CHAPTER II.

"Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen!

No city airs or arts pass current here.

Your rank is all reversed: let men of cloth

Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls."

Millicent Almsford awoke early on the morning after her arrival. "What

is the matter?" she asked.

No one answering her question, she put another.

"Why do we not go on, what are we stopping for?" this still in a

semi-somnolent voice. On opening her eyes and finding that she was not

in the berth of the palace car, where she had for a week past always

found herself, she laughed outright and then gave a deep sigh.

Her long journey, from the Palazzo Fortunio in Venice to the San Rosario

Ranch in California, was at an end; and here she was, to use her own

phrase, "planted in the wilderness for a year to come."

"Heavens! how can I bear it?" she cried, tossing restlessly to the other

side of her wide bed; "it is all so new, so raw, so crude, so

terrible,--just like this cotton sheet, which has chafed my chin so

badly that I would rather have slept without one."

Soon a loud bell broke the silence of the morning. Millicent did not

heed it, but looked about the room to find a means of summoning

assistance. Happily she found the bell quite near her, and, after twice

ringing, a tap at her door was heard. In answer to her "Come in," Ah

Lam opened the door cautiously.

"Missie call Ah Lam?"

"I want my breakfast now," said Millicent, somewhat dismayed at the

attendant she had summoned.

Soon Barbara came, carrying the breakfast tray in her strong arms.

"I am so sorry you don't feel well this morning, Millicent. What can I

do for you?"

"But I feel perfectly well. Do I look so badly?"

"No, dear; but we were afraid, not seeing you--"

"Dear Barbara, you must excuse my strange foreign habits. You know I

have been only a week in your country. I did not realize that you all

came downstairs to breakfast. What time is it?"

"After seven."

"And you have been up since--?"

"Since six o'clock only. Hal is the early riser. Half-past four sees

him overlooking the milking."

Millicent shuddered; she had indeed come to a strange land.

"I will try to learn the customs of your country," she said rather

piteously, taking up her cup of coffee.

"Only learn those that please you, dear. As for our early breakfast,

which I see shocks you, think no more about it. I will gladly bring it

up to you every day."

"I shall unpack some of my boxes this morning, Barbara; and later we

will try some of your duets, if you like."

The unpacking of her Penates gave Millicent a certain satisfaction,

which was, however, tempered by the sad recollections they brought to

her mind, of her own apartment with its three pretty rooms in the corner

of the great Palazzo Fortunio.

Millicent Almsford was the daughter of an American gentleman who had

lived in Venice since before the birth of his daughter. Here the

greater portion of her life had been spent, with the interruption only

of one long visit made to a relative in England.

A month previous to the opening of our story her father, widowed at her

birth, had married for the third time, his wife being a young and

uninteresting Italian woman of the middle class. The marriage, to which

Millicent was strongly opposed, had led her to accept the invitation of

her half-brother to make him an extended visit in his California home.

From the great cases she lifted, with the help of Ah Lam, the household

treasures which she had been unwilling to leave behind, in the home

which knew her as its mistress no longer. A motley collection of

articles had the great trunks enclosed: pictures, books, a large Eastern

carpet, a parchment missal of the fifteenth century with beautiful

illuminations, a guitar, a little majolica shrine with a figure of San

Antonio very much the worse for the journey, a set of delicately wrought

silken window and bed hangings of pale sea color, a pair of heavy silver

candelabra, with a ponderous packet of wax tapers, and innumerable other

knick-knacks.

With the willing and ingenious assistance of Ah Lam, this _roba_, to

borrow the untranslatable Italian phrase, was disposed about the large

room. The neat Nottingham lace curtains, at which Millicent had looked

askance, were now hidden beneath the blue-green draperies, embroidered

by the hands of the mother whose face she had never seen. The pictures

were hung upon the walls, and a deep-hued Egyptian scarf disguised the

pasteboard motto, with its friendly welcome. A book-case was improvised

by the Chinaman from some old boxes, and covered by Millicent, who

unhesitatingly cut to pieces a heavy woollen gown whose color struck her

as appropriate to that end. Beside the bed she hung the little shrine

of San Antonio, with much grief that the long journey had damaged his

saintly toes and fingers. On a table were ranged the candlesticks and

the missal, and an old copy of Dante with a mouse-gnawed cover, and

Lear's "Nonsense Book,"--this last because it was an old friend from

childhood, which she, being a creature of habit, had forgotten to

discard.

