Chapter X.

One delightful day in June the Warlow and Moreland families, or the younger members of those households, attended a picnic which was held in a grove on the river seven miles below the Old Corral.

At an early hour Clifford, Maud, and Robbie drove down in their three-seated carriage, drawn by Clifford's iron grays, and at Squire Moreland's the party was re-enforced by Ralph, Grace, and Scott. Baskets and fishing-lines were stowed away under the seats, and the frying-pan, also, was given a place of honor in the same promiscuous stow-away.

The dew was sparkling like gems on the bearded wheat, so soon to fall before the reaper's stroke, and the tender grass and softly-fluttering trees were all bathed in the mellow sunlight, as they sped down the winding road.

When our friends arrived at the grove they found that the platform, which had been erected among the trees close to the river, was crowded with a well-dressed throng, who were merrily dancing to the music of violin, organ, and guitar. After the carriage-load had been deposited on the platform, and Rob and Scott had returned from caring for the team, the boys found Clifford, Grace, Ralph, and Maud busily improving the shining moments in the mazes of a cotillion.

When the music ceased, Maud was requested by one of the amateur musicians to second on the organ, which was a mere labor of love; and as she acceded to the request, she saw Rob and Grace spinning away in a waltz, dizzily gyrating about the platform with a full score of couples, all equally giddy and alike bent on extracting the most enjoyment out of the least possible time.

Clifford, who stood leaning against a tree, surveying the varied groups with that mingling of interest, amusement, and indifference, which we experience in viewing the movements of strangers who may soon become acquaintance, and possibly friends, was accosted by a handsome young man of near his own age, who greeted him very cordially.

The new-comer was Hugh Estill, the son of a wealthy ranchman who lived near, or at least but a few miles further down the valley. The two young men had become acquainted in a business way while Clifford had been buying cattle at the Estill ranch some weeks before, and it was to young Estill they owed the invitation to the picnic; so it was with a feeling of gratitude, not unmixed with respect in remembrance of the lordly ranch-house and its princely domain, that young Warlow shook hands and thanked the young ranchman for his thoughtful remembrance of them on this pleasant occasion.

Robbie had by this time surrendered his partner to a young cow-boy, a son of the greatest "cattle king" in the valley, and as the young "prince" led Miss Grace out through the changes of the quadrille he seemed totally oblivious of the fact that his leather "leggins," jingling spurs, and silver-mounted revolver hanging from a cartridge-belt, were not wholly in keeping with the festive occasion; and as they paused in the dance, the bovine princeling, after blowing a long breath and wiping his glowing brow on his sleeve, observed:--

"That was a terrible swell--the young blood with a biled vest, who just waltzed with you. Ha! ha!--a wild rose in his button-hole! Guess I'll have to get one also--by shot!"

But Miss Grace bluntly told him that a gourdvine would be far more suitable.

Robbie, who was happily unconscious of the disparaging remarks which were being made at the expense of his purple and fine linen, had joined Clifford and been introduced to the new friend, who passed some good-natured compliments on that urchin's dancing, to which Rob replied that he was but re-dedicating his boots that so lately had been resurrected; and he proceeded to tell in his inimitable manner of the mishap that had carried his best and dearly-beloved boots to a watery grave, from which they were at length "resurrected," all filled with mud and sand. Laughing heartily, Hugh said he hoped he would shine as brightly on the resurrection morn as those same "Sunday boots."

While Hugh and Bobbie had been engaged in the above frivolous and wholly unprofitable conversation, Clifford was improving the time in furtively staring at a radiant and superbly beautiful young lady who was playing the guitar near Maud; and, indeed, young Warlow might have been excused if we had detected him in the rude act, for it was a face which once seen would never be forgotten.

Her eyes of softest blue were veiled by silken, jetty lashes, and a wealth of raven-black hair rippled low on a face of creamy olive. An expression of pride mingled with the spirited vivacity of her charming face, which he thought was the most fascinating he had ever beheld.

Every detail of her dress, from the wide straw hat with its drooping spray of lilies, the creamy grenadine with its tangled pattern of the same snowy flowers and cascades of foamy lace, the cross and chain of palest coral, with ribbons of the same faint rose-hue, evinced the taste and refined instincts of a well-born and cultured lady.

There seemed to be the ineffable charm of grace and elegance in her very attitude, as she stood by the organ and swept the guitar with white, tapering fingers, while through all the melody there thrilled the sweet, dripping notes, like the memory of some half-forgotten dream, which, though elusive and vague, still haunts our waking hours through all the turmoil of a busy day.

