"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 b.u.t.terfly 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 st.u.r.dy, 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 st.u.r.dy 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 Ca.n.a.l 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 Ca.n.a.l!' 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 coa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER IV.

"Then, in the boyhood of the year, Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode through the coverts of the deer With blissful treble ringing clear; She seemed a part of joyous Spring."

Though the greater part of his time was spent in the old tower, John Graham was well known in San Francisco. His studio, at the top of a tall apartment-house in one of the unfrequented thoroughfares of the city, was familiar to most of its aspirants to artistic fame. In this large bare room, with its strong north light, there a.s.sembled every morning a dozen young men who were busily engaged in cast drawing and model painting. To the instruction of these youths two days of the week were devoted by the artist, whose only recompense was in the grat.i.tude of his scholars. One morning not long after his meeting with Miss Almsford, John Graham might have been seen carefully examining his pupils' work, giving a word of advice here, a criticism there, and a hearty encouragement to all. On his return from Paris he had opened his studio to all those who were desirous of studying art. The first year he had had but three students; at the end of the second year the number had quadrupled. On the morning in question Graham had arrived with a new model,--a rough-looking fellow whom he had met in the street, and induced to accompany him to the studio. On a platform at the end of the room stood the stalwart model; while the artist, standing beside him, gave an off-hand lecture on anatomy, the students sketched the man or took notes of what their master was saying. It was not Graham's habit to do any work at the studio; but this morning, after he had finished his discourse, he placed himself at a vacant easel, and with a strong, bold hand made a free drawing of the superbly modelled figure. As he worked he forgot his cla.s.s, his lecture, everything but the canvas before him and the subject he was studying. As the sketch grew beneath his hand the scholars one by one forsook their work, and stood watching him silently. The perfect confidence with which he worked--never hesitating, never altering what was already done--was fascinating to the younger men; and even the sculptor, Arthur Northcote, who inhabited the adjoining studio, stopped on his way upstairs and joined the group behind his chair. When the model declared himself unable longer to maintain the pose in which he had been placed, Graham threw down his brush with a sigh, saying,--

"Well, Horton, you may go now if you must, but do not fail to come to-morrow. I have your name correctly,--Daniel Horton? Where do you live?"

The stranger declined to give his address, and promised to come the next day at the appointed hour. After he had left the room the artist had something to say about expression, characterizing the face of the model as one indicative of brutal cunning and impudent daring.

As Graham quitted the studio the young sculptor joined him, and they walked together toward the station. Northcote was a slender, delicately built man some years Graham's junior. His face was instinct with the poetry of art, but was lacking in force. By the side of Graham's strong, resolute countenance his delicate features appeared weak and effeminate. The younger man took his friend's arm, as if relying on him for physical as well as moral support, and said as they walked along,--

"Graham, where did you pick up that model this morning?"

"I found him lounging about the station. Why do you ask?"

"He has such a bad face. You should be more careful about the men you engage to pose for you."

"And why, Arthur?"

"Because you lead such an unprotected life in that terrible old ruin."

"What a fanciful creature you are, Northcote. As if there was anything to be gained in molesting a beggarly artist in an inaccessible fortress.

You have never seen my tower, or you would not think that it would be an attractive spot to thieves."

"Did you not hear," continued Northcote, "of that case of abduction in Cathgate County last week? A man was carried off by a pair of brigands, and kept for a week until a large sum of money was paid for his ransom."

"What manner of man was he?"

"The president of the county bank."

"Well, my dear Arthur, when I become a bank president, or even a railroad treasurer, I will take better care of my worthless self. At present I am not a promising prize to the most sanguine kidnapper. I can fancy your feelings on receiving a notice that, unless five thousand dollars be left in the hollow of a blasted pine-tree on the high-road at San Rosario, a slice of my right ear would be forwarded by way of a reminder! When are you coming out to pa.s.s the night with me?"

"When I have sold my Diana, or when Patrick Shallop gives me an order for a life-size statue of himself."

"Come with me to-day. It will do you good to pa.s.s an afternoon in the woods."

"Do not ask me. I will take nothing more from you, Graham,--I cannot,--not even a piece of bread, until--"

"Well, if you are so obstinate, farewell to you. I must hurry or I shall miss my train."

The two men shook hands the sculptor turning into a dingy restaurant, the artist walking rapidly in the direction of the railroad station.

Arthur Northcote made a light repast,--for he was poorer than usual that day,--and soon returned to his studio, whose rental was defrayed by his friend's slender purse.

Graham caught his train, and reached San Rosario at about three o'clock.

He found his horse at the station, and rode toward the house. At a distant point he caught a glimpse of two figures on the piazza, which he recognized as those of Miss Almsford and Hal Deering, who were talking together, quite unconscious of his approach.

"So you like Graham?" Henry Deering was the speaker.