The San Rosario Ranch Part 23

"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 pa.s.sed 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.

But now things were altered. He felt angry and outraged at the thought that others knew her story, that she was pitied by them because of her great love for him. He longed to protect her, to suffer for her, to make her forget in his love and care the cruel lot which had been hers.

He yearned for her sympathy, for her love, for that sense of peace which had come upon him as he sat by her side. The tide of love, which not once in a million years is at the full in two human hearts at once, rushed over him, sweeping away pride, reason, selfishness, ambition,--all, all routed and o'erset by that warm, delicious flood of emotion. He had fought against love so long, that at last the overthrow of will brought him an ecstasy of delight. He ran like one crazed through the cool, starry night, singing a love-song strange and tender, a song of submission, of hope and pa.s.sionate love. Through the orchard he pa.s.sed, startling the birds with his wonderful song. The prisoned love-mates heard it in their little nest, and folded their snowy wings closer together; the white roses heard it, and trembled at the sound; the six tall redwoods listened and whispered gravely together as he came among them and sank upon his knees at their feet, on the very spot where she had sat that day. That day! How could he have forgotten it, and all that it had meant to them both? What mist had risen again between them and hidden its memory from his sight? Before, it had been her want of faith in him, her fault, her only fault. Her atonement for that sin against her own soul, against him, had been bitter indeed. And afterwards what veil had blinded him to the great truth that they loved each other absolutely, that their two beings were each incomplete without the other? His pride! It had been his pride which had kept them so long apart! But now it was over. He would go to her, and tell her all.

"Millicent, Millicent, I love you!" he cried aloud, his eager voice surging from his breast as if to relieve its weight of love. His cry was joyous, bounding, full of life and love and hope. The night wind bore back to his ears a tender, mournful cadence,--"love you."

"Millicent, my love, I am coming; wait for me!"

"Wait for me!" sighed the echo.

And the young moon, pale and shrinking, dropped behind the high tree-tops from his sight; while the redwoods swayed tremulously, shaken by a sudden blast, and the echo again sighed its faint response,--

"Wait for me!"

And the tide on the Pacific was at the flood.

CHAPTER XX.

"Malheureux! cet instant o votre ame engourdie A secoue les fers qu' elle traine ici-bas, Ce fugitif instant fut toute votre vie; Ne le regrettez pas."

It was a wonderful morning which saw the birth of the new year in Venice,--one of those clear, bright days on which Winter lays aside all his severity and a.s.sumes the smiles of the Spring still asleep in the bosom of the stiffened earth. The _piazza_ was filled with a motley crowd of holiday folk, and the lagoons swarmed with a fleet of gondolas and _sandalos_.

Before a mighty marble house which stands where one of the smaller thoroughfares sweeps its waters into the Grand Ca.n.a.l, a gondola has paused. A young man, a foreigner evidently, steps from the boat and pa.s.ses under the fretted archway, with an admiring glance at the beautiful carving. He is pressed for time, but he stops for a moment to glance into the square cortile, with its group of almond-trees and its playing fountain. He is met at the wide doorway by a servant, of whom he asks, in the best Italian he can muster, for the Signorina Almsford.

The black-browed menial politely replies that it will be impossible for him to see the signorina; she is not at home to visitors. No further answer can the stranger obtain to his eager inquiries. A gold piece unlocks the tongue of the menial at last, and he informs the young man, in excellent English, that the signorina has been ill ever since her return from America, a month and more ago.

"She has been very ill; Girolomo says that she will die, and the Signor Almsford himself fears the worst. She has not left her room once.

To-day being a _festa_, she has fancied to go out with Girolomo in the gondola, and I am to help him carry her downstairs."

As he finished speaking, the man noticed that the visitor had grown very pale, and now stood leaning against a marble pillar as if for support.

When he spoke again it was to send his card to Mr. Almsford. On being admitted to an outer reception room he sank upon a chair, his face hidden in his hands. Soon he was bidden to enter. The signorina had learned of his arrival, and it was her pleasure to see him.

The young man pa.s.sed through a long suite of stately rooms, scarcely noticing the rich furnishing and decorations. Before a curtained doorway he hesitated for a moment, but the servant, pushing aside the heavy portiere, left him no choice but to enter. Before him, reclining in a great chair, lay a figure which he had last seen full of health and strength. From a pile of sea-green cushions smiled a face which he had known when it was glorious with the freshness of youth. The color which the red rose of love had brought to her cheek had faded now; she was like a flower no longer, but a great white pearl shimmering through pale waters. She smiled, and held out her hand to her countryman; and Maurice Galbraith, bowing low over the small fingers, strove to hide his face from the great hollow eyes which looked inquiringly into his own.

"I am so glad you have come. I do not even ask what has brought you, it is so good to see some one from home."