"Where have I seen that form and face before?" said Clifford, half audibly, as the last faint notes died away, and he awoke from a reverie, while a look of surprise and delight broke over his handsome face; then turning to young Estill he said, in an eager tone:--

"Who is that divine young creature who played the guitar until she set me to dreaming of old Spain?"

"Why, that musical divinity," said Estill, with a hearty laugh, "is my only sister Morelia; or Mora, as we have become used to calling her. I shall be pleased to present you, for I am truly relieved to find some one who can appreciate her music, which always sounded to me very much like cats fighting."

A moment later the young men were upon the platform, and young Estill said, in his easy, good-humored way:--

"Sister Mora, let me present my friend, Mr. Warlow, on whom your music has had the strange effect of setting him to dreaming, not of cats on the roof, but of castles in Spain,--which I have by his own confession."

She gave young Warlow a fair, dimpled hand, on which flashed one ring of rose-colored amethyst, and, after he had bowed very low, their eyes met in a swift glance of half-puzzled recognition and surprise, while a magnetic shock caused them both to tremble; but quickly recovering, she said, with a smile, while toying with a bracelet of carved Neapolitan coral:--

"My brother's criticisms are not of much value, for the sweetest sounds to his ears are the bellowings of beef-cattle."

Then, as she and Clifford sauntered out to a seat under a tree, he said:--

"How strange it is, Miss Estill, that I have never met you before, for it seems as though I have known you for years!"

"Why, Mr. Warlow, I was just trying to recall the time and place where I had seen you. It must have been while we were traveling that we have been thrown together for a moment; yet I can not now remember the circumstance," she replied, with a look of interest dawning in her blue eyes.

"If we had I would not have forgotten such a pleasant incident, Miss Estill. But I am puzzled to think why I remember even your tone and manner so well, for I can't recall any chance meeting with you in the past."

At that moment Grace and Hugh Estill came up, and proposed that they should repair to the river, near by, and spend an hour fishing; so they soon were seated under the shade of an enormous cottonwood-tree on the banks of a deep pool, while Hugh and Grace, who had been introduced at some former meeting, strayed along the stream in quest of a "better place," which they did not discover in _sight or hearing_ of Miss Estill and Clifford.

After casting their hooks into the quiet water, they sat down upon the shady bank, and Miss Estill said:--

"Hugh has often spoken of you lately, and we had discussed the subject of calling on your sister and Miss Moreland, but decided that we would send you an invitation to our picnic, at which I hoped to become acquainted with them." Then, seeing a shade of disappointment flit over his face, she added, archly: "And you also. But I assure you that the call will not be deferred a great while longer; for I am delighted to find such charming girls for neighbors."

"The invitation was very kind and thoughtful of you, Miss Estill. We had been longing to meet congenial companions, and hailed the news of the picnic with all the delight of people who have been isolated from society for a year or more. I hope you will believe it is no vain compliment when I tell you that I have already met new friends here that I value higher than any of my old ones," Clifford replied, as he knotted a bunch of elder-bloom, snowy and fragrant, with the blossoms of the wild heart's-ease, azure and gold, which grew on the sandy stretch at their feet. Then, adding a fern-like tuft of meadow-fescue, he held it toward Miss Estill, while a look of undisguised admiration shone in his clear blue eyes, saying:--

"In memory of my deep gratitude."

Fastening the flowers among the meshes of lace on her breast, she busied herself a moment with the fishing-tackle as she drew the hook from the water with a dangerous movement. Then, with a smile dimpling her face, she said:--

"If you feel such a deep sense of gratitude, Mr. Warlow, you may discharge the debt by baiting my hook, which some wary turtle or other aquatic creature, has been investigating."

With ready alacrity, Clifford performed the desired service; and as he let go the hook, Miss Estill began a series of manoeuvres with the fish-pole that were as womanly as they were threatening. Finally, after the hook had performed for some time around his head with a dangerous "s-w-i-s-h," it fortunately landed plump into the water, with a thud and splash loud enough to scare all the fish upon dry land.

They stood a moment, silently watching the widening ripple; then, as they seated themselves on the bank again, Miss Estill said, with a smile:--

"You are very brave, indeed, Mr. Warlow, never to wince. But perhaps you were not aware of the great risk a man runs who fishes with a woman. I never should have forgiven myself if that awkward hook had caught in your eye."

