Chapter XVIII.

In the cool of the following evening we find Clifford swinging dreamily in a hammock on the porch, while near by is ever-busy Maud, preparing a basket of martynias for the pickle-jar. As she deftly snipped off the curling ends of the green pods, locally known as "Devil Claws"--a very appropriate name indeed, when applied to the mature fruit--she cast a glance of suspicion toward her brother, and said:--

"I never like to see you so quiet, Clifford. I have always noticed that silent people need watching. Now, here is Rob, for instance:--Just so long as we can hear him whistling or singing, we rest contentedly; but the very moment he becomes quiet--ah! look out! There is mischief on hand every time; and we are likely to miss pie from the pantry soon, or find that the rogue has filched a bowl of cream down cellar. No, sir; you have been so suspiciously reticent to-day that I am led to think you have learned something since we had our talk yesterday."

"I always endeavor to store up some treasure of wisdom daily, my sister," Clifford replied, with lazy evasion, as he swung a polished boot to and fro over the hammock's side, and turned a feverish face toward Maud. Then, while a look of sarcasm gleamed in his half-closed eyes, he added, as she continued to glance askance: "Who was the philosopher, sage, or poet that said--or should have said, at least--something about the moral obloquy of groping through life with a cross eye?"

"Whoever that fellow was who strangled on such a proverb, I'll bet my boots he never clanked round of nights, like a loose horse, all the while fancying himself sly," said Rob, with a knowing chuckle, as he cocked his head on one side to view the horse-hair bridle-rein which he was braiding while seated on the edge of the porch.

A loud-mouthed clamor from the dogs precluded an answer to this thrust, and as the group on the porch looked toward the gate, Grace, Ralph, and Scott Moreland came into the yard, and they were all soon eagerly discussing the plan of holding a picnic in the Warlow pasture, on the opposite side of the river from the colonel's dwelling.

Before their neighbors left it was decided that the event should take place the last of the following week; but in the excitement of agreeing on a programme, and the wordy debate as to the propriety of including dancing in the list of amusements, all the leisure time of the next two days was consumed; so nothing more was said regarding the great discoveries which the week had revealed.

Verbal and written invitations were sown broadcast throughout the colony, bidding their friends to the picnic; and not many days had elapsed before Clifford had ridden down to the Estill Ranch to deliver the compliment in person to the members of that aristocratic household.

At the door he met Hugh, who was as cordial and genial as ever, and entered into the scheme of the picnic with his customary zest of pleasure, sharpened now, no doubt, with the desire to meet the fascinating Grace once again.

The call lengthened out astonishingly, as Clifford strolled back and forth on the star-lit terrace with the vivacious heiress of Monteluma and Estill Ranch, who promised to come up with Hugh the next day, to practice, with a dozen others, who were to meet at Moreland's, and agree on the music for the entertainment.

"What a delightful evening this has been!" said Clifford at a very late hour, as they walked down to the steps, at the base of which his horse was tied.

"Oh, charming indeed! I And don't you think that we are progressing well with our "practicing," for here we have had all the elements of a flirtation without the aid of either a moon or a gate," she said gaily, as he unfastened the chain at the steps, which served to bar the way at the top of the stairs, which led down from the terrace.

A cool "Good evening, Miss Estill," was all the answer this sally elicited from young Warlow, as he rode away, thinking gloomily that the proud heiress meant to show him, under the cover of her levity, that she was only amusing herself or "practicing" the arts of "flirtation" at his expense; and he determined that when they met again he would show her that he understood the hint, and would give her no further opportunity to repulse his advances.

So, accordingly, it was with a great deal of hauteur he met Miss Estill the following afternoon at Morelands'; but either that young lady was too indifferent to notice his behavior or had been gratified at the result of her light remark, for she was as gay and unchanged as ever.

