Front matter (continued 5)

Before her mute grief, his passionate longing was turned to a great and holy pity. He stood beside her and said gently,--

"Millicent, you will not leave me without a word? You must not go out into the storm; I will leave you here alone, if you wish, until the rain is over. Do not be so cruel as to doubt me, dear one."

He stopped, for his words had made her tremble. She feared him no longer, and with a little sigh laid her hand in his and suffered him to lead her into the room. The artist placed his visitor in a great chair, and busied himself in making a fire on his cold hearth.

"Now this is more cheerful, fair lady, is it not?" he cried, in a pleasant voice. "And pray tell me what brought you to my lonely dwelling."

"I had always wanted to see your tower, Graham; and this morning they all went to San Francisco for the day, and I thought I would ride over and look at it from the outside. I found old John airing the room, and accepted his invitation to rest here for half an hour before riding home. He came up just now to tell me that it was going to rain, but as he thought it would be only a shower he had put my horse under shelter. This is how I came here; and now tell me what brought you so unexpectedly from town."

"I cannot tell, white one. Your will, perhaps."

"Nay, friend, that has never swayed thee one hair's-breadth from thine appointed course."

He shook his head sadly, and looked out of the window. She did not know--it was better for her perhaps that she never should know--how great an influence she had wielded over his life. She did not know that for her, faith and youth had bloomed in his heart when he had thought them dead. Her untruth was killing them, and their death-agony had shaken and worn him cruelly. She thought him hard and relentless. It might be easier for her to dull the pain in her heart, with this consciousness of injury received. He would never tell her of the irreparable wrong she had done him. If he was not forgiving he was magnanimous. No word of reproach should pass his lips.

Outside the rain was pouring down, but less steadily; the patter of the drops sounded more and more lightly on the window-panes. The shower would not long continue. Graham took note of the clearing sky, and sighed heavily. With all her faults he loved her; the tower would be lonelier than ever when she had flitted from it like a sprite of the rain-storm. The great trees outside lifted up their branches with a mighty wailing, echoing his sigh; and Millicent, as if conscious that love was pleading against pride in that strong heart which had never learned the lesson of forgiveness, turned her white, appealing face towards him. The man's being had been swept that day with fiery impulses from the first moment of consciousness. Passionate love, pity, scorn, and anger had in turn written their impress on his mobile face. He came close to her side, and taking both her hands in his, knelt at her side:

"O Millicent, Millicent! could he not have spared you? We could have loved each other so truly! Poor child, poor child! What fiend was he to have betrayed you! But now it can never be, never, never, never!" The words rang out drearily, the death-knell of all that had made life beautiful to them both. The pale girl sat motionless, speechless, her eyes dark with horror, her hands nerveless in his passionate grasp. Tears fell upon those white fingers which he had so often kissed,--cruel tears wrung from the bruised heart of the man she loved; tears that she had no power to check, tears that had their source in her own sin. In that hour of agony, if remorse may in aught atone for error, Millicent must have been forgiven of the angels. The proud man knew how to suffer, but he could not forgive. He arose and dashed the tears from his eyes; they had cost him mortal pain.

The rain was over, the gray sky had cleared; and Millicent, like a gray shadow, slipped from the tower, leaving her lover alone, with the mocking sunlight shining on his dark, tear-stained face.

CHAPTER XVII.

"Our bread was such as captives' tears

Have moistened many a thousand years,

Since man first pent his brother men

Like brutes within an iron den."

It was a long chase that brought Hal Deering and Maurice Galbraith face to face with the ruffian, whom Hal readily identified. They found him with a group of new-found friends in the chief liquor saloon of a small, rather disreputable town, fifty miles from the Ranch. When the two young men entered the place, the man they were looking for asked them to join in the "all-round drink" he was about to "stand treat for," which invitation was promptly declined by Hal Deering. After a whispered word, Galbraith had left the shop; and Hal, seating himself at a table, awaited the return of his friend, quietly enduring the insulting remarks which the offended Horton heaped upon him. The loafers in the shop had a kindly feeling toward the man who had treated them, and did not discourage him in his attempts to force the new-comer into a quarrel. But Hal was imperturbable, and answered neither with look nor word. Stimulated by the whiskey he had imbibed, and the admiring attention of his friends, the rowdy finally called out in a brutal voice,--

"If you think yerself too good to drink with this yere crowd, p'raps yer would n't mind amusing 'em by showing 'em the last style of dancing down in 'Frisco. 'T would raley please us to see you step out."

As he spoke he drew his pistol from his belt and pointed it at Deering. The more sober ones of the party here interfered; and the burly saloon-keeper stepped forward with the remark, that he "did n't mean to 'low anything but fair play in his shanty; and that if the genl'm'n had a difference between them they must settle it outside."

The man whom Deering was after seated himself astride a hogshead of beer and cocked his pistol, advising the "boss" to keep out of the affair if he valued his "sweet life."

"Now, then, young man, if yer don't cut a caper before I count three, I shall be obliged to see how much of your right boot-heel I can carry away with this bullet, without endangering them handsome feet o' yourn."

Hal, only afraid of losing his man, answered coolly,--

"You can shoot if you want to. I am a stranger in this place, and I prefer to do my dancing at home."

The proprietor again interposed, and laying his hand on the bully's shoulder, ordered him to put up his shooting-irons. Horton threw him off, and things were beginning to look rather serious; when Deering saw Galbraith crossing the street with two men, one of whom he recognized as the county sheriff.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have come a long distance to find this man; I am anxious to have his company as far as the San Bernardino prison, where he will find comfortable board provided for him. If you are law-abiding citizens, you will not interfere with the arrest of Daniel Horton on an indictment of murder."

As he finished speaking, the three men entered, and the sheriff laid his hand on Horton's shoulder. Murder is an ugly word, and a silence followed Hal's speech. The crowd instinctively drew back from the man who had been charged with the foul crime; and a silence ensued, which was broken by the sheriff, a high-voiced little man, who said in a loud tone,--

"I arrest you, Dan Horton, for the murder of Ah Lam, committed at Carey's Bridge, on the afternoon of Wednesday last."

A revulsion of feeling was manifest in the faces of the crowd. The horror for a person who has committed the unatonable crime of murder had been felt; but when it transpired that the victim was a Chinaman, the case appeared to be very much altered. The man, quick to see the favorable change in public sentiment, cried,--

"Wall, boys, you see I am 'spected of having done the business for one of these Chinese vermin. What sort of a town 's this as will see a man 'rested for that?"

Daniel Horton's experience of life in the rough mining towns, where the last five years of his life had been spent, gave him the hope that the men in the saloon would help him to escape from arrest. But though sympathy for him was evinced by the group of idlers, there was no attempt at resisting the officers; and the sheriff, assisted by Galbraith and Deering, finally succeeded in placing the hand-cuffs on his wrists. When he saw that there was no help for him, he submitted to be led from the saloon, giving one parting look of scorn at the friends whom he had won by a glass of liquor and lost on the appearance of an officer.

"Of all the derned mean skunks as I ever met, this town numbers the most," he muttered, as the screen door swung to behind him.

The examination of the prisoner was to be held in the court-room of the county prison of San Bernardino. Millicent was summoned to be present. Escorted by Deering and Galbraith, she arrived before the entrance of the gloomy building, one bright October morning. It was a day when life seemed a pleasant thing, if only because there were sunlight and color in the odorous woods and pleasant highways. Just as they reached the doorway, a line of people filed out from the narrow portal. They were the discharged prisoners, some of whom had been in confinement for twenty-four hours only, while others had not breathed the free air for many weary months. A girl not older than Millicent passed them with a slow, inelastic step and downcast eyes. Her slender figure was poorly but decently clad in a gown of rusty black, her hair neatly arranged, her hands and face clean and of a remarkable pallor. She alone among the little group seemed loath to leave the prison, where at least she had been among those who could not look down on her. At the threshold she paused and shuddered, as if the wide street, with its row of young shade-trees and neat sidewalk, were more forbidding than the narrow prison-yard, with its spiked rails and dismal barred windows. Those who were behind became impatient at her delay; and she was pushed not ungently into the street by the man next to her in the sad procession. As she found herself alone outside the dreary stone building, she gave a low groan, clasping her poor thin hands together over her breast. Millicent, moved by the pathetic gesture, spoke to her gently, asking if she could in any way help her; but the girl shook her head as if annoyed by the question, and walked quickly down the street, taking the first turn which led her out of sight of the prison. All those who followed were men, most of whom wore a conscious expression, as if they were more embarrassed at being seen leaving the prison than mortified at having merited the punishment which they had undergone. As the last of the queue filed out, Galbraith entered the doorway, Millicent following him, and Deering bringing up the rear. In the wide stone hall which they entered were groups of men talking together or leaning idly against the rails. A heavy grated door swung open with a rusty, grinding sound, and two men appeared, arm-in-arm. The taller of the two was a handsome young fellow, with blond, curling hair, blue eyes, and fresh rosy cheeks. His expression was almost infantine in its beauty; and this, with his jaunty air, contrasted strangely with his companion's ugly, stooping figure and downcast, shamed face. The latter was a misshapen creature, with a humped back and a large, ugly head furnished with coarse hair and beard. As the grate clanged behind the couple, the handsome young fellow laughed cheerily, stretched his limbs, and drew a long breath of relief.