"Or my ear," he added, with such a look of comic distress that she dropped her fish-pole into the water with a merry laugh; then, as he joined in the merriment, the startled mocking-bird overhead hushed its song, and flitted away to some quieter nook.

"Now, if we are not more careful, we will have to dine on humility to-day," she said, as he recovered the fishing-tackle. "But do you really grow lonesome in your new home, Mr. Warlow?" she added.

"Yes, indeed I did," said Clifford, with an emphasis on the past tense that indicated the remoteness of those days. "But we were very busy until recently, and I did not fully realize what a hermit I had become until I came here into the crowd, and found myself growing hot and cold by turns, my heart palpitating, and my hands and feet getting heavy. Then I knew it would only be a matter of time when I should fly, like a South Sea Islander, at very sight of a human face, much less the presence of a fashionable young lady;" and he joined Miss Estill's merriment at his charming candor, with an easy laugh.

"Oh, I appreciate the situation," she replied; "for when they sent me to Cincinnati to the boarding-school, where all was so strange, and the only ray of sunshine in the long weeks, months, and years was a flitting call from my fashionable aunt, or the yearly visits to my Western home, I felt desolate and miserable. Why, I was so shy, and possibly a bit wild, that I gained the name of Antelope among my school-mates;" and Miss Estill smiled somewhat sadly at remembrance of those past days.

"When you returned to your home, it certainly must have seemed lonely after the life in that 'American Florence,'" said young Warlow.

"Oh, it was paradise! I could scarcely believe that the old days of banishment were over; and indeed I half feared, sometimes, that they would pack me off again. It was such a perfect joy to be back at the dear old ranch once more with Hugh and my parents, that I vowed I should never leave again. But when I had been back a year I did sometimes long for a good, confidential chat with my girl friends, and would be a bit lonesome while Hugh was away; but our life is one ceaseless round of labor, toil, and care, so I have short time for repining. Would you believe, Mr. Warlow, that more than half the time all the duties of housekeeper, unaided, devolve upon me? Our house has been a constant panorama of 'domestic' weddings since I returned from school; yes, and for years before also. No sooner would we begin to appreciate some household treasure--a Nora, Ruth, or Nelly, who had come from the East to lessen our domestic burdens--than along would come some spruce ranchman or handsome young homesteader, and--presto!--our domestic was courted away in a twinkling to brighten a new home. And what with the wedding which mamma always insists upon, and the bridal finery she bestows, the burden is redoubled. My weary shoulders fairly ache as we pass through the constant, or tri-yearly, recurrence of the same experience. Hugh says that he believes the servant-girls of the East have finally come to look upon our house as a matrimonial agency."

"Do you not think, Miss Estill, that the bright new homes, which are a result of your charities, are sufficient reward for your domestic martyrdom?"

"Oh, if you think our providing wives for the miscellaneous ranchers, herders, and homesteaders could be called a charity, I will have to say that our furthering of those matches has proved a mixed blessing indeed; for I recall a world of conjugal infelicity which has followed those hasty and ofttimes ill-assorted matches. 'Marry at pleasure,' etc., is a maxim true as it is trite, Mr. Warlow."

"Yes; it is undeniable that unhappy matings do occur; but I can not see how a lonesome bachelor, who eats his own vile cooking and goes through the vain ceremony of laundry-work, could ever aggravate his deplorable condition, Miss Estill."

"But the fact remains that he certainly does," she replied, with a low gurgling laugh, like the ripple of some sweet, clear brook. "Why, Mr. Warlow, I recall a scene of which I was the innocent witness one evening last month. I was riding by the ranch of Mr. Blank, who had wooed and won our cook after a courtship that was as brief as it was fervid. I have reason to believe he pines for his former state of untrammeled freedom; for, in some argument which they seemed to be discussing that evening, she, his faithful helpmeet, hurled the milk-stool at his head. I rode quickly away, mentally washing my hands of any further matrimonial schemes.

"Mr. Warlow! a fish, a fish!" she cried in a low tone, and he turned his eyes reluctantly to the sadly neglected fishing-tackle, which he had "set" by thrusting the poles into the bank, and which they, in their long and absorbing conversation, had totally forgotten. There he saw the flash of a finny monster in the water, and the fish-pole violently threshing in the air above the pond, and as he drew the glittering perch from the pool, he found that it had become entangled in Miss Estill's fish-line also.

