CHAPTER VIII.

"Oui, les premiers baisers, oui, les premiers serments

Que deux etres mortels echangerent sur terre

Ce fut au pied d' un arbre effeuille par les vents,

Sur un roc en poussiere."

When he awoke the next morning, John Graham gave a deep sigh. His

dreams had been so sweet that no reality could equal their happiness.

As he sat on the edge of his narrow bed disentangling what was real from

what was dream-born in his thoughts, his eye fell upon the knot of roses

which he had taken from Millicent's hair the night before, and had

clasped to his lips as he fell asleep. They were faded now, but they

still gave out a strong perfume. His cheek had been wounded by a thorn,

but he kissed the wilted posies, for all that, placed the little bouquet

tenderly in an exquisite Venetian vase, and then bounded down the

stairway of his tower and across the narrow space which led to a clear

deep pool where a crystal stream fell in a white cataract to a rocky

basin. The foam-bubbles danced joyously in the clear dark waters, and

the plashing of the fall had a sound of a sweet deep voice which had

grown very dear to him. A mossy bank, shaded by two drooping trees,

sloped to the edge of this natural bath, refreshing enough to have

tempted Diana from the chase. As Graham plunged into the cool waters he

shouted out a verse of a song he had learned long ago. Attracted by the

sound of his voice, French John laid down his axe beside the young tree

he was about to fell, and came down to the pool where Graham was

vigorously tossing about the bright water. The old wood-cutter looked

at the young man as if the sight did him good. He responded to the

uproarious greeting which the artist shouted to him, by his usual silent

nod of the head. Had words been worth their weight in diamond dust, the

old soldier could not have been more chary of wasting them, but the look

in his faded blue eyes was gentle and full of admiration. He had had a

son of whom he had lost all trace since its infancy. If the boy had

lived he would have been about Graham's age, and it was the man's fancy

that he would have resembled his patron. He imagined he could trace in

the splendidly modelled arms and legs and the strong, perfectly

proportioned torso of the bather the shape into which the baby contours

he remembered so well must have developed. Graham had by this time

gained the green turf and stood shaking the water out of his thick hair,

drawing quick panting breaths, meanwhile, and springing about to warm

himself, with the grace and strength of a leopard. The old Frenchman

gave a deep sigh as he looked at him.

"Yes; Hector certainly must resemble this young man," he murmured, as he

wetted his hard hands, and, grasping the handle of his axe, smote

heavily at the stem of a young pine-tree. Graham rapidly made his toilet

in the open air. The plunge in the clear cold water had rather

stimulated than expended the electric, nervous force which ran through

his veins, quickening the life-blood in its flow. He felt ten years

younger since yesterday morning. His thirty years and the gravity they

had brought to him had shrunk to twenty. As he looked up at his tower

he sang aloud a snatch of an old song which had been often on his lips

in those happy, careless days in the _Rue d' Enfer_,--words which he had

painted over the tiny grate in the cramped apartment under the leads,

where he had suffered from heat all summer, and shivered all winter:

Dans un grenier qu' on est bien

A vingt ans, a vingt ans!

He would have liked to dance. Had his years in truth been but twenty,

he would have yielded to the temptation. He would gladly have thrown

his arms about the old Frenchman, for lack of another confidant, and

have told him the cause of his happiness. But, after all, this reflex

of youth could not entirely melt the reserve of manhood from him; he

wore his thirty years lightly indeed, but could not shake them off.

"Give me your axe, John; I know something of your woodman's craft; let

me show you how easily I can fell this young tree."

He took the tool from the woodcutter, and, whirling the sharp edge in

the air, laid it at the root of the tree with a ringing blow.

"It appears in truth that monsieur 'ave 'andled an axe before."

"Surely, John. I once spent a summer with some friends of mine, who

lived in a forest in Brittany; they were _sabotiers_."

"Monsieur is jesting?"

"Not in the least. I not only can fell a tree,--clumsily enough, be it

confessed,--but if I had the tools I could shape you a pair of _sabots_,

as good ones as you could buy for ten sous at Quimper; that is your

town, I think?"

He talked in short, jerky sentences between the strokes, while the white

splinters flew about him like a hail-storm. After a few moments the

knack which he seemed at first to have forgotten came back to him. The

smell of the bruised bark was aromatic; the death-sigh of the young

branches was musical as they trembled for the last time together,

reaching out to touch their sister trees in solemn leave-taking. Their

sigh was now drowned in the groan of the swaying tree.

"Take care, monsieur, take care; it is about to fall," cried the

Frenchman.