"Ta-ta, bully, hope I won't see you soon again," he said, nodding impudently to the door-keeper. The smaller man was lame, as well as deformed; and the under-warden, who had joined Galbraith, asked him kindly how his leg was doing.

"Better, sir, thank you," croaked the unfortunate in a harsh voice; "it came hard on me not havin' George here to help me; but it's all right now. Good-morning to you, sir."

"Tell me about those men," said Millicent to an official whom Galbraith had introduced to her.

"They are brothers, George and Pete Marcy. Which of them do you think paid a twenty-dollar fine to get his brother out of prison just now? Likely you 'll think it was the good-looking chap; but 't was Pete the dwarf. He 's the tinker and general useful man of the town, is Pete; and George is one of the biggest rascals in the State of California. But he covers his tracks well; and though we know a good many things about him, we can prove nothing more against him than an occasional assault and battery."

"And did the poor little creature pay the fine out of his earnings?"

"Bless you, yes; and pays for his clothes,--nice ones, you remarked, mebbe? Pete gives that rascal every dollar he earns; and the only thing George does toward supporting himself, is to rob an occasional hen-roost when he wants to give a supper party."

The outer door now closed with a grave sound; it had let out its day's quota of men and women who had legally expiated their crimes; it had taken in its one breath of sun and air. From a narrow window Millicent saw the Marcy brothers walking down the street, George with head erect and swaggering gait, Pete shambling awkwardly along at his side, vainly trying to keep pace with his handsome brother's long strides.

The warden now led the way to the court-room. The keeper of the gate, a stern-looking man, with iron-gray hair and iron-rusted clothes, stopped Millicent as she was about to pass through the grated door, saying,--

"Put up your veil, please." Three inches of transparent red tulle masked her face from the brow to the mouth. So slight a covering was it that the superior officer had not noticed it; but nothing escaped the lynx-eyed jailer, who added curtly, "Must keep it up all through the prison. No woman is allowed to enter or leave this place veiled."

Millicent looked a little puzzled as she unfastened the bit of lace; and the grim guardian added, in a voice which was something softer than the grating of his key in the lock,--

"You need n't be ashamed to put up your veil, with such a face as yours."

Millicent smiled an acknowledgment of the compliment, and passed through the gate, holding fast to the slip of yellow paper and the red ticket which had been given to her, and which were necessary to secure an exit from that precinct which is so easily entered and so difficult to leave.

"You have captivated that grim old fellow with one glance, Miss Almsford. How do you do it?" queried Galbraith.

"What do you mean? I don't," answered Millicent rather inconsistently.

They had by this time reached the prison-yard; and Millicent, with a shiver, looked up at the high, smooth stone walls, with their cruel topping of iron spikes. In a certain angle she stopped a moment, attracted by a little fern which had found place for its slender roots in a cranny of the masonry. She suddenly started, and with a horrified expression ran back a few paces, grown pale to the lips. The warden, who had looked at her with an odd expression, said,--

"You were standing, just now, miss, on the spot where the gallows is always erected."

"I knew it," said the girl, in a shaking voice. "I saw it."

Maurice Galbraith quietly drew her arm under his own, and said gently, but authoritatively,--

"Come, my child, do not be nervous; you have a great deal to go through with to-day."

He fixed his deep, serious eyes on her face for a moment; and the girl, sensitive to his quiet influence, quickly recovered herself.

They passed up a narrow, dark stone stair-case, and along a corridor running outside the cells. Most of the heavy wooden doors were open, the outer grating of iron revealing the interior of the cells. In one of these a young mulatto, the Figaro of the village, stood leaning against the bars talking to a respectable-looking man of his own color, who proved to be the pastor of a Methodist church. The young man was a handsome fellow, carefully and neatly dressed. He seemed somewhat excited, and talked in a loud voice, which he lowered at the approach of the party. Galbraith inquired what crime he had been charged with, and learned from the officer that he had wounded his brother mortally in a quarrel; "They both was waitin' on the same gal," the attendant added in explanation. A man lying at full-length upon the floor sprang to his feet as they passed his door, and walked furiously up and down the narrow room, shaking his head from side to side, reminding Millicent of a caged panther she had once seen. Each dreary, cramped apartment imprisoned some unfortunate, either suffering the penalty for, or awaiting the judgment of, his crimes. Millicent felt the chill air of the prison damp and fetid upon her cheek, and yet she did not hurry down the corridor, but walked slowly, apparently looking neither to the right nor left, but with one quick, sidelong glance, taking in the details of each of the cells and the faces of the malefactors, impressions which never faded from her memory. Some of the men laughed impudently as the little group passed their cells; and one fellow of wild aspect buried his face in his hands, with a sudden movement, as if ashamed of being seen behind the disgraceful bars. A pair of youthful criminals were engaged in playing moro, the great Italian gambling game. One of the youths was a native of Italy; and he had evidently taught his companion in confinement the simple but exciting game. No cards or dice, checkers or other paraphernalia, are needed; the game is played with the fingers only. Those of the left hand keep the account of the game. With the right hand a quick movement is made by both players simultaneously, showing a certain number of fingers; while at the same moment each calls out his guess of the number which his antagonist holds up,--"due"--"cinque"--"tutti." The familiar words fell upon Millicent's ears, and she stopped outside the door, her cheeks dyed with a flush of pleasure, her eyes sparkling at the sound of her native language. She did not remember that she was in a prison; she thought of nothing but the fact that here was a compatriot; she spoke to him in a low voice a few words of greeting. The fellow stared at her at first; and then, seeing that hers was a friendly face, left his seat on the corner of the narrow bed, came close to the grate and poured out a torrent of words in the patois of the Venetians. When he learned that the signorina was not only of his country, but from his city, the poor fellow, whose crime had been nothing more than participation in a street-fight, was moved to tears. Millicent forgot her companions and the strange place of meeting, and listened with sympathizing attention to the story of the man with the dull red-gold hair and white, delicate features, whose face recalled more than one friend in the far-off city of her home. His profession was that of a cobbler, his name Giovanni Brogli. He had drifted out to this strange country through a love of wandering, and had been drawn into a street-brawl by some chance acquaintances, who had robbed him of all that remained of his small fortune; and when he would have fought his betrayers, they turned him over to the police. True or false, the story was a pitiful one. The creature could speak next to no English; and Millicent's tender heart was troubled by the recital of his griefs. She had no money with her, and before either of her companions was aware of her intention, she had untwined a gold serpent of exquisite workmanship from her throat and held it through the bars to the man inside the cell. He looked at her with wondering eyes, and taking the white fingers in his own rough, blackened hand, kissed them reverently, murmuring a blessing which brought tears to her eyes.

"I say, Princess, you must n't do that sort of thing;" said Hal, thoroughly scandalized, pulling her by the sleeve. "Come on! you can't stand talking to these rascals and giving them your jewelry,--it is n't sensible."

She answered impatiently, and then saying a word of farewell to the prisoner, she submitted to be led away from the grate by Galbraith, followed by a fervent parting blessing from Giovanni of the reddish locks.

"I wish you wouldn't be so absurdly soft-hearted. What did you want to give that beggar your lovely necklace for?" said Hal.

"I had no money with me," half penitently.

"Well, I could have let you have some. But it's against the rule. I should n't wonder if you got into trouble for doing such a thing," continued the young man, who was genuinely shocked at Millicent's behavior.

"There was no harm done, was there, Mr. Galbraith? I won't be scolded. It was my serpent; I will do what I choose with my own things, and will not be dictated to by you." Millicent was angry at Deering's very natural interference; and Galbraith, anxious to spare her all annoyance, gave Hal a warning kick, and hurried her towards their destination, lest she should feel moved to part with any more of her personal property for the benefit of the prisoners.

They now entered a small apartment; and Millicent learned that before the opening of the trial, she was called upon to identify the murderer of Ah Lam. The question was asked,--

"Could you identify, on oath, the man you saw at Carey's Bridge? You were under great excitement at the time; you could hardly be expected to remember anything beyond the fact of the killing."

"I am positive I can identify him."

"On oath; are you sure?"

"Perfectly so."

"How could you surely recognize a man you have seen but once, under very painful circumstances, six weeks ago?"

"I remember his face distinctly; I should know his voice among a thousand."

"Be careful; what you say may be put to the test. What you state in the court you must be able to prove."

"I am ready to prove it."