All of our hero's stern resolves dissolved into smiles and admiration while he stood talking with the charming young lady; but when the wealthy, dissolute aristocrat, Major Stork, of Devondale, came up, and proceeded to monopolize Miss Estill, Clifford froze up completely, and became so polite and attentive to Grace that she at length declared she would box his ears if he did not quit persecuting her so; which persecutions consisted merely in keeping Hugh Estill away from her side--a crime which Clifford told her, hotly, was worse than murder in her eyes.

"Cliff Warlow, you are a booby!" said Miss Grace, with astonishing candor; "and you needn't come round me with any of your second-hand attentions; for I've got a pair of eyes in my head, and know how to use them too. The idea of your being jealous of that hawk-billed old reprobate. Why, it's perfectly absurd," she continued, casting a glance of scorn toward the spot where the stately major and Miss Estill were talking. "Oh, you should remember, Cliff, that a girl who is worth having is not going to fall into a fellow's mouth like a ripe persimmon whenever he shakes the tree."

Then in a tone of confidence she continued, with a look of wisdom, which Clifford thought, with an ill-concealed smile, resembled that of a prairie-owl: "Girls are very apt to pretend a great coldness toward a fellow that they want to catch; that is, after they see they have made a safe impression on him; and to see such a girl begin manoeuvring around another fellow, one too that you know she can't care a straw for, why, it always shows plain enough that it is only to decoy fellow number one."

"There you are now far beyond my comprehension," Clifford interrupted, with returning good humor; and as Hugh Estill joined them he added: "I will now retire in favor of number one."

Emboldened by Grace's homily, young Warlow sought Miss Estill's side, and in her vivacious friendliness he soon found the happiness that had taken flight on the appearance of the major; but the returning bud of confidence, which her smiles had called forth, was nipped by a most untimely frost in the appearance of a new rival--John Downels, of Diamond Springs.

Mr. Downels was a _debonair_, graceful specimen of the gilded youth of New York, from whose make-up the last remaining trace of effeminacy had been eliminated by a stern course of ranch-life in the West. He appeared to be an old friend of Miss Estill, who presented him to Clifford; but after a moment's civility, young Warlow took his leave and retired, while the late comer devoted himself to the heiress.

While pretending to discuss music with Mrs. Warfield, Clifford watched the pair furtively. He began to realize that now he had just cause for uneasiness; for there was an air of culture and polished ease about the blonde-haired young ranchman which made him very attractive, and young Warlow became so absorbed and miserable that he only half realized what he was saying.

"Do you think we shall have time at the picnic to sing all the songs on the programme before dinner?" Mrs. Warfield inquired.

"Why, no; I believe it would be a better plan to dish it out by the quart to the individual tables," he replied, absently; then seeing a puzzled look sweep over her face, he hastened to add: "You know it would be more liable to melt if it was in such small quantities."

The situation flashed at once upon the keen-eyed lady, and although flirtation, jealousy, music, and ice-cream was a combination sufficient to upset the gravity of a sexton, yet she replied in a tone of perfect suavity while toying with her bracelet of jet and gold:

"A very good plan indeed, Mr. Warlow."

When evening came, and with its brooding shadows the company dispersed, our hero returned home with a heavy heart. As he pondered over each word and action of Miss Estill, he had to confess that there was nothing in her demeanor towards him but friendly courtesy at all times. The only way that he could interpret her remark on the terrace, regarding their "flirtation" and "practicing," was that she had seen his growing attachment for herself, and she had in that way shown him that it was only a flirtation, and that his case was hopeless. "Yes; she was too genuinely a lady to encourage his suit, then discard him at the last moment," he concluded, despondently.

A miserable day followed a sleepless night, and Clifford busied himself with the farm duties, trying vainly to forget the bewitching voice that was ever haunting him, and which, as he drove the reaper over the wild meadow, seemed to be singing above the clang and ring of the sickle the sweet refrain,--

"There blooms no rose upon the plain But costs the night a thousand tears,"--

in the tones of luscious melody that he never--no, never--could forget.