His warning was a timely one. Graham, so long unused to the exercise of

the craft, had not noticed how deeply he had cut into the stem. The

straight tree seemed to hesitate, tossing its branches helplessly

heavenward, and then with a creaking sound crashed through the

surrounding underbrush, and with a dull thud measured its slender length

upon the earth. For a moment its branches shook convulsively, and then

all was quiet. It seemed as if all nature paused at the fall of so fair

a thing: the birds were silent in the thicket; the babble of the

water-fall grew faint; and the wood creatures stirred not in their

burrows. A mighty breeze crept through the forest, rustling the

surrounding trees, wailing through the open gap as if in requiem, and a

light cloud floated over the face of the sun, throwing its shadowy pall

on the spot.

"That was well done, monsieur."

And, at the sound of the man's voice, the cloud floated by and the sun

shone out once more, the wood birds took up their song again, the

squirrel in the hollow of the white oak went on cracking her nut, and

the brief mourning was over.

That man must feel himself indeed beloved, who fancies that the world

will pause as long beside his grave as does the forest at the fall of

one of its children.

Not until the branches had been lopped off and the long stem cut into

lengths, did Graham cease his labor. The exercise did him good, and

gave him an appetite for the breakfast which old John served him in the

open air. He declared that the coffee was better than could be had at

the _Cafe de Paris_; and assured John that neither Paris nor Vienna

could produce such bread as that which the old man had baked in some

mysterious manner in an oven of his own construction, made of flat stone

sunk in the ground. Graham remembered that he had somewhere in the tower

a bottle of rare old wine, which he sent John to fetch.

"Bring my glass and your tin cup, John."

He needed sympathy, he who had lived for years without asking man or

woman to share his joys or sorrows; he felt a new need in himself for

human companionship; and the silent old fellow who did his bidding was

the only soul to whom he could look for it. The ice which had encased

his heart was broken; and instead of sternly demanding from his

fellow-men honor, truth, and sincerity, he embraced the whole world in a

warm, unquestioning love and sympathy. Yesterday he was a man who

labored for his kind; to-day he was content to love them. Yesterday he

was a reformer; to-day he was a philanthropist. The henchman returning

with the wine, Graham filled the crystal goblet and the humble cup to

the brim, and together these two denizens of the balmy forest drank to

the new day which had dawned on the young man's life. After the long,

black night which for months obscures the face of nature in the far

northern land, the first rising of the sun touches the hearts of men

with a deeper, more profound joy than the dwellers in a temperate zone

can well understand. So was the light of this new love more glorious a

thousand-fold to the man in whose life there had so long been darkness,

than if it had arisen in a heart unacquainted with grief. In the first

flush of happiness, his whole nature rebelled against the joyless life

he had been leading; his work lost its attraction for him, and he could

not have painted a stroke that day if his whole future reputation had

depended upon it. The new impulse had swung him far out of his

accustomed orbit; that there might be a rebound, he never for an instant

fancied.

He spent an hour in ransacking his tower to find the most beautiful

thing he possessed to carry to Millicent. He wanted to go to her with

something in his hand that might in some measure express the tide of

generous feeling that flooded his whole nature. He still had a score of

those treasures, souvenirs of his European residence, of which the

greater part had found their way to the shelves and cabinets of his

friends' houses. He spread them out before him on his one table,

ruthlessly pushing aside paints, brushes, books, and drawing chalks, in

a hubbub of disorder. With an intense interest he looked them all

through. He had almost decided upon a rare Etruscan coin which he had

seen roll from the palm of an exhumed skeleton, when his eye was caught

by a tiny Tanagrine figure. The exquisite modelling of this clay toy,

instinct with the beauty which pervaded every detail of Greek life, made

it a more appropriate gift. The miniature woman was as truly

proportioned as the Milo herself, and as surely constructed according to

that greatest law of art that the world has yet seen evolved, the Greek,

wherein are welded together the real and the ideal. A third article now

struck his fancy as more appropriate than either of these for his first

gift to Millicent. It was a crown of olive leaves of the purest gold,

which might have bound Helen's brow. It had lain amidst the dust of

eons which covers Troy with its pall; and now, in the nineteenth

century, it was to serve as the gift of a Californian lover to his

mistress. Surely, never before had the precious leaves encircled so fair

a head as that which they were now destined to adorn.

Among the many sins which had been laid at Graham's door by friend or

foe, the vice of foppery was missing. That minute attention to every

detail of dress, which is found as often in man as in woman, had no

place in his busy life. He was, however, always neatly dressed; and the

prosaic fashions of our time were modified as much as possible in his

wardrobe, especially while he inhabited the forest. On this occasion,

instead of one absent look in his small mirror, merely to ascertain if

his hair were properly parted and his cravat neatly tied, a full hour

was given to the process of dressing. Every suit of clothes, and each

possible combination of the garments which his wardrobe afforded, were

carefully considered. When at last the decision was made, the vest

needed a button, which the artist laboriously attached to the garment.