When the moment came for the identification of the prisoner, Millicent's eyes were bandaged; and twelve men filed into the room, among whom she was told was the man arrested for the crime. As she had made the assertion that his voice alone would betray the murderer to her, she was asked to listen to a sentence repeated in turn by each of these men. Three of them had said the stipulated words, and the fourth was about to speak, when those who were nearest to Millicent noticed that she shuddered violently.

"Let the next man speak."

The fellow looked at Millicent askance, and then repeated the sentence in a low, unnatural voice. He had said but three words when she interrupted him.

"The person who is now speaking is the man who assaulted me at Carey's Bridge."

The judge, who had taken a keen interest in all Millicent had said, now motioned to the men to change places. The bandage being removed, she glanced at the row of men and said,--

"He now stands at the end of the row nearest the window."

Her expression, as she turned her eyes and looked in the face of Daniel Horton, was cold and set as that of one of the younger Fates. Aversion and horror were therein painted. As she spoke she pointed at the guilty wretch, who moved uneasily under her gaze, and dropped his bold eyes before the light in her gray orbs, as if their fire scorched him.

The preliminaries accomplished, all the participants adjourned to the court-room, which was a bare apartment, very grimy, and sadly in need of paint and soapsuds. At one end was a slightly raised table, behind which the judge seated himself. He was a singular-looking man, and wore his hair long, in greasy ringlets falling as far as the coat-collar. His stout person was adorned with a large amount of rather flashy jewelry, and a pink cravat was supplemented by a bunch of fuchsias worn in the button-hole. The space in front of the bench was railed in by an iron balustrade painted green. At the long tables sat groups of men busily engaged in writing or in conversation. A policeman standing near the judge's desk, when the clamor in the court-room became unusually loud, pounded on the floor with his club, whereat the voices grew lower for a brief space, and then the hubbub began again. Somebody seemed to be addressing the court, though Millicent thought that no one paid much attention to him. The entrance of the prosecuting council in the case of manslaughter soon to be called, with two of the chief witnesses, made some stir; and Millicent was conscious, as she took her place, that the eyes of all present were fixed upon her. She looked wonderingly about the dismal apartment, with its dirty wooden settles and bare floor, at the judge on the bench, and at the crowd of poorly dressed people in the seats behind her. Galbraith now entered the little pen, and, seating himself at the table, proceeded to look through some papers which his clerk handed to him, while the man who was haranguing the court continued his discourse, in which nobody seemed to take any interest. Millicent had never been in court before. Her only experience of the abodes of justice had been the long afternoons passed in the court-rooms of the Doge's palace, studying the frescoes and beautiful carvings of those famous apartments. She had always invested the precincts of justice with a vague majesty and splendor. A judge, in her imagination, was a stately man clothed in crimson and ermine, with grave, reverend features, majestic in mien, deliberate in speech. When Hal pointed out Judge Croley, as one of the most distinguished of American jurists, she was greatly astonished.

"Will he try the case in that dress?"

"Oh, yes; I heard Croley condemn a man to death in very much the same costume as that which he wears to-day. The cravat was a little brighter pink, I think; and I remember he wore carnations in his button-hole. He said in a pleasant, nonchalant voice, very much the tone he would use in ordering his farmer to kill a pair of chickens, 'You are condemned to be taken to the San Bernardino prison, there to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, on the third day of May at twelve o'clock; and may God have mercy upon your soul!'"

Millicent shuddered as she heard the case called, and faltered for the first time in her desire to see justice done to the murderer of Ah Lam. It is such a terrible responsibility, the taking of life; can man's law make it guiltless? The great question which all of modern thought has not yet solved, troubled the mind of the young woman, who could accept no judgment or creed on faith; she painfully and laboriously solved the problems of life by the force of her own reasoning.

"There is Pierson, the counsel for the defence," whispered Hal, as a little man strutted up the aisle between the benches full of people, and entered the green-railed enclosure. He was perhaps the most grotesque-looking person Millicent had ever seen. His height could not have been above five feet; and this, with his small hands and feet, gave him an exceedingly effeminate appearance. His small round head was like a ball, on the surface of which little globular eyes and a beak-like nose had been very casually placed. These features did not seem at all a necessary part of the head, which resembled that of a parrot. Before he spoke he put his head on one side, in a bird-like fashion; and he occasionally shook himself, very much as a canary does when anything has ruffled its composure. Millicent had learned from Galbraith that this man was the most prominent criminal lawyer in California. As she looked at his high, narrow forehead and mean, pinched smile she thought that among all the malefactors in San Bernardino prison she had seen no face as bad as that of Pierson, the great criminal lawyer. The prisoner was now brought into the court. After stating his name, age, residence, and occupation, he was asked the question,--

"Are you guilty or not guilty of the wilful murder of Ah Lam at Carey's Bridge, on the afternoon of Wednesday, October 16?"

The noisy court-room had grown perfectly still; and the prisoner's low-spoken answer was heard in the farthest corner with perfect distinctness,--

"Not guilty."

The counsel for the defence now stated that the prisoner acknowledged having been at Carey's Bridge on the day of the murder. He had there seen and spoken to Miss Almsford, but had fled at the approach of some gentlemen of the party. He admitted that he had assaulted Miss Almsford, but pleaded that he had no intention of injuring her.

"What were you doing at the mill?"

"I come there to meet a man as I had 'gaged to."

"What man was it?"

The prisoner declined to answer this question, and finally declared that he did not know the man's name.

"For what purpose did you meet this man?"

"To do a job as we was hired for."

"And what were you hired to do?"

"To carry off the young lady."

At this astonishing statement a moment's silence fell upon the court-room, which was broken by Pierson's sharp voice: he asked his client to name the person who had engaged him to kidnap the young girl.

With clasped hands and startled eyes, Millicent looked into the face of the ruffian, waiting to hear the name of the man who had plotted against her. John Graham, in the excitement of the moment, stood up in his place to get a better view of Horton; while Maurice Galbraith sat with an unmoved countenance, keenly watching the features of the prisoner at the bar. The question was twice put to him,--"Who was the man?" but he did not speak. A third time he was asked. Finally, he looked at his lawyer, who nodded slightly; and then, with a defiant glance toward the artist, at whom he pointed an unsteady finger, he said,--

"The man as hired me to do the job stands in this yer court-room. He calls himself John Graham."

A moment of silence followed this astounding statement, succeeded by an incredulous murmur which ran from mouth to mouth. From the confused sounds rang out a deep, clear voice uttering these words:--

"It is a shameful lie!" Millicent it was who had spoken, rising to her feet and stretching out her arms toward Graham with a gesture of womanly protection, as if to shield him from the ruffian's slanderous breath.

Silence was at last enforced, and the examination of Horton proceeded. He repeated his statement that he had not killed the Chinaman, and that the abduction of Millicent had been attempted at the instigation of John Graham. The artist, after the first moment of surprise, said nothing, but remained perfectly silent, his eyes fixed intently on Daniel Horton's face. The story told by the prisoner was one which bore some semblance of truth. He had met his confederate on the morning of the picnic as had been previously arranged, and had attempted to carry off Miss Almsford; but hearing the voices of the gentlemen had fled. He had undertaken the affair some time beforehand, and had twice visited Graham's studio, where the artist had made a painting of him in order to explain his presence there. A scrap of paper, soiled and tumbled, was produced, on which were traced these words in Graham's handwriting: "Come to the place I told you of, to-morrow at one; you shall be well paid." One o'clock had been the hour of the picnic; and this note, it was affirmed, had been sent to Horton on the previous day as per agreement. On being further examined, the fellow showed a dogged persistence in his story; and Maurice Galbraith's adroit cross-questioning failed to make him contradict his original statement in any particular. The day waned as the storm of words raged; and at dusk the trial was adjourned until the following day. As the crowd filed out of the court-room, Millicent found Graham at her side. He was pale, and his dark eyes flashed angrily. He was about to speak to her; and she turned toward him with smiling lips and eyes, when Henry Deering stepped between them, and, bowing coolly to the artist, drew her arm through his own, and, before she was well aware of his intention, led her from the room. The eyes of a dozen curious outsiders were fixed upon her, and she submitted to be placed in the wagon, which Hal drove off at a sharp pace. The artist remained in the court-room, where he was presently joined by Maurice Galbraith, who in a formal voice asked him to accompany him to his apartment, in order that they might discuss the new and unexpected feature in the case. The two men walked together down the street, both too much excited to trust themselves to speak. As soon as they found themselves alone in Galbraith's chamber at the inn, Graham cried excitedly,--

"Galbraith, no one can for a moment believe that infamous lie,--you can make the fellow eat his words to-morrow?"

The lawyer folded his arms across his breast, and looked into his companion's face with a searching gaze, before he answered slowly and ironically,--

"Am I to understand, Mr. Graham, that you deny all collusion in the attempt to carry off Miss Almsford?"

"Great God! of course I do. Can you for a moment doubt me? I to carry off Millicent? Are you mad to ask me such a question? Why, don't you know, man, how much I have cared for that girl?"