The complete metamorphosis of the apartment was a work of several days;

and only when it was entirely accomplished were Mrs. Deering and her

daughter admitted to see the change. Poor Barbara! All the pains and

trouble she had taken, all the careful stitches she had set, were

unavailing. The new carpet she had bought with her own pocket money was

entirely covered by old rugs, some of which were very faded and worn;

none of them were as bright and clean as the Kidderminster.

The warm knitted afghan had disappeared from the bed, which was covered

by a white quilt embroidered in strange floral designs. The very toilet

set had been replaced, and the pretty painted candles had been banished.

"I have made it a little like Venice," cried Millicent excitedly, "only

the walls in my bedroom there are hung in silk and all painted in

water-color, and the rooms are so high,--you remember the green room in

the Palazzo Fortunio, Mrs. Deering, with the nymphs, the sea gods, and

the green hobgoblins painted all over it?"

"Yes, indeed, Millicent. What a change you have wrought in the spare

bedroom. Ralph would hardly recognize it. I see now what was contained

in the boxes which so aroused Hal's curiosity. I am afraid you have

made your room too attractive, dear, and that we shall find difficulty

in coaxing you out of it into our more prosaic apartments."

"Oh, I always live the greater part of my life between my own four

walls: I am not a sociable person, I am afraid. At least so Barbara

thinks."

Barbara said nothing; she was hurt and disappointed. The room, with its

strange furnishing, was unnatural to her. She felt, as she looked at

Millicent with this new setting which suited her so perfectly, that

neither in the room nor in the life of Millicent Almsford was there a

place for her. She had eagerly anticipated the advent of this unknown

girl, sisterless like herself, who should grow to be so much to her, and

in whom she should find the sympathetic friend of whom she had greatly

felt the need; and now that she had come, Barbara was bitterly

disappointed. Millicent was gracious, winning, full of attractive

qualities, intellectually sympathetic to a degree which she had never

before known. And yet the tall daughter of the Ranch was cruelly

disturbed.

"I can be nothing to her; she is complete without me," she had said to

her mother; and herein lay the reason for all her disappointment. Living

among people to whom her beauty, her talent, and her warmth of heart had

been the most poetic features of their lives, Barbara Deering had grown

to value men and women according to the amount of good or pleasure she

could impart to them. Her life had been one wherein the tears and sighs

had been stifled, or hidden in the darkness of her chamber; the laughter

and smiles, the bright cheery face, the helping hand always meeting

those about her. Children loved her, and old people blessed her for her

sympathy and kindness. To her mother and brother she was sun, moon, and

stars; and to them every hour of her life was consecrated. Naturally

endowed with certain tastes which would have somewhat interfered with

the quiet plan of life laid out for her, she had systematically

neglected these gifts, sacrificing herself to an imaginary duty which

was always before her eyes. She had avoided such pursuits as might have

led her aside from the common life of the family; and happiness for her

was found in the happiness she could afford to others. Enjoyment to

her, unless her dear ones were included in it, was something like a sin;

and the pleasure she took in her music gave her pangs of conscience.

One morning, about a week after her arrival, Millicent was awakened by

the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs clattering down the stony road which

led to the orchard from the hill behind the house. She sprang up, and

throwing wide the shutters, looked out to see whence the sound came. It

was still very early. The sun had not yet clambered over the tops of

the high hills; but the sky was bright, and the shadows lay like a misty

garment over the happy valley, locked in its circle of hills. The great

bull Jupiter, the terror of the Ranch, stood near the house, sniffing

the cool morning air, and giving thunderous snorts of pleasure. The

bars had been left down, and he had gained access to the green orchard,

forbidden ground to him. The hedge of roses was hung with a wondrous

garlanding of dewdrops, and the dark-red lilies were just awakening to

the draught which the night winds had distilled in their chalices. From

every blade of grass and leaf of clover sparkled a diamond. The fair

valley had arrayed itself in jewels and fragance for another day of

light and love.