As he swung in the hammock again that evening, while Maud's guitar and the sweet strains of "Silver Threads" lulled him into a drowsy reverie, he remembered suddenly the incident of the "Moated Grange" which, Mora laughingly said, had secured her such "a round scolding" because she had neglected her household duties through too much reading of that affecting poem. Why should she have felt such sympathy for the forlorn Mariana, unless the pathetic cry,

"'He cometh not--he cometh not,' she said,"

had found an echo in her heart also?

"Yes; she was heart-free, and waiting for some one to come and fill its empty chambers with the treasures of his love," mentally concluded our hero in a flash of joyful conviction. But again the doubt and despondency prevailed; and in no very enviable mood he rode down to Estill's ranch alone the next day, to join the company that were to meet and practice for the coming musical festival, which now was the all-absorbing theme of the colony.

As he rode slowly along, Maud and Ralph passed him in a gallop, flinging back some gay badinage--something about "a laggard in love"--which he affected not to understand; then, as he saw Hugh and Grace cantering up the road behind, he put spurs to his horse, and arrived at the imposing mansion just in time to see young Downels and the military Stork alight from the latter's carriage, and, in the most amicable manner imaginable, both seek the young hostess and rain a shower of compliments upon her gracious head.

While these two devoted cavaliers, or rather charioteers--for they had ridden over in the barouche of Devondale, a vehicle sumptuous and costly--were engaged in a graceful skirmish of wit and verbiage with Miss Estill, our hero, after bowing coldly, passed on to the piano, where Mrs. Estill was chatting in a good-natured strain with a group of friends.

"You are late, Mr. Warlow, and we have been waiting for some one to 'break the ice' at the piano," she said, with her pleasing smile, as she shook hands with Clifford. "Let's see," she continued, "the quartette, 'My Native Hills,' is the first on the programme, I am very eager to hear your tenor since Mrs. Warfield said you made her home-sick when you sang it at the Moreland rehearsal," concluded the hostess, innocently.

"It would require a large bump of self-esteem to construe that into a compliment," thought Clifford; but meeting Mrs. Warfield's amused look, he said, with a smile:--

"I hope her longing for home was not of the same nature as that which a hand-organ inspires, Mrs. Estill."

"No, indeed, Mr. Warlow; but you will excuse my faulty compliment, and only remember that I've been totally isolated from society for a quarter of a century, and am apt to say the wrong thing in the right place."

"There she goes again!" the face of Mrs. Warfield seemed to say; but Clifford only answered with polite gravity:--

"Thank you, Mrs. Estill. I shall never forget that you are very kind; and if Mrs. Warfield will promise not to leave at once we will proceed with the singing," he added, with a twinkle of humor in his blue eyes.

"I will promise to stay as long as you are singing a tenor like an alpine horn," replied Mrs. Warfield, graciously.

"Well! good-bye, then?" said Clifford, as he joined the singers; and soon his voice was heard, clear and ringing, like the soft tones of a church-bell in some quiet mountain valley--pealing out with soaring, crystal notes, or floating down the wind with a vibrant, thrilling sweetness, that caused even the garrulous major to pause and say at the end:--

"Why, pon honah, Miss Estill, this young Warlow is a wonderful singah; indeed he quite reminds me of Mario, the enchanting, velvet-toned tennah, you know, whom I often have heard at the grand opera--aw--in delightful Paree. What a pity that he is--aw--only a pooah homesteadah, or was until of late, I heah."

"I am certain he is an earnest, industrious gentleman at all times, Major," said Miss Estill, with just enough reproof in her tone to cause the dissolute aristocrat to wince; then, pausing, only to see that her arrow had hit the mark, she continued:--

"His father was a wealthy planter who was ruined financially by the war; but we certainly respect the energy that has enabled him to repair his fortunes and found such a delightful home, as you will find the Warlow homestead to be. His example should encourage others to a similar course, instead of remaining in the overcrowded East or South to struggle along, hopelessly, amid the scenes of their misfortune."