"It is not difficult for the most indifferent observer to detect your admiration for Miss Almsford."

"Well?"

"Well, what does that prove? It is a point against you that you are supposed to be in love with the young lady, and gives color to Horton's accusation."

Graham sank into a seat, and the lawyer continued,--

"Your great intimacy at the Ranch and your marked attentions to Miss Almsford were apparently unaccountably discontinued by your removal to San Francisco. This feature is against you. You must have seen that in the eyes of Henry Deering, Horton's statement needed strong disproving."

"And you, Galbraith, can you for an instant suspect me of so base, so vile an action? Is it possible that a man can be so misjudged?"

"All I have to say, Mr. Graham, is that it is my hope to prove you innocent of the crime in which Horton has implicated you. As the friend and counsel of Miss Almsford, I prefer to believe that she was menaced by a vulgar ruffian and not by a man who might have aspired to the honor and privilege of guarding her from every harm. If you will excuse me, I will see you in the course of the evening."

With these words the lawyer left the apartment, his nervous face suffused by a deep flush. John Graham stared after him for a moment, and then passed down the corridor and out into the quiet night, to seek counsel from the stars in this strange hour of doubt.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"... the passions of her mind,

As winds from all the compass shift and blow,

Made war upon each other for an hour."

"Millicent! Millicent! are you awake?"

It was the evening of the first day of the trial; and Miss Almsford, sitting in her chamber warming her pretty feet before the fire, recognized the voice and answered,--

"Yes, Bab, come in."

It was very late, past twelve o'clock; but Barbara brought news of a visitor, who would keep them both from their sleep an hour longer. Mr. Galbraith was downstairs and must speak with her. Miss Almsford gave a little tired sigh, and, folding her white wrapper about her shoulders, caught the thick tangle of hair together with a silver arrow, and, without glancing at the mirror, left the room and joined the young lawyer in the library.

"I am so sorry to disturb you, Miss Almsford; I know you must be tired, but I could not get here sooner. Miss Barbara, do not be offended, but I must ask you to let me see Miss Almsford alone for a few minutes; would you mind waiting in the next room?"

When they were alone, the young man seemed at a loss how to open the interview which he had sought. Millicent, tired by the events of the exciting day, did not seem inclined to help him. After a long and rather awkward pause, she turned wearily to her visitor and said,--

"It is about the trial, of course?"

Galbraith bowed an assent.

"About the statement made by that man--" She shuddered, as if unable to pronounce his name. The young man silently assented again.

"Well, there is nothing to be said by me beyond what I have already said: it is an infamous lie! It is so apparent a fabrication that I should hardly have thought it necessary for you to give yourself the trouble to come so far, merely to hear me repeat what I asserted this afternoon."

"It is your honest opinion, then, that Mr. Graham has been slandered?"

"My honest opinion, Mr. Galbraith? I do not know how to give any other. Are you come to make me angry? You had better not, for we Italians are more easily roused to anger than soothed. I am so tired, too; can you not spare me?"

Her voice dropped from the deep, indignant tone, to a pleading note like that of a tired child. Maurice Galbraith, leaning quietly against the mantel-shelf, with downcast eyes and calm face, seemed strangely moved by the words of the woman who stood before him, so white and so beautiful. He turned toward her; and when he next spoke, a tenderness had crept all unawares into his face, which shone with a light whose meaning she could not fail to understand. His very voice seemed a caress addressed to her ear, so low and gentle was it.

"My child, you do not understand me. I to make you angry, to add one annoyance to your life, which is so sad? Ah! you little know how gladly--" He stopped suddenly, warned, by the rising flush on her cheek, that he was saying other words than those which he had come to speak,--"you little know how gladly I would have spared you the question which it was necessary for me to ask. I am now answered."

"But you do not believe me? I see that--"

"I would believe you if all the angels in heaven should deny your truth."

She looked at him curiously; she was infinitely touched by his emotion. He cared for her; he loved her with a passion which she could understand. He would gladly--oh, how gladly!--have folded her life about with a protecting care, keeping the very winds of heaven from her face if they should blow too roughly; have taken her in his strong arms, stood between her and all the world, given her all and been content with the giving, asking for nought but the right to protect her. That she did not love him he knew; that she cared for another he more than imagined; and yet he would have been content to try and win her regard by a life's devotion.

Of all this he spoke not one word, as he stood looking into her face with burning, tender eyes. He did not speak, and yet he knew that he was understood. The woman gave a little weary sigh; it was in vain! To her there was but one man in all the world. He said no word, but stepped toward her with outstretched, pleading hands, with tender love and pity, asking nothing, giving all without questioning, without doubt. She, who had befriended so many, and was yet without a friend, who had been tempest-tossed and shipwrecked before her life-journey had fairly begun, knew what it was that lay in Maurice Galbraith's outstretched hands,--the love of a life, a haven of peace and quiet. He was about to speak, to let the love which was troubling his heart pour itself out in a flood of words at the portal of her ear; but with a movement she checked him. The repellent gesture of her hand, her averted head and downcast eyes, answered him. He understood her as well, better perhaps than if he had spoken and she had answered. It left him another chance, too; later, when he had shown her how faithfully he could wait, he might speak the words which she now refused to hear. So both were glad that they had spoken only with their eyes. She had been spared the pain of putting into words that which it would have been hard for him to hear; and he was glad that she had not spoken the cold truth which he read in her face. When she spoke again, it was to ignore that silent prayer and its denial. She took up the thread of the conversation where they had dropped it:--

"I am glad that you are convinced of this truth; and I trust that you will bring the others, Henry Deering most of all, to feel as you do."

The tender look of love died out from Maurice Galbraith's face. He turned gloomily away from the fair woman whose beauty was not for him.

"I cannot tell, I do not know; what man can judge another? I said that I believed you; did I imply that I trusted him?"

Of all cruel griefs endured by Millicent Almsford, this was the most bitter,--that her lover, through her fault, should be misjudged; that in the eyes of others he should suffer. She realized now in what a light he had appeared to Galbraith, to Hal and Barbara, to all the small circle who had seen their friendship flower into love, and that flower tossed to the earth before it had ripened to its fruition. His sudden disappearance, her own too obvious grief, to what could they attribute it but to his faithlessness? And now that this base slander had been cast upon him, they believed it. He was compromised, dishonored in their eyes; and the fault was hers. As the full significance of all this struck her, she groaned aloud, clasping her hands together over her grieved heart as if in mortal agony. How could she right him in their eyes? How could she dissipate the cloud which darkened his stainless honor?

There was but one way,--to tell them all the sad truth. Her honor against his! How could she hesitate, loving him as she did? And yet there was a moment of awful suspense. Her proud spirit, which had borne unaided and alone the burden which would have crushed a feebler soul, revolted at the thought of a new humiliation. A man's honor is writ on a strong shield that can be easily cleansed. It may receive many a hard blow, and show many a dint, and yet be as good as those carried by his mates. It can be burnished bright again, and held up for all men to see, its very scars proving through what battles it has been worn, and adding, rather than detracting, from its present lustre. If all else be lost, let him but give his life to expiate his sin, and the blot is washed out from the shield. But with a woman it is not so. Her honor must be maintained by a shield of crystal, on which the faintest breath of slander leaves its foul impress; which one blow dealt by a man's hand shatters irrevocably. This is man's code of honor; and as man's voice is strongest in the world, it is the world's code of honor. Only the greatest men set it aside as unjust; only the strongest refuse to recognize it.

All this Millicent knew. It was not wonderful that she hesitated, that she was silent, or answered the searching questions put to her by the young lawyer slowly and evasively. She was putting off the moment in which she must decide between his honor and her own. She remembered the indignant look Deering had cast upon Graham in the court-room, the cool manner in which Barbara had spoken of him, Mrs. Deering's grieved silence respecting the man who had been so valued a friend to her, and, worst of all, Galbraith's openly expressed doubt of his innocence. A woman of a smaller nature who had endured Millicent's cruel experience might, too, have doubted Graham; but she had fathomed his nature more truly in a few months than had his lifelong friends. She knew that in it there was no room for one ignoble thought. His faults she recognized more clearly than if she had loved him less. She knew him to be selfish, with the selfishness of genius; hard of heart, with the indifference to human pain common to those men who are capable of enduring the most terrible suffering; intolerant of those who differed from him, with the steadfast knowledge that his thoughts and opinions had been moulded from no contact with other minds, but attained with pain and weariness of spirit, built up from his inner consciousness, the result of thought and experience, not of the study of other men's minds and actions.

As Galbraith continued to question her, she answered clearly all that he said, while her mind, with a dual consciousness, carried on its separate train of thought. She realized that if Maurice Galbraith were not himself convinced of Graham's innocence, his efforts to disprove Horton's accusation would be half-hearted, perfunctory, and without the moral weight of honest conviction. If he were to learn the true reason of the breach between Graham and herself, he must know it immediately,--that very night. That her confession would clear the man she loved from every suspicion she never doubted, and yet--she did not speak. It was so hard to tell the story of her broken life; she was not strong enough. To any other it would have been easier to bare her secret than to this man who reverenced her, who had told her, with look and deed and tender thought, that he loved her.