The sound of the horse's hoofs grew nearer; and as Millicent looked

expectantly along the bridle-path that descends from the mountain, there

came into sight, parting the wet boughs of the fruit trees, a horseman

mounted on a gray mustang. The rider was a strong man, who sat his

steed with the air of one to the manner born. He was dressed in corduroy

breeches, high top-boots, and flannel shirt. He had no hat. In his

belt shone a long hunting knife, and over his shoulder was slung a

rifle. Before him on the saddle lay a stag whose heavy antlers hardly

cleared the ground.

The first rays of the sun, just peeping over the hill-tops, touched his

thick brown hair, giving it a glint of bronze, shone on the wide white

forehead, flashed into the eyes, and showed her for an instant a stern

profile, exceedingly beautiful. Then she lost his face as he turned the

corner of the piazza. Here he dismounted, and lifting the deer from the

horse laid it on the grass. Perhaps the beauty of the dead creature

struck a chord of remorse in the breast of the hunter, for he gave a

sigh and turned it so that a gaping wound in the neck was not visible.

Then drawing a pencil and a bit of paper from his pocket, he wrote

something, and fastening the billet to the horns of the deer, he mounted

his horse, and giving him the rein returned slowly by the same road. As

he drew near again Millicent saw that the mustache which hid the upper

lip was golden-brown, that the throat was white and shapely, that the

mouth smiled not untenderly, while the eyes smiled not at all. These

details were noted with an artist's love of beauty: and as she watched

him out of sight, she wondered with all a woman's curiosity who he might

be.

Since Millicent's arrival there had been many visitors at the Ranch.

All the friends of the Deering family who were within calling distance

had either come to make the acquaintance of Miss Almsford, or had

signified their intention of shortly doing so.

Calling distance in California may be said to extend not over fifty

miles. The neighbor who lives half a hundred miles from you will make a

call, or in other words will come to pass the day. Calling terms cease

beyond these limits, and visits of not less than twenty-four hours are

exchanged.

In none of the people whom she had met had Millicent felt or manifested

the least interest. She had received them graciously, but with a

cordiality of manner only. Not one man or woman among the circle of

friends who were on familiar terms at the Ranch awoke in her a desire

for further acquaintance. But this one who had called at six o'clock in

the morning, and had left his visiting card pinned to the antlers of a

stag, piqued the curiosity of the indifferent young lady. Wrapping

herself in a soft gray woollen dressing-gown, she ran downstairs in the

liveliest manner.

It was a splendid animal, fine as the buck described by Browning in

"Donald." Alas, the slender legs would carry his noble body and stately

head no further; the branching horns would never again clash against the

antlers of a rival. Millicent touched the beautiful dead creature

tenderly between the horns, and tried to close the dim eyes. At that

moment she heard a step upon the piazza, and Hal Deering joined her.

"Why, Miss Almsford, what does this mean? You to be up and dressed"--he

hesitated, "well, yes, you are dressed, and very becomingly too; I like

that loose gown--at six in the morning! sighing over the fine piece of

venison, and performing the last kind offices of friendship too. Don't

believe you would do as much for me."

The young man looked at the deer approvingly, and perceiving the note,

took it from the antler and deliberately read it aloud:--

HONORED MISTRESS DEERING,--I lay myself at your feet, and with myself a

pretty bit of game I have just killed, thinking that the fair Venetian

might fancy a venison steak for her breakfast. I kiss your hand, dear my

lady, and am your most unworthy but loyal servitor,

JOHN GRAHAM.

"Of course, knew it was Graham, queer creature. Wonder why he did not

stop and take breakfast with us. He is an unaccountable fellow."

"What did you call him?"

"Graham; his full name is John Douglass Graham. Just like a hero's in a

novel. But Graham never does anything very heroic, I fancy."

"Shall you cut off his skin?"

"Whose? Graham's?"

"How foolish, Mr. Deering. I mean the deer's fur."

"Oh no, certainly not; in America we always serve game with the hide or

feathers. In fact, we usually do not remove the wool from our mutton;

but knowing that you were accustomed to seeing it dressed after the

super-civilized fashion of the Venetians, I have--"

"Mr. Deering, that is stupid. I want his skin and horns; please arrange

them for me."

"Yes, Princess; your most humble servant will obey your mandate."

