place. All about the spot stood the great hills, some green with the never-fading redwoods and madrone trees, others, stripped by the woodman's craft, naked and unsightly. Behind them stretched the hot, red high-road, with its group of humble cabins. In front of one of these a group of strange, wolfish-looking children had called a greeting to Pedro, the driver, who was of their kin. The narrow, weather-beaten bridge, with its shaky wooden piers, joined the highway over which they had come, to a forest road which hung over the stream and skirted the mountain's base. The gray ruin of what had once been a mill stood on the farther bank, with rusty, idle wheels and empty grain-bins. There was a small islet in the stream, between which and the near bank was a clear pool which reflected with perfect distinctness the trees and rocks, the very ferns and marsh flowers of the overhanging bank. Here the party paused for a few moments, enjoying the familiar beauty of the scene.

"You will paint this place one day for me, will you not? I care very much for it." Millicent was the speaker; and the artist close at her side laughed and answered,--

"Your will, of course, is my law, lady; but when you can teach the bird on yonder twig a new song, you can perhaps choose a spot where a painter shall see a picture. Much that is beautiful in nature cannot be portrayed in art."

For a moment longer they paused on the bank, little thinking how that scene would be graven on their memories in after days; and then Hal brandished his whip, and Sphinx started off at a brisk trot, the strong mules following at the top of their speed, while Graham led the way on his fleet mustang. It was not far from high noon when the party arrived at the place of destination, recognized by a flag floating above the low underbrush at the foot of a hill. In reply to Hal's lusty hallooing, a young man emerged from the other side of the hill, and waving his hat in greeting, hurried to help Mrs. Deering descend from the wagon.

"How late you are, good people!" he cried in a pleasant voice. "The fellows thought you were going to disappoint us; but I had too much faith in your word, Mrs. Deering, to doubt you. Miss Deering, you were too quick for me; your agility is only excelled by your grace. Well, Graham, glad to see you; for once you are better than your word."