Barbara, weary of waiting till the long conversation should come to an end, had taken her place at the piano in the adjoining room; and after playing for some time she struck the chords of a song full of tender associations to Millicent. A wild, passionate melody of Rubinstein, full of love and hope and youth. Millicent had sung it on that night when Graham had found her waiting for him in the firelight, with his name upon her lips, though they were still strangers. She had sung it then with an intensity which had brought the grave artist close to her side, full of enthusiasm for the song, of admiration for the singer. She remembered how he had thanked her silently with a look, while the others, whose presence she had forgotten, had been full of warm praises. A mist of tears rose to her eyes and gathered itself into crystal drops of pain. Moved by the flood of memories which rushed about her with the tumultuous waves of sound, she rose, her pride swept away, her love triumphant; and, with a brow peaceful with its victory, she spoke. She told them all her sad story; while Barbara, summoned to her side, wept softly at the piteous tale, and Galbraith, strong man that he was, trembled with emotion at the words of passionate grief. Without reserve was the revelation made; the tragedy of her young life, her meeting with Graham, her love for him, and the deceit to which it led,--all were told. No word of anger had she for the false friend and dead lover, and no thought of condemnation of Graham's action. He was right; he could not have acted otherwise; he had been frank and true and honest with her; and she had deceived him! He had left the San Rosario Ranch to spare her the pain of seeing him, and because it was best for them both that he should go. The bar between them was of her forging; the breach was inevitable; it was her fault, all her fault. His thoughts of her had been white as the snow,--"and cold as ice," muttered Galbraith, to whom this panegyric of his rival was anything but gratifying. At last she was silent; all her story was finished. She had spoken standing, her expressive gestures and changeful face having done more than half the telling. She had begun quietly and with downcast eyes and pale cheek; now neck and brow were suffused. She was pleading the cause of the man she loved with all the eloquence of youth and beauty. She now stood silent, looking eagerly from Barbara's tear-stained face to Galbraith's pale, set countenance, to read there the acquittal of the man they had suspected of baseness and cruelty to her.

Barbara put her arm about the tall girl, and caressed her tenderly, holding the glorious head, with its tangled crown of hair, close to her womanly heart, weeping tears gentle as summer dew. Maurice Galbraith reverently lifted to his lips one long tress which flowed over her shoulder; and then, leading Millicent from the apartment, he turned to Barbara.

"You understood it all?"

"Yes."

"I ask you to think of that thing which is most sacred to you in all the world. By that holy thought, swear to me that no word of what has been said here to-night shall ever pass your lips; that you will not dare to think of it even, when you are not alone, lest your face betray you."

He held out his hand to her; and with wide eyes and trembling voice, Barbara gave the promise he asked, laying her cold palm in his hot grasp. To guard the secret of the woman they both loved, this loyal man and honest woman bound themselves by a most solemn oath. To each, the other was nothing but an ally in this cause. Their own personalities were lost in the strong affection for Millicent; they would love her and protect her always. As they stood thus, Millicent, passing up the stairway, saw them through the open door. She saw and understood their compact. She saw, as they did not, into the future; and from her heart rose an unselfish prayer, that the secret of her great misery might be the first link in a chain that should bind these two together for life.

Millicent Almsford had pleaded that night for the man she loved; she had cleared him in the eyes of two persons whose opinions would sway those of all who knew anything of his relation to her. She had done more: she had made for herself a friend of a discouraged lover, a champion who would fight her battles to the death; and she had bound a gentle, loving woman's heart to her own by an indissoluble tie. She had striven only to exonerate John Graham; and she had made Maurice Galbraith glad that he loved her, though hopelessly and passionately; she had filled Barbara Deering with the deepest sentiment which woman can hold for sister woman,--a compassionate love.

Though wearied by his long ride and the exciting events of the day, Maurice Galbraith slept little that night, and the morning found him pale and restless. He had a hard day's work before him, and perhaps the most trying part of it was the first duty he had set himself to perform. He felt that he owed John Graham an apology for the suspicion which he had entertained against him, and which in that moment of excitement he had made no effort to conceal. Had not the young lawyer been deeply in love with Millicent, and consequently extremely jealous of Graham, it is hardly possible that he could for an instant have believed the preposterous charge made against the artist. But as Love is blind, and Jealousy is deaf to reason, it is not strange that, unprepared as he was for Horton's accusation, he should have believed that it might have some truth. Millicent's revelation, and the calmer reflection which had followed the interview with her, proved to him how greatly his judgment had been at fault. Fervently as he disliked Graham, he had always respected him; and to his generous mind, the injustice he had done his rival was abhorrent. He found the artist at the inn, where they had parted the previous night. Graham received the lawyer with a cold formality: the latter did not fail to observe the nervous clinching of the artist's hands as he entered the room. The fierce natural instinct of redressing an insult by a personal chastisement moved the refined man. Poet-artist as he was, he would rather, a thousand times, have grappled with Galbraith in a fierce struggle, than have been forced to receive and accept his apology. Maurice Galbraith, had he yielded to the impulse which shook his determination, would have spoken words which might have justified such an action on Graham's part. The men looked angrily at each other for a moment. Maurice Galbraith's words of apology would not utter themselves, and seemed like to choke him. He saw that clinching of the hand, and his brow reddened as he stepped forward as if to strike the man who had so easily won, and who so lightly valued, the love of Millicent Almsford.

In a land where a lower code of ethics and of honor exists, the insult each burned to cast upon the other would have been uttered; and the result would have been a so-called "affair of honor," in which both men would have run the risk of bringing blood-guiltiness upon their souls, and the stigma of murder upon their honorable names. The struggle in Galbraith's breast was short, and human intelligence triumphed over brute instinct. His few words of apology were spoken with cold courtesy, and accepted with quiet dignity. The men did not shake hands; each understood the position too clearly for that. They could never be friends; but, as they were honorable gentlemen, all enmity was at end between them, for rivalry does not necessarily entail hatred. Then they spoke of the trial, and their conversation lasted until the hour of the opening of the court.

Millicent, escorted by Henry Deering, arrived at the court just as Graham and Galbraith entered the room together. She saw Graham whisper something to the lawyer, who bowed courteously in answer. The significance of the action was not lost upon her,--her revelation had not been made in vain. She now heard her name called in a loud, harsh voice. She started violently, but did not stir from her seat.

"Come," said Hal, "you must go up to that little platform and answer all the questions they ask you."

She walked quietly to the place indicated, took the customary oath "to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," and answered the preliminary questions in a low voice.

"What is your name?"

"Millicent Almsford."

"Where were you born?"

"In Venice."

"What state?"

"In Italy."

"How old are you?"

"One and twenty."

"You were present at the killing of Ah Lam, at Carey's Bridge?"

"I was."

"Tell the court all that you saw on that occasion." Galbraith was the speaker. He knew that Millicent's natural eloquence would give the story with more force if she were allowed to tell it in her own way without the usual questioning.

She began speaking in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the ground before her. As the memory of that dreadful day came back to her, she seemed to see it all again,--the peaceful woodland scene, the quiet river, the forest road, and at her side her humble friend and pupil. The walls of the court-room faded from before her, and judge and jury, lawyer and audience, were forgotten; she looked at Graham only, and spoke to him alone; his grave eyes met hers, and the sympathy in them made the task of telling her story an easy one. Aiding her recital with expressive gestures, she told of the appearance of Daniel Horton on the peaceful scene; she repeated his insolent words, unconsciously imitating the man's manner and voice; she described the affront offered to herself with burning cheeks and flashing eyes; her voice grew tremulous and low when she spoke of the dead servant's efforts to save her from the insolent ruffian; when with a deep, horrified voice she told of the murder and death of Ah Lam, it was as if she were describing a scene still enacting itself before her eyes. A strong impression was made by the girl's words on all her hearers. The noisy court-room had grown perfectly still; the very recorders held their pens useless in their hands; and the eyes of the judge with the pink cravat were riveted on her face. As she ceased speaking, a sympathetic tremor ran through the crowd assembled in the court-room, and a low murmur was heard.

Maurice Galbraith, usually the most quiet and reserved of men, was evidently undergoing an unusual excitement, those who knew him thought; and Pierson, the counsel for the defendant, seemed rather disconcerted by the strong impression made by the witness.

When Graham came upon the stand and told his story of the night passed in the shooting-lodge, Millicent listened breathlessly. The young painter gave his evidence with a certain picturesqueness, describing the arrival at the cabin of Dan Horton, his demand for food and shelter, his troubled sleep, his wounded face, the peculiar nature of the scratches, and finally, the finding of Millicent's handkerchief after his departure on the following morning. An effort was made to disprove the evidence, and an alibi was sworn to by two new-found friends of the prisoner, who claimed to have passed that night in his company. These witnesses, carefully prepared by Pierson, gave their evidence with few blunders; and Dan Horton, closely following every word of the defence, gave a satisfied smile at the new turn which the skilfully devised alibi seemed likely to give to affairs.