"Ah! indeed--a plantah before the wah? Why, really, that is another mattah, Miss Estill. My fathah was also a plantah; but when the wah began he sold his niggahs and left Kentuckah, but finally returned and located thah again."

"You appear so sad, Mr. Downels, that I fear you are not enjoying our rehearsal," said Mora, ignoring the transaction in "niggahs," and turning with a questioning look to young Downels, who stood by her side yet, but seemingly lost in reverie since the music had ceased.

"Pardon the ungallantry, Miss Estill; but that song carried me back to the Hudson, and I almost fancied myself rambling over the hills and dales of my boyhood's home once again." But his sadness was seen to melt into an amused smile as Grace sang in a rich brogue:--

"Ould bachelor's hall--what a quare luking place it is! Kape me from sich all the days of me loife; Och! sure an' methinks what a burnin' disgrace it is, Niver at all to be takin a woife.

Pots, dishes, and pans, and sich greasy commodities-- Ashes and tater-skins kiver the floor; His cupboard's a store-house of comical oddities-- Things that were niver heard tell of before!"

Several glees followed; then Miss Estill took her place at the rich-toned piano, which was banked in a bed of wild-flowers, where the flame-colored blossoms of the desert-sage and the golden sunflowers were relieved by sprays of snow-powdered lace-plant and rose-colored convolvuli, mingled with tufts of white and purple mignonette, which grew in fragrant profusion over all the surrounding hills. As the grand strains of Schubert's "Serenade" floated out through the open windows, or reverberated along the arched and frescoed ceiling of the elegant apartment, the listeners preserved an appreciative silence,--all the more flattering when we remember that not a baker's dozen of the audience understood a word of German.

"It was all very fine and grand, no doubt, but still perfect Greek, or Dutch--which is about the same--to my poor, untutored ears," said Grace at the close of the celebrated song, as she turned to Rob and spoke in an undertone.

"Well, it was not all quite plain," returned that youth, with a droll grimace; "but it was certainly p-r-r-r-r-rrretty." Then, as Grace strangled and recovered from an effort at swallowing her own chin, he added facetiously: "Didn't you recognize the place where the old fellow shuffled out in his wooden shoes, and, after threatening the serenader with 'a schlock on the coop,' finally turned the bull-dog loose?"

"No, I just did nothing of the kind; and I don't believe you understood one word of that heathen gibberish either," said Grace, with a sniff of suspicion.

"Oh, that only shows you can't interpret operatic music," Rob replied, with a derisive grin.

"Rob Warlow, you horrible creature! I never know when you are in earnest," she retorted, with a puzzled look, as she smoothed down the fluffy ruffles of her white muslin gown.

"Why, no--honest injun!--any one can learn to understand this classic music. It only requires a sufficient stretch of imagination, and then all is clear as--mud. Now, when Maud is playing Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March,' I can hear the cat squall like a panther when the baby pulls its tail; and she--that is Mrs. 'Sohn--takes an awful tantrum when 'Sohn wants her to get up of a cold morning and make a fire; and the way they shout and gabble--all in Dutch--would scare a krout-barrel," said Rob, with perfect gravity.

"Oh, humbug!" she replied with a shrug, as she flounced away to where Maud stood examining a book of engravings.

"Cliff and Mora are acting like a couple of idiots, Maud," whispered Grace, as she surveyed the elegant and finished picture, "The Carnival in Venice," with a critical glance that reminded one of a wren; but as Maud failed to reply to this personal comment, she continued in an undaunted undertone:--

"I don't pretend to understand flirtations, but if I did, I'd say that Mora Estill was a pronounced coquette. She bears all the ear-marks of a born flirt, and the way she throws herself at the head of young Downels--the sophisticated creature!--is just shameful. But still my fingers itch none the less to pull Cliff's ears; for there he goes, with his lip hanging so low you could step on it--and all on her account, too."