He seized the creature by its slender legs, hoisted it deftly to his

shoulders, and disappeared through the side door. Millicent picked up

the bit of a note, smoothed it, and laid it at Mrs. Deering's plate on

the breakfast table.

Millicent asked Barbara later on in the day who and what John Graham

might be. She was told that the man with the bronze hair and strange

eyes was a near neighbor, and that she would without doubt soon make his

acquaintance.

With this answer Millicent was fain to be content. She thought about

him all that day and dreamed of him that night; the next morning his

face was not so distinctly in her mind, but her thoughts were constantly

busy with weaving romances in which John Graham played a conspicuous

part. The girl was indeed a creature "of the stuff which dreams are

made of;" the web of her daily life, no matter how common-place its

actual experience might be, was rich with her own vivid imaginings, like

the gold thread that a weaver twists through a sad-colored fabric.

"Mr. Deering, take me to the dairy. I have not yet seen it," said

Millicent one afternoon, as they all sat together on the wide piazza,

after the early dinner. The young man rose slowly, his great length

unfolding itself as he left his chair; and for answer put down his pipe

and reached up for Millicent's hat, which he had hung on a peg high

above her reach. The two young people passed down the gravel walk

between the broad flower beds fragrant with the wonderful roses which

grow only upon the shores of the Pacific. A geranium tree twelve feet

high, with its great scarlet bunches, and the vine of Marechal roses

which climbed up the piazza and tapped with its heavy blossoms at her

casement, aroused Millicent's enthusiasm.

The dairy, Hal told her, was fully thirty years old. But her own palace

had frowned grim and black upon the Grand Canal before the passengers on

the good ship "Mayflower" had landed in Plymouth. The dairy was a

plain, neat frame-building painted white, looking out upon a great

farm-yard. Here the pretty cows all stood crowded together, waiting

their turn to offer up their evening tribute. Two black-browed Mexicans

were milking, and a tall Yankee was overseeing the straining of the

milk. He stood by a large trough and received the brimming buckets from

the milkers, pouring their contents through a strainer into the great

receptacle. In the midst of the herd lay Jupiter, the splendid bull,

lazily chewing his cud and switching away the sand flies with his thick

black tail.

In a cool inner room were long shelves ranged about the brick walls,

whereon stood a shining array of pans filled with milk in different

stages. Millicent was one of those people who are always stimulated with

a desire to accomplish whatever other people are engaged in doing. She

now announced her intention of learning to milk. This suggestion was

promptly vetoed by Hal, who, to divert her attention, called to one of

the men to bring him the skimming utensils. He placed a large stone jar

beneath the shelf, and taking one of the milk pans which was covered

with a rich coating of yellow cream, proceeded to skim it. His only

tool was a little wooden wand, resembling a sculptor's modelling stick.

With this he separated the yellow disk of cream from the sides of the

pan, tipping it slightly so that the whole mass of cream slipped off

unbroken, leaving the pale-blue skimmed milk in the vessel. Millicent

was delighted with the operation which Hal accomplished with such skill,

and after many unsuccessful attempts finally performed the feat in a

manner very creditable to a beginner.

"If you will find your way back to the house, Princess, I will help the

men to finish the milking," said young Deering, when Millicent had

announced her intention of returning.

She nodded her assent, and walking a few steps stopped and leaned over

the gate of the farm-yard. Presently Deering came out from the dairy,

having donned his rough overalls and jersey, and, placing himself on a

three-legged stool, proceeded to milk a tall white cow. Millicent looked

at him musingly for a few minutes, and then took her way down the path

which led to the house. It was but a short distance, and lay within

sight of both farm and dwelling-house, and yet she was somewhat

astonished at the young man's allowing her to return alone. To see him

milking, too, at work with the common laborers, had greatly perplexed

her. She cast a glance over her shoulder to reassure herself that it

was really Hal's hatless head which was bending forward, almost touching

the side of the white cow. "And yet he is a gentleman," she said aloud;

and, remembering the white hands of her papa and the gentlemen whom she

had known in the Old World, was reminded of the truth, which when it is

spoken seems a truism, and yet which is often lost sight of, that the

proof of gentlehood lies neither in the skin of the body, nor its

raiment.

Neither goodly clothes nor skin

Show the gentleman within.