Pierson's aim was to disprove Horton's identity with the man who had killed Ah Lam and had afterwards seen Graham. He endeavored to show that there were two men engaged in the affair,--Horton, who had spoken to Miss Almsford, and his confederate, who, it was argued, must have committed the crime. When Millicent had told of the wounds inflicted by the Chinaman on the cheeks of his murderer, it was shown that Horton's face bore no trace of these scratches. It was argued, in reply to this, that in a man of Horton's vigorous temperament such wounds might easily be healed in as short time as had elapsed between the murder and the trial. At this point Galbraith had a trump card to play, the existence of which neither prisoner nor counsel had suspected. Neither had it been learned by the omniscient reporter, through whose instrumentality evidence is too often prematurely made public, cases are lost, and offenders are enabled to escape apprehension.

"I would inform your Honor that I have other proof of the identity of the prisoner with the man who passed the night following the murder in the shooting lodge."

A new witness, by name John Du Jardin, by profession a wood-cutter, was called to the stand.

"Have you ever seen the prisoner before?"

"Yes, before wonce," answered the old Frenchman.

"When was that?"

"The night after murder."

"Where did you see him?"

"At the little 'unting 'ouse of M. Graham."

"What were you doing at the lodge?"

Graham looked at his henchman with a perplexed expression, and smiled slightly at the answer.

"I were not in the cabin, I were by the window, lookin'."

"Oh, you were looking in at the window; and what did you see?"

"I see monsieur, 'e sleepin'. I see dat man," pointing to the prisoner; "'e come, and monsieur give 'im to drink and to eat."

"What else did you see?"

"I see cet homme, dat man lay 'imself près side by the feu. Presentlee 'e sleep, monsieur 'e mark 'im; 'e take faggot from fire, 'e make point, 'e draw one picture of 'im."

Here Pierson asked the witness what he was doing outside the lodge in the middle of the night.

"I was watch monsieur."

"That seems very strange. Why did you want to watch him?"

"'E 'as not slept the night; 'e 'as nothing eat the day; I fear 'im malade. I follow him."

Galbraith continued his examination, and elicited from the witness the admission that he had remained outside the cabin that night, concealed in the bushes, and had only left it after Horton had taken his departure. He had then started to return, but after he had gone a mile he retraced his steps with the intention of cooking for his master's breakfast a brace of quail he had shot on the way. He found the cabin empty, and on the wall the portrait which he had seen sketched. It was where it would have been easily effaced, and so he had loosened the board on which the drawing was made, and carried it to his house.

Graham was now recalled and questioned.

"Mr. Graham, you have told the court that you are an artist by profession. Is it your habit to make drawings of persons of a striking appearance?"

"I have the habit of sketching any remarkable-looking people whom I happen to meet."

"On the night in question, were you impressed by anything uncommon in the appearance of the man who slept by the fire in the lodge?"

"I was."

"Did you make any notes of the impression made on you by the man?"

"I did. I sketched him as he crouched in the ashes of the fire."

"What materials did you use?"

"A charred piece of wood, and a smooth board in the side of the cabin."

"Would you recognize your work if you should see it?"

"Undoubtedly."

"By what means?"

"I should recognize it as you would your own handwriting; besides--"

"You have other means of knowing it?"

"My initials will be found in the upper right-hand corner of the sketch."

"Is this the sketch?"

"It is."

There was a craning of necks, and a murmur of recognition from those present who could obtain a glimpse of the strong drawing held up by Maurice Galbraith. Graham's words in answer to the last question were hardly necessary to prove the resemblance. Horton, sitting in his chair, his head thrown back, his hands clasping his knees, had all-unconsciously assumed the pose in which Graham had sketched him. The resemblance was indubitable, and the cheeks bore the bloody testimony of Ah Lam's hands.

This was evidence which there was no breaking down; and Horton, when the sketch was at last turned so that he could see it, gave an oath under his breath, which was not lost upon the jury. The twelve men with whom lay the decision of Horton's guilt or innocence were for the most part tradesmen and mechanics, the only exception being in the person of Mr. Patrick Shallop, the mining king, who by some strange chance had been impanelled on this occasion. The voice of such a man would carry great weight in the decision. The case was evidently going against the prisoner. The evidence of the prosecution was very damaging, and Horton's friends in the crowd were greatly discouraged.

The trial occupied several hours, and ended in the conviction of Daniel Horton. Maurice Galbraith made a speech which has already become famous. He had induced a Californian jury to pronounce a man who had killed a Chinaman guilty of voluntary manslaughter. He had obtained this almost unprecedented verdict, and a full sentence from the court of ten years' imprisonment. The efforts of the defending counsel to turn the main interest in the case from the chief feature, by endeavoring to implicate Graham in the attempted abduction, were useless. Horton's real confederate was found, and the truth of the matter arrived at. Through the newspaper accounts of Millicent, published at the time of her rescue of Graham, these men had learned that she was a rich heiress, and had conceived the bold idea of carrying her off in order to extort a large sum of money for her ransom.

The flimsy tissue of lies which Pierson had woven was quickly unravelled by Galbraith. The fact that the jury had for a time been misled by the false evidence, made their verdict more immediately unanimous than it might otherwise have been; and the cloud which had for a moment overhung John Graham was dispelled as quickly as a noxious vapor is blown away by a brisk westerly wind. He was cleared of every suspicion. Galbraith had surpassed himself in his management of the case, even in the eyes of his warmest friends. Had he not been working for the woman he loved? In exonerating his rival, he had done the only thing that in him lay to win Millicent's gratitude. She had thanked him, and blessed him for his eloquence with tears and smiles. He had gained her friendship; and does not friendship soften into love more often than love crystallizes into friendship?

CHAPTER XIX.

"Je me dis seulement; à cette heure en ce lieu,

Un jour, je fus aimé, j'aimais, elle était belle.

J'enfouis ce trésor dans mon âme immortelle.

Et je l'emporte à Dieu!"

"A letter for you, Mr. Graham."

"Very well; lay it down."

The burly landlady placed the missive on the small, unpainted pine table which stood near the artist's easel, and with a last glance at the feminine superscription, and the device of the golden Psyche which sealed it, left the room. It was late in the afternoon,--there would be only an hour more of light in which he could paint. Graham did not glance at the letter. If it had been a telegram it would have waited till the tender gray of the sky had been laid on the canvas. At last it grew too dim for him to distinguish the tints on his palette, and, throwing down his brushes, the young man rose and stretched his cramped limbs. He had not moved from his stool for four hours. As he paced up and down his narrow room, the letter caught his eye. He had quite forgotten its existence.

It was from Millicent. He stepped close to the window, and by the waning light perused the words traced by a hand that surely had trembled in the writing. Twice he read it through, as if not understanding its import. Then, with a groan, he cast the letter upon the floor, and sank upon a low seat near by. His head supported by his hands, his elbows upon his knees, he sat, the picture of despair. With a sudden movement he grasped the missive and crushed it between his two hands, as if to avenge upon the senseless paper the pain which it brought to him.

He could not bear it in the cold, dark room; the streets would be full of people who might divert him. He soon found himself in a crowded thoroughfare. It was six o'clock, and the city was full of hurrying men, women, and children returning homeward after the long day's work. The girl from the millinery establishment under his room, whose sweet, childish face he had painted from memory the very day before, was just leaving the shop as he stepped into the street. She was very poorly dressed, with a hat which would have disgraced anybody but a milliner's apprentice. Her dress fitted neatly, however, and she gave her close-cut jacket a tug to make it smooth about the shoulders before she reached the corner. A tall, pale, dyspeptic-looking youth joined her just outside the druggist's. Graham recognized him as the clerk in a dry-goods shop near by. Their greeting he could not but overhear.

"I am late, George--"

"Twenty minutes; I almost gave you up," in a surly tone.

"I am so sorry; don't be angry." The man hesitated a moment; then her pleading voice got the better of his ill-temper, and, taking her by the arm after the fashion of his kind, he led her across the street, and in a moment they were lost to Graham's sight. He next stopped at the cobbler's around the corner to call for a pair of boots which had needed repairing. The narrow stall was brightly lighted, and he saw through the window a little child holding up its face to be kissed. The cobbler's girl had just brought her father his supper. As Graham entered, the man pushed the little figure gently into the street. "Tell mother I 'll not be late," he said; and wiping his blackened hands upon his dirty ticking apron, he greeted the artist civilly, and proceeded to find his boots for him.

"They need re-soling, Mr. Graham, but I did not like to do the job without orders. The patches are all right."