"Well, Grace, let's reserve our sympathy and censure for the future," said Maud, in a tone meant to discourage any further discussion of the subject; and as the supper-bell announced the unfashionable hour of six, and the guests were preparing to follow Mrs. Estill and Major Stork into the long, fresco-paneled dining-room, Grace ceased her comments, and soon forgot all about her friends while leaning on the arm of Hugh Estill and hurrying into the damask-draped and luxury-laden table.

However, she noticed that Clifford and Mrs. Warfield sat next to Mora and young Downels when they were, at length, all seated, and that while the latter couple were silent, the former kept up a semi-animated, constrained run of small talk during the meal; but she soon became so engrossed while listening to Hugh's not over-brilliant wit that all else was devoid of interest.

When the many luxuries had been discussed, and the guests were loitering in the parlor or sauntering out upon the terrace in groups of twos and--well, twos also, I believe--Clifford walked out alone to the fountain, and sat down on a stone seat near the basin, which was brimming with water. Here the broad-leaved lilies floated, with their blossoms of pale rose and cream, distilling an odor of entrancing sweetness for yards around the cool, moss-set brim. As he sat lost in bitter meditations, the twilight began to deepen, the cicadas tuned their shrill pipes, and Venus shone out with unclouded splendor over the tree-tops of the valley below, followed, as she has ever been, by an ardent host of glittering stars and planets. That great midsummer constellation, the Scorpion, seemed stinging the "milky way" with its venomous tail, while the jeweled Sickle sank in the west--an omen that the harvest-days were nearly ended. A shrill katydid, overhead in the branches, heralded the coming frost, while a low ripple of voices mingled with the faint notes of the piano and snatches of song from within the house.

As Clifford sat, trailing a lily through the water, thinking, alas! of the time when he had strolled here with Mora, only two short weeks before, and how trustfully she had told him of "the mystery that seemed haunting the very air of late," he found it hard to realize that another had supplanted him, and that henceforth they were to be as strangers. But slowly it began to dawn upon him that their paths had diverged since that fatal night upon the star-lit terrace, when she so lightly remarked upon their "practicing" and "flirtation," until now he felt they were rapidly and surely becoming totally estranged.

"It is better that I should never, never look upon her fair, proud face again; for when I meet her eyes--ah! what can it mean?--there seems such a look of pleading, mingled with pride and--something that I can never understand--that it totally unmans me, and I can not trust my lips to speak a word for fear of betraying the secret of my love. No; she will find that the Warlow pride will be a match for her own; for I would rather tear my heart out and fling it at her feet, than have her spurn my love, as only a proud creature like her can.

"To know that she looks upon me as a fortune hunter, and scans me with those haughty--oh, lovely--violet eyes, classing me as 'poor and proud,' but far beneath her caste,--oh, Heaven! it is more than I can or will bear!" mentally exclaimed fiery young Warlow with a flash of hot wrath,--which is about the best remedy known for a sore heart, I really believe.

"A fortune hunter? Well, can't a fellow who has yearned all his life to meet a high-bred, dainty, and elegant woman, dare to love her when he does meet such an ideal, for fear of being called by that contemptible name?" continued our hero, impatiently plucking another water-lily, and beginning to pace up and down the path in nervous haste, and resuming his meditations, saying, half audibly:--

"If she had only waited a few more days I could have shown her that Colonel Warlow's son was not the poor homesteader--that pariah of the cattle-king--which she seems to consider me in her high pride. But no; she must throw cold water on a poor devil before he has made too big a fool of himself to offend her pride by a declaration of his folly.