Taking a coarse linen thread strong enough for a halter, he made the

button fast, taking several turns of the thread about its eye, as if he

were belaying a rope. His cravat occupied him fully a quarter of an

hour. He must have brushed his hair at least half a dozen times. He

caught sight of his anxious face in the mirror, just as he was settling

his cravat for the last time, and burst into a peal of laughter at his

own dandyism. At the foot of the tower his sturdy mustang Tasso stood

ready saddled. French John had given an extra polish to the sleek gray

coat, bright enough to reflect the silver-studded Mexican bridle. A

pair of red cockades, set at the ears of the beast, were made from

flowers yielded by the small garden patch behind the woodcutter's cabin,

where he raised flowers and vegetables for his patron and himself. The

tall cock gave a condescending crow of approval as Graham mounted his

horse; while the three cats sunning themselves near by hunched their

backs at him, as if to express their disapproval of his idleness. It

was still early in the afternoon, and it was not his wont to sally forth

until the shadows were long. Where could he be going? they asked one of

the other, purring inquisitively together like a group of women-folk

over a cup of afternoon tea. Of all his brute friends, Tasso alone knew

whither his master was going; he snorted scornfully at cats and cock,

and, shaking his head playfully, sped over the bridle path with flying

feet, as if conscious of the eyes that were watching for him, the ears

that were strained to catch the first faint echo of his hoofs as they

flashed over the stony orchard road.

Those sweet eyes had not closed since they had last looked into

Graham's; that white form had known no rest since it had slipped from

his arms. The night, which had brought to him such peaceful dreams, was

fraught with bitter memories to Millicent. She had paced her room

through the long hours. No longer a half-yielding, shrinking maiden,

but a woman, full of tears, before whom some great sorrow, long stifled,

had risen up again. Was her nature then two-fold? While she was with

other people, Millicent seemed a strong, self-reliant woman, pure and

cold, with quick intellectual sympathies, and strong opinions and

convictions. When in the society of the man she loved, his influence

unfolded the closed petals of her heart as the sun kisses back the white

leaves of the daisy, and uncovers its great golden centre to the eyes of

all men. A new warmth shone from her eyes, and softened her silver

voice. An unwonted shyness made her shrinking and timid under his gaze.

A new life was born within her, so much stronger and more intense than

any that she had ever known, that her past existence paled before it as

the luminous circle of a night-lamp fades before the strong rays of

morning. But when she was alone....

Whatever her sombre thoughts had been, they were banished before she

next met her lover. When she learned that he had come, she longed to fly

from him out into the dim reaches of the forest, where he had told her

half in jest that they had lived and loved before man's time began; when

nymphs and dryads danced together in the shade of the oak-trees; when

Pan reigned, and the earth was young. If she could have seen him in her

own sanctum, where the light was softened by the dull green hanging of

the wall, where the air was warm from the ever-flaming fire, and sweet

with the spices burning in a great sea-shell, she would not have greatly

cared; but the stereotyped drawing-room, with its blank white walls, was

no place for their greeting. She went down the stairway and stood a

moment before Graham; then, as he advanced towards her as if about to

speak, she glided swiftly from the room across the hall and out into the

sunlight.

Barbara, standing near by, scattering corn to a flock of tame doves

which fluttered about her, laughed as the light figure flitted by, with

bare head, and delicate silken draperies fit only to rustle over soft

carpets. Barbara laughed pleasantly, cheerily calling over her shoulder

to her mother, who sat indoors,--

"Look at Millicent racing with her own shadow."

"'T is a substantial shadow, Bab, but otherwise the simile 's good,"

said Hal, as he passed by on his way to the dairy.

And Barbara looked again, and looking sighed. Another figure had sped by

her, down the orchard road towards the wood,--the figure of a man,

pursuing the flying girl, with kindled face and fleet steps. She threw

her last handful of grain to the circling doves, went into the stiff

drawing-room, mechanically set straight the disordered chairs and drew

down a shade where the light fell too hotly upon a breadth of carpet.

She paused before a mirror and looked at her own pretty face clouded by

a pain she would not explain. More than one lover had sued for her

hand, earnestly and tenderly, but she had listened to no suit. No man

had ever pursued her with fleet steps and sparkling eyes, no man had

ever brought that expression of half-shamed happiness to her face which

had made Millicent look just now like a child racing with her own

shadow.

In the forest Graham found her standing breathless beneath an oak-tree,

whose branches had caught her gown and forced her to stay her flight.

"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.