Graham paid the man for his work, and went out. He had thought to find distraction in the street, but what he saw there only made him more desolate. He was alone, while all other men had some loving soul to greet them after their day's toil. The pair of lovers, the cobbler and his child, made him feel his loneliness more acutely, and emphasized painfully the news which the letter had brought to him,--Millicent was gone!

She had passed as suddenly and unexpectedly out of his life as she had entered it. He had not seen her since that day in the court-room. And now she was gone, back to the Old World, to Venice the mysterious, the silent, to the old Palazzo Fortunio, with its lofty halls and marble corridors, back to the old home, which he knew could never be home to her again. All the color seemed to have faded out of his life; she had taken it with her. He suffered deeply, impatiently, angry at himself for suffering, yet powerless to forget the pain which the letter had given him. He picked it up again from the floor when he came back to the lonely studio, and marked that though the letter was crushed and torn, the device of the golden Psyche was still intact.

On the following day he found some consolation in his picture. He came back to it after his vigil with an uncherished grief, with less enthusiasm than before; but from that hour until he had laid the last stroke of paint on the canvas, his hand faltered not, if his imagination sometimes flagged. He could not serve both love and art. He had chosen his mistress, and would be faithful to his choice. He dared not think, while he painted, of the woman whose influence had so warmed his frozen existence. To do so seemed an infidelity to his Art,--a breach of faith which would not escape its merited punishment. So he resolutely put her from his mind, and labored day and night upon his great picture.

Summer and autumn were past, and the first month of winter was drawing to its close, when Graham finished his picture. He had painted it as he always did his best works, without interruption. From the morning on which he had made the first rough chalk sketch, until the day when he reluctantly drew the fine veil of varnish over his work, he had hardly looked at any other canvas. He was not satisfied with it,--what true artist ever is satisfied with his work?--and yet he was convinced that it was the best he had yet accomplished. He had sometimes realized what he had sacrificed for this picture; and as he touched in the crimson line of sunset, the fancy came to him, that the sky was stained with heart's-blood.

His few brother artists--there was but a handful of them in the city--and his pupils requested him to set a day for them to see the new picture, and Graham had consented. The young sculptor, who had the next room, threw open the door which separated the two studios, and both rooms were in holiday trim. Northcote had been in the country all the previous day, gathering flowers and ferns with which to deck the bare apartment. He placed a jar of roses before the picture with a reverent face; he loved the artist whose light purse had for the last two years kept a roof over his head and life in his body.

Graham was greatly admired by the knot of artists who lived, or starved, in San Francisco. They were the pioneers of art in the new Western land; and their work, if crude and untutored, was not wanting in certain strong qualities. Several of them were men of promise; and they were all wise enough to feel that in Graham's genius lay the brightest hope for a new school of art which should combine the knowledge of the Old World with the fresh vigor and hope of the New. They looked up to him as a leader, and he earnestly wrought and thought for their advancement. It was for this that he had left Europe and his many agreeable associates there, and returned to his own country, that whatever power for good there in him lay should redound to her glory. His fellow artists all revered him, and they would gladly have loved him; but the sensitive man shrank from that familiarity which popularity entails. In their work he was always interested; and in whatever touched the art they all served, he was active and ready to labor endlessly without recompense or recognition. But in their lives and personalities he felt no wish to mix; and so it was that he who labored most for them as an artist was farthest removed from them as a man.

There was but one verdict rendered by the men who stood grouped about the easel. It was a masterly picture, they all said. For an hour or more, one or another of them discussed certain technical points with Graham, who with kindled face listened and talked with his associates, more himself than he had been since the night when he had first dreamed of the picture. The young sculptor was less loud in his praise than were the others; in his eyes the classic subject was a trifle labored and cold. After having praised, the men felt at liberty to criticise; and if Graham had followed one half the advice offered to him, there would have been little suggestion of the original picture left.

Standing in a corner, with its face to the wall, was a panel which, as the little circle was about to break up, Northcote asked Graham's permission to show. The new picture was taken from the easel, and the neglected canvas put in its place. Its surface was dusty, and the young man wiped it with his silk handkerchief. There was a minute's silence, broken by the oldest of the party, a disappointed painter whose life had been one long series of calamities.

"My boy, this is worth a dozen of the other. It is the biggest thing you have done yet."

The younger men all chimed in, echoing the opinion of their senior. Graham looked incredulously from one to the other; there was no doubting their sincerity. Like many another before him, he knew not how to distinguish his successes from his failures. The old artist, who had all his life been on the eve of painting his great picture, underrated the value of the new picture, but he was not mistaken in placing The Lovers far above it. Graham looked at it for the first time in many weeks, with that impersonal criticism of his own work which is only possible to an artist when a certain period has elapsed after its creation, and the mind has been occupied with other interests.

It was late that night when the artist returned to his room, after dining with his sculptor friend at a restaurant near by. The moonlight flooded the studio, lighting its farthest corner. It showed him the vases of rose-bloom and the dark-browed Circe on the wall; it showed him the blackened hearth, where the embers still smouldered. And what was that in the fireplace? A charred wooden frame with a heap of ashes lying 'twixt its sides. Graham sprang forward with a cry of apprehension, and lifted the blistered frame. His fear had not been groundless: this bit of wood and that handful of cinders were all that remained of his great new picture! He gave a deep groan and staggered back against the wall. Before him, on the easel, gleaming through the pure silver light, was the picture of The Lovers. Millicent's dreamy face, radiant with hope and love, smiled at him from the arms of the lover who now stood, half crazed with grief, gazing at the ruin before him.

The young sculptor stood beside him, full of a sympathy he knew not how to express. At last he spoke:--

"Graham, look up, and do not grieve for what is past help. I tell you, man, that your greatest picture stands before you. The Lovers has the one quality which your work has heretofore missed. It is human, it is full of natural sentiment. It does not appeal to an aristocracy of thought, but to all men and all women, learned and untaught. I know not what influence swayed you in this picture, but I know that it lifted you to a higher plane than you had before attained. I care not for the loss of your Poet; it told me nothing of you that I did not know before; it was a step backwards to the time when you made that wondrous wicked Circe with her herd of swine. Let it go, and submit to the influence which inspired this picture, for which the world is richer to-day than for a score of such works as the other."

Graham looked at the speaker with doubting eyes. The words seemed to rouse an echo in his soul. They told him that he had served the altar of Art with Moloch sacrifices. Instead of the peaceful offerings of love, he had brought the anguish of two strong hearts to desecrate her temple. A dim perception of the truth entered his mind, and his grief for the lost picture was for a moment forgotten in a doubt which rose before him, never to be dismissed again until it was fully solved. A doubt of self, of his own judgment, of his own inflexible will.

Millicent was gone! The six straight redwoods whispered the news one to another, and shook their tall tops sadly, while the sweet south wind sighed through their branches. Millicent was gone! and the roses that clasped and clung about her lattice died on the night she left them, and the vine bloomed no more, and bore for that season nothing but leaves. Millicent was gone! She had set wide the door of the golden prison where her love-birds had lived and sung so merrily through the long summer. But the little white creatures, prison-born, prison-bred, were too timid to venture out into the roomy forest, and had clung to the only home they had ever known; and so Barbara, gentle, sweet-souled Barbara, took them into her sunny room; and cared for them as Millicent had done. For a day they were silent, and then they sang as merrily as before. There was still sunshine; and crispy groundsel and clear cool water were given them by hands as gentle, if not so fair, as those which had tended them before.

The New Year was at hand, and the châtelaine of the San Rosario Ranch had summoned a group of friends to her hospitable home to pass the holiday time. So Barbara was full of household cares, and Hal was busy with shooting and riding expeditions. Ferrara was there, just back from Alaska, with a tribute of rare furs to lay at Barbara's pretty feet. Maurice Galbraith and John Graham were missing, and that other whose absence was still keenly felt. Mr. and Mrs. Shallop, O'Neil, and Hartley were come, with a half dozen other old friends, all bound together by the magnetic influence which radiated from their hostess, in whom all their various interests were concentrated. Each was friend to other for her sake, whom they all loved. In the existence of every one of the group her pure and unselfish nature was a real factor. When faith in human nature, in one's self, is faint and wavering, then is the time when the remembrance of such a spotless life, so pure a heart, steadies the wavering belief in truth, and strengthens us to fight the good fight. By loving help and by high example, Marianne Deering had succored and befriended each of the friends who on that New Year's eve assembled about her dining table. With a face bright with that beauty of the soul which knows not the marring of time, she presided over the gay festivity. Three pretty cousins from San Francisco added their bright faces to the charming scene. The apartment and the board were garlanded with flowers. Banks of heavy ferns panelled the walls, and bunches of white, heavy-scented magnolias were outlined against their dark green. Through the open windows were seen the gay lanterns hung about the veranda, illuminating the festoons of fresh creepers, and giving glimpses of the soft velvet turf outside. The merriment was at its height as Barbara lifted the loving-cup, filled with a sweet, strong wine, and, calling out the toast, "To absent friends," set her rosy lips to the brim, and drank from the cup in which each of the joyful company was to pledge some distant dear one. It was a custom at the San Rosario Ranch which had become time-honored. The girl smiled gayly as she passed the crystal beaker to Juan Ferrara, who sat upon her right; but her eyes were dark with unshed tears, and the man sighed as he drank, omitting to repeat the toast. What were absent friends to him beside this woman who smiled in his face, but whose tears fell for one who was far from her! Round went the cup from hand to hand, and to every heart came a thrill of joy or sorrow at the thought of the absent one, toward whom it turned in this loving communion. O'Neil, sitting by his hostess, was the last to take the cup. The warm-blooded Irishman was in high spirits. The glances of the dark-eyed "girling" at his side, and the general good-fellowship of the occasion, had brought out in him the irrepressible good-humor of his nation. The ceremony of passing the loving-cup, and the invocation to absent friends, had carried something a little serious with it, which, to the jolly Irishman, was thoroughly antagonistic.