"But she has all the refined instincts of her class at any rate, and can send a disheartened, despairing wretch like me on a life-long journey of dreary longing, with a sweet graciousness that I must admire, though I curse it ever so bitterly!" Then, as there rose vividly to his mind a picture of that proud but vivacious face, lit by eyes of violet-blue, and framed by the mass of raven, wavy hair; the coral, tender lips and creamy, dimpled cheeks so soft and tinted; the graceful form, in its filmy, flower-wrought robe of white,--he leaned against the elm-tree, and covered his face with his hands as though to shut the lovely vision from his sight, and murmured in tones of deepest agony:--

"Oh, Mora, Mora, my lost love! how can I give you up? It seems as if I have loved you from eternity; and to lose you now is like the pangs of death!"

Rousing himself as the sound of retreating wheels was heard below the terrace, Clifford walked back to the hall-way, where he met several departing guests; and as he came into the hall, with a slow leaden step, he saw, with a start, that Miss Estill was standing alone by the stairs, where she had turned after bidding some of the guests good-night! When she saw his face, with its look of white, tense misery, she said quickly:--

"Oh, Mr. Warlow! I have missed you for an hour. You are ill, I fear."

"Yes, Miss Estill, I am--sick of the world; but it is a very slight matter--only a broken heart," young Warlow replied, in a low, husky tone, while his eyes flashed like purple amethysts.

She turned deadly white, and gave him a look wherein he read a proud pity, that sent a flash of hot indignation to his face; then he bowed and walked away without glancing back.

As he came into the glare of the lighted parlor, Maud met him, and, after giving him a glance of deep sympathy, she said with her accustomed tact:--

"Clifford, you are no better, I fear; so let's return home. Most of the guests are starting already, although it is only nine; but we have, like them, also a long drive before us to-night."

So, bidding their hostess good-night, the Warlow and Moreland party started toward the hall; but at the door Miss Estill met them, looking pale and _distrait_, though regretful at their early departure.

She tarried a moment at the door, talking to Maud and Grace regarding the details of the picnic; and as she stood under the full light of a large lamp, held by a marble statue of Mercury, the wonderful grace and beauty of her creole face came into dazzling relief, and Clifford paused with a look of hungry longing on his face, while the remainder of the group hurried on to where the carriage waited, leaving him alone with Mora.

"I will say farewell here, Miss Estill. We shall meet at the picnic, Friday, but there will be little chance to bid you adieu there. I start for South America the next morning to stay indefinitely; so good-bye--forever!"

Even now in this trying moment, while his heart turned cold with an agony that not even death could equal, Clifford was true to the instincts of a gentleman, and waited immovably for her to offer her hand; but she only stood and toyed with her dainty fan, saying with the same cold, proud look that she had given him once before that evening:--

"This is very sudden. Indeed you can not be in earnest; so I shall reserve my adieus until the very last. I will try at the picnic to persuade you to abandon such an unkind course, and remain with us."

"Very well, Miss Estill, but I had forgotten to tell you that I have a disclosure to make at the picnic--one of grave import to you--and beg for an hour of your time while there. I would prefer the morning, if you please."

"With pleasure, certainly," she replied; but their talk was interrupted by some guests preparing to depart; so young Warlow hurriedly said good-night, and joined Maud and the others in the carriage.

Soon they were rapidly whirling homeward up the level, winding road; but as no one seemed to be in a talking mood, the journey was rather a silent one, the monotony only relieved by a scurrying flock of wild-grouse or the dim and retreating form of a startled jack-rabbit, looming large and indistinct upon the level prairie. In places the tall blue-stem moved in the wind with a rolling, wave-like motion; then again giving place to vistas of open glades, carpeted by the buffalo-grass, that the rains and sun had bleached almost white.

A forecast of autumn was felt in the rising gales, which moaned through the tall cottonwoods along the stream; the water flashed cold and bright under the starlight, and the buffalo-birds--our Western whip-poor-will--swooped down with a bellowing roar close to the heads of our friends as they drove by, indicating that a rain was near at hand.