"It is our fish, is it not?--and a good omen," he said, as he secured the prize which fluttered at her feet.

"It is our 'luck,'" she replied gaily; "but we can boast of little skill in angling;" at which they both laughed, low but heartily, at the thought how far into foreign fields they had rambled, leaving their fishing to chance, and in that merry glance was laid the foundation of sympathy, appreciation, and friendship.

When they returned to the grove they were joined by Hugh, Grace, Maud, and Ralph, whose success had been most woefully indifferent. Those discomfited anglers looked with undisguised envy on the great piscatorial prize, and while it was frying on the fire, which Scott and Robbie kindled, they all lent a ready ear to the malicious story which the latter urchin told--"That Cliff had brought a mackerel to the picnic, and it was that same identical fish which they were frying."

When the cloth was spread on the grass, and the great fish, garnished with elder-blooms and wild-roses, was given the place of honor at the feast, Hugh Estill said:--

"Now, Mora, please pass the mackerel."

Only then was the fact made plain that Robbie was a boy, given to telling "fish stories," and could be trusted and relied upon only at the dinner-table.

Ah! it was a gleeful hour at that _al fresco_ meal,--the soft breeze stirring the tree-tops, and the bright sunlight sifting down through the fluttering leaves on the silver and crystal, the frosty cake and quivering jelly, the crimson and gold, and, above all, the happy faces of our young friends.

Dancing and an impromptu concert, followed by charades on a temporary stage, served to pass away a few more blissful hours: then the revelers broke into groups and couples, sauntering into shady nooks, and engaging in those long and confidential chats which are totally devoid of interest to any save themselves.

Miss Estill and young Warlow were seated upon a bank where the mingled sunlight and pale shadows flickered softly over the lush and tender sward, and their conversation steered away from the shoals and quagmires of match-making and matrimony to the vague and mystic fields of metaphysics.

"Do you know, Miss Estill, that I have--a dim impression, shall I call it?--of having met you somewhere before?"

"Yes; I remember distinctly of your having not only met me, but also kindly helping me catch a fish, before," she replied, archly.

Clifford said, in a laughing manner, that he was not so ungallant as to forget that thrilling adventure, then he continued in an earnest tone:--

"I feel like we had met long years ago; and somehow, Miss Estill, it all appears so natural to be with you, to hear your tones and see your face, that it is like the return of some dear friend whom you have longed to see for years."

"You almost make me believe in the theory of the transmigration of souls, Mr. Warlow. How very possible it may have been that in some dim, pre-historic age you and I were a pair of giant king-fishers, who to-day were reunited on the banks of our favorite stream after the lapse of untold ages!--and what is more natural than we should take to our antediluvian occupation at once?" and she peered down into the pool with a sidelong glance as though searching for her finny prey, while Clifford shook with merriment at her happy imitation of that uncanny bird.

"I never was a firm believer in Swedenborg; yet the thought haunts me still that I certainly have met you before to-day, although, as you say, it may have been in some previous happy state, Miss Estill."

"Now, to be frank, Mr. Warlow, I confess to being a bit superstitious, which may be owing, however, to my living so isolated from society all these years that I even welcomed company of a supernatural nature, which, you know, is better than none."

"Why, it can not be that your vicinity is peopled by shrieking ghosts, too?" said Clifford quickly, as the memory of the spectre of the Stone Corral came to mind, which in the turmoil of their busy lives had been nearly forgotten.

"I can not see why I should revert to such a subject to-day; but some way the mention of transmigration of souls brought the remembrance of the Gray Spectre to my mind," said she, glancing furtively over her shoulder; then, as she caught young Warlow's amused look, she smiled responsively, and continued:--

"You too have a skeleton in the family, I perceive; so let's unburden our souls and exchange confidences."

"With all my heart," said Clifford; "I am glad we have such a mutual bond of sympathy."

Then he told how the gray-robed figure had startled the group at the camp-fire, and fled shrieking away, that memorable evening more than a year before; and although all of their family had maintained an apprehensive outlook for a second visit from his spookship, they never had been molested further; and he concluded by saying:--

"But I hope, Miss Estill, your experience will throw some light on the mystery."