"Dear hostess," said he, placing the cup before him on the table, "I do not like the sentiment of your toast; 't is ungallant. How can I, sitting between two such lovely ladies, find time or power to salute an absent one, howsoever fair? May I give you my toast for the loving-cup? Have I your permission to sing a stave from one of my national songs on the subject?"

He was answered by a general acclamation of assent. Rising to his feet, the blond, burly giant held up the cup with its low ebb of crimson wine, and sang in a clear, strong voice the following couplet:--

"Oh! 't is sweet to think that where'er we rove

We are sure to find something blissful and dear,

And that, when we 're far from the lips that we love,

We 've but to make love to the lips that are near.

The heart, like a tendril accustomed to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,

But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure where'er we rove

To be sure to find something still that is dear;

And to know, when far from the lips that we love,

We have but to make love to the lips that are near."

Amidst the general laughter and applause which followed O'Neil's song, Madame Marianne's gentle word of disapproval was lost. The song had restored the jollity which, for a moment, seemed to have left the party. O'Neil now drained the cup to the last drop, turning the crystal vessel upside down to show that it was empty, and whispered a saucy compliment to the bright-eyed girl beside him. At that moment, when the merriment was at its height, when O'Neil stood with the empty cup in his hand, the door opened, and, as if in answer to the toast, John Graham entered the room. He was greeted by a dozen voices as he made his way to Mrs. Deering's side. Taking her outstretched hand in his own, he dropped upon one knee, and kissed it respectfully.

"Dear my lady, I have come to wish you the happiest New Year, and to join in your loving-cup, in your toast to absent friends--"

"Always welcome, dear Graham," said the lady, laying her hand upon his head for an instant; "there is always a place for you at our table, but alas--"

"You are too late--too late!"

It was Barbara who spoke, interrupting her mother brusquely, her voice full of a reproach inexplicable to all but Graham. He looked at her fixedly for a moment, and then O'Neil clapped him on the back, and held up the empty cup.

"Too late, old fellow, as Miss Barbara says. Never mind," in a lower key, "I have promised Deering to brew an Irish punch, after the ladies withdraw."

The artist stared a moment at the goblet, and shivered as he took the place which had been made for him beside his hostess. Soon the signal was given for the ladies to leave the room; Graham's arrival having precipitated the breaking up of the party. The new-comer did not long remain in the dining-room, but presently followed his hostess into the library, where he found Barbara at the piano. Mrs. Deering signalled him to take a place at her side.

"I fear I took too great a liberty in coming unasked. O'Neil says I stalked into the room like a stage ghost, and cast a gloom over the party."

"You know you are always welcome here. You used to call the Ranch your home."

"Have I still a right to do so? Things seem so changed, my lady."

"You will never find me changed while I can help you. I did not send for you, knowing that you would come if it was best for you."

"And yet I came too late!"

"Graham, there are no such words as too late to those who know how to wait. That phrase is only for the impatient, not for the steadfast. But now tell me of yourself, of your work; it is so long since we have seen you."

"Of myself, no! of my work, yes. I have finished my picture; it has gone to Paris. It will now be judged by other men." He did not tell her of his loss, or that he had sent The Lovers in the place of the burned picture.

"May they prove kindly critics."

"No, I do not want that; I do not insist that they shall praise my work; I only question, can they understand it?"

"But that is the least of it all, you have sometimes said."

"Ah! Madonna, I have been wrong. What use is there for me to speak if there be no one to hear? If they do not understand, the fault must lie in me. I must learn to speak the broad language of humanity. I cannot ask men to puzzle themselves with my small vernacular." The man sighed deeply, and his friend noticed that he was paler and thinner than she had last seen him.

"You have been over-working, Graham; you lead an unnatural life when you are in town, now that your people are away. Why not come back to the tower again?"

"I think I will, Madonna."

He had been over-working, and for what? That the picture for which he had sacrificed so much, should be seen one brief hour by a dozen men! He now felt in what a strained condition his nerves had been. The picture was gone, and with it the strong excitement which had kept him alive and alert. The tension was relaxed, and an intense depression had followed, which was in turn losing itself in a new feeling. A lonely longing, a craving for a tender womanly sympathy, for the only human being who had never misunderstood his many moods, who was always in sympathy with him in joy or sorrow. She alone in all the world could have helped him at this time; to her he could have confided all those delicate shades of thought which drifted through his mind, too fragile ever to be prisoned in words. She could have divined those half-formed ideas and crystallized them into steadfast utterances. He was cold, bitterly cold, and suffered for that loving human sympathy as the parched hillsides had but now longed for the refreshing rain which had made the earth green and fair after the long summer drought. He had chosen Art for his mistress, and she had smiled upon him chastely and coolly; and yet he was not content.

Barbara left the piano, and Graham joined her. The over-punctilious courtesy with which he had always treated her was forgotten. He spoke suddenly and sharply:--

"What did you mean by what you said to me,--why am I too late?"

"I meant too late for a draught from the loving-cup."

"You meant more than that."

"If you choose to fancy--"

"I cannot but choose to know."

By this time the gay group from the dining-room had flooded the library with their ringing voices, their merry faces. Only these two were pale and out of harmony with the scene. Barbara, with downcast eyes, stood by the piano, tapping her fingers nervously on the polished case.

"I have interrupted your festivity; I have been a very skeleton at the feast; forgive me,--I could not help coming,--forgive me and answer me one question, and I will go and leave you in peace."

"I say, Bab, we are going into the drawing-room to tell ghost stories. O'Neil has a splendid one,--a real Irish family banshee yarn. Come on, you and Graham."

"In a moment, Hal, don't wait for us; we will join you before you are all settled and Mr. O'Neil has begun."

The library was again empty. The voices of the holiday folk reached their ears across the hall.

"Tell me what you have heard from her."

There was no need of speaking her name. Her face looked at them from its place over the mantel-shelf,--a quick, strong sketch made by Graham. From a leafy background white shoulders, and a fair face with deep eyes, were shadowed forth. The firelight, falling restlessly upon the picture, touched into light now the full red mouth, now the ivory throat.

"I have not heard for some time. She was in Venice again, very ill from the long journey, when she last wrote."

"You have not heard since?"

"No."

"Do you think she is well now, and--and at peace?"

"No."

"What reason have you to doubt her well-being?"

"I cannot tell you."

The man looked at her searchingly, as if he would read her very soul, and then turned away with a word of leave-taking,--"Good-night."

"Stay a moment. I have something to tell you. I do not know why I am forced to speak to you of the last interview she had in this room, but I must do so. Before she left,--on the night when she cried out in the court-room,--you remember?"

Did he remember? Ah, Heaven! only too well he remembered the last words she had ever spoken to him,--valiant words, full of love and protection.

"That night Mr. Galbraith came to see her. It was very late, and they had a long conversation. I could only hear their voices from the next room; and then she called me to her, and told us both all her sad story,--all that had passed between you and her. She took all blame upon herself, and would have made us both acknowledge that you had been right and just in acting as you did."

"And was I not just?"

"Just, perhaps; but how ungenerous! What have you to do with justice? You, who never painted till you painted her; you, who were so cold and unfeeling till her smile made you human for a little time. Then your own selfish egotism froze you again."

"Thank you for what you have told me, and good-by. I shall not see you soon again. You were very good to her; bless you for it! Every one was good to her,--every one but me, it seems."

"You speak as if she were dead."

He did not hear her last words. He was already out of earshot, taking leave of his hostess.

When he was alone with the stars he could think better than in that heated room, with that dear vine-crowned face before his eyes, with Barbara's voice in his ears. He saw how Barbara misjudged him. He knew that most men and women would have held him as she did; and yet he had thought that he was right. He had fought the good fight, and he had conquered. What mattered it if all the world saw in him a monster of selfishness? He had chosen poverty, hard work, and loneliness, when wealth, worldly success, and a painless love might have been his. Sybaris had been open to him; and he had turned his back upon the perfumed island for an attic, a crust, and a mistress who demanded all, and had yielded nothing but hope.