It had become "home" to her now, the country which she had so long repudiated. "Home" after a half year's residence; "home," though the language spoken there was to her a foreign one. The meeting is not without its tears, the pleasure not unmixed with pain. Eager questions are asked, and faithfully answered. Millicent's visitor brings her tidings and tender messages from far-off friends. He is rewarded for his pains by a faint smile which glimmers over the pale features, rising in the deep eyes and losing itself in the tender curves of the mouth.

Beside the couch stands a delicate bronze table wrought by no less cunning a hand than Benvenuto's. A vase of flowers and a crystal bell are here placed. The musical note of the bell now summons a domestic, who bows at the order given, softly disappears, and soon re-enters, bearing a salver on which are a plate of fruits and a bluish decanter, with gla.s.ses of the dainty Venetian fashion. From the delicately tendrilled flask Millicent pours a clear golden wine whose perfume permeates the apartment. She fills both gla.s.ses, and, touching the edge of hers to the rim of his, bids him drink to the health of the dear ones at home. Galbraith stops the musical ring which the contact has drawn from the tumbler by touching the edge with his finger in a mechanical manner. It was one of the superst.i.tions which had waned to a habit with him.

"Why do you drown that sound of good cheer?"

"Because my grandmother told me when I was a little child that if a gla.s.s rang itself out to silence, the sound was sure to prove a death-knell."

"Listen, you can still hear mine faintly. It is a wonderful wine, connoisseurs say, this Lacrymae Christi of ours. How different, is it not, from the strong red wine of California that you gave us that day,--do you remember?--when we feasted with you under the fig-tree."

"As different as you were to the rest of us gathered about the board that day."

"And yet I would give all the wine that lies mellowing in the cellars of the palace for one cup of your good Los Angelos vintage."

The wine seemed to spread through her frame like a flame. It brought a flush to the pale cheeks and strength to the fragile body. She arose and walked unsupported across the room to a dusky mirror. She wrapped herself in a garment of silvery fur, and together they left the room fit for the boudoir of a princess. At the doorway Girolomo awaited them.

Waving aside the domestic who stood ready to a.s.sist him, the strong gondolier lifted the delicate figure and bore it unaided down the marble stairs. He laid her light weight gently among the cushions of the gondola, and a.s.suming his oar with the incomparably graceful movement of his guild, rowed the black-hooded craft down the Grand Ca.n.a.l. To the young American, the awe and mystery of the place are not yet familiar; and as the boat glides between the rows of mighty palaces, he wonders if the strange scene is the fabric of his own dream.

But no; when he looks into the face of the woman lying amid the cushions, he knows that it is all true, and that this shadowy figure is more real to him than all the men and women he has ever known.

Presently they emerge into the broader waters of the lagoon, where lie the fisher craft, with their many-colored sails spread to dry in the afternoon breeze. The smooth green water is marked here and there with the black mooring-piles, which throw a shadowy outline on the changeful tide. To the American, bred in a land where Art is in its cradle, and beauty exists in its more austere aspect alone, the glory of the spectacle, the wondrous architecture, the wealth of color, are intoxicating. The western sky glows with the first pale tints of the sunset, against which a score of spires are darkly outlined. The air is musical with soft, distant chimes, and the song of the gondoliers is rhythmic to the motion of their oars. From the sh.o.r.e come cheerful sounds of holiday folk; and now and then a _sandalo_ sweeps past them with a freight of joyous pleasure-seekers. In one of these a group of masqueraders are singing a gay love-ballad. Millicent hums the refrain to herself, and answers pleasantly to the noisy greeting with which one of the party hails them. A young girl, with the red-gold hair of her people, turns and looks long into Millicent's face. She wears over her broad shoulders a leopard-skin for warmth; while her head, with its glorious crown of hair, has no other protection than the doubtful one of a garland of roses. As she looks at Millicent, she takes the fragrant wreath from her brow, and, with a graceful salutation, tosses it into the gondola. In a moment the strong strokes of the two rowers carry the _sandalo_ out of sight, and Galbraith lays the flowers in Millicent's lap.

"May the saints bless the child! 'T is the tribute of happiness and beauty to grief and pain."

The air has grown chill with the down-dropping of the sun, and Girolomo, unbidden, turns the gondola homeward. As they float past the familiar places, Millicent looks long and steadily at the scenes which are so dear to her. She shivers as the Bridge of Sighs looms dimly forth, and smiles again at the familiar faces of the boatmen on the steps of the _piazzetta_.

"I am so glad that you have seen me in the city of my birth; you can understand me now as you could never have understood me over there.

Dear, dreamy Venice, where great vices and greater virtues have flourished more grandly than anywhere else in the world! And now it is all past, her glory and her pain; and knowing this, we make the best of the pleasant things left to us. We steep ourselves in her rich beauty, content with its perfection; we con over her mysterious legends, and forget that other nations are living, striving, working, and making their histories, while we are dreaming and playing our lives away. Your great Saxon virtue, 'Truth,' is meaningless to us; we are content with Beauty."