"It is undoubtedly the same spectral being which has haunted our ranch for the past twenty-five years, and which has eluded pursuit on every occasion, although papa, Hugh, and several herders have endeavored, more or less bravely, to trace it; but the mysterious apparition always vanishes into the night without leaving a trace. Why, I have become so fearful that, like the daughter of the bold Glengyle,--

'Alone I dare not venture there, Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost,'--

and I often fly at the sight of my own shadow," said Miss Estill. "One evening, Mr. Warlow, I was riding by a peculiarly lonesome spot near home,--a lofty hill on which there is the grave of a mysterious relative, who died near a quarter of a century since, and of whose history I can learn but little. Although Hugh and I often question our parents about him, they seem to evade our inquiries. I had reached a point close to the grave,--which is all overgrown with thistles, notwithstanding the fact that I had repeatedly planted flowers and roses there that had always refused to grow,--when that same hideous, gray-robed creature emerged from the thicket about the grave, and as I halted, frozen with horror at the sight, the gaunt wretch glared a moment, then fled shrieking away in the darkling twilight. Oh, I never paused to investigate, you may believe, but gave rein to my pony, which was as badly frightened as myself, and flew home like the wind," said Miss Estill with a shiver.

"Have you ever been up to the corral, Miss Estill?" Clifford asked.

"Not for three years, Mr. Warlow. Now, while we are speaking of supernatural things, I must tell you how strangely I always felt at that place. I can never go about the old ruin without being assailed by an uncanny feeling--something like one might be expected to feel who walks over her own grave, you know!" she added with a smile; then continuing she said earnestly: "It always seems that something terrible haunts the very air there, and I feel a weight of grief and misery that horrifies me whenever I pass the spot. If I had lost my dearest friend there, I should have very much the same sensation, I believe, at sight of the ruin. I struggle with my memory to recall some event with which I seem to have been connected there; but it is all in vain, for it is as intangible as a moonbeam."

"That is very mysterious indeed, Miss Estill; for I often feel very much that way myself there, but not in so marked a degree as when I pass that great hill three miles up the valley, known as Antelope Butte. I am often overpowered by a feeling of deepest melancholy and grief while only passing that hill. The first time I saw the place I was shocked to think how familiar it all seemed; for I found the spring near its base just where my instinct seemed to tell me that the water bubbled forth from the rocky cleft. But a feeling of unutterable longing and an uncontrollable yearning to see some one, the name even of whom I can not recall, always seizes me there, and I am both perplexed and horrified at the sensation," Clifford replied.

Gradually the tone of their conversation lost its gloomy hue, and rambled away into the realms of art, history, and song, of the fair foreign lands beyond that blue, quivering horizon; and as Miss Estill fluttered her fan of carved ivory and rose-plumes, talking in her sweet vivacious way, the sunlight threw a halo about the golden hair and Grecian face of the youth reclining on the bank, suffusing with rose the handsome features that even a western sun in all its fierceness could not rob of its fresh glow.

As the fastidious Miss Estill noted every detail of his faultless attire, neither old nor new, from the tips of his shapely fingers to his glossy boots bearing the undeniable stamp of gentleman, she thought how utterly effete was the comparison, "Rough as a farmer;" and as admiration shone in his boyish face, illuminated with those honest blue eyes, fringed by their lashes of dead gold, is it any wonder that romance threw its glamour over the scene, and they half forgot to roam in fancy through foreign lands, thinking of the joyful present, which, alas! we seldom value until it has become a sweet memory only.

The long shadows which stole down from the hill-tops warned our young friends that they would soon part, and reluctantly they returned to the platform, where preparations for starting were being made. Grace Moreland and Hugh Estill still appeared to be deeply engrossed with each other's society, and it was not remarkable that young Estill should hover about the vivacious and bewitching Grace; for she was a sparkling, graceful creature, the picture of innocence and youth, in her dress of fleecy white.

As Clifford stood by Miss Estill at parting, he said, while his hand rested on the mane of her creamy horse:--

"Ah, Miss Estill, I little thought what this morning held in store. This has been a day that repays the many dark years of the past, and I shall treasure its memory forever."

"Yes; a blissful day indeed, Mr. Warlow; and it almost makes me sad to think I shall ever grow old," she replied, as she gave her hand, which he held longer--yes, I shall have to confess the fact, much longer--than the laws of conventionality demanded.

As the Warlow carriage drove up the broad valley, the coolness of twilight was brooding over the prairies, and the twittering songsters fluttered down from the highlands to the sheltering thickets which belted the stream, and the fire-flies gemmed the dusky groves and meadows when they alighted at their homes.