Through its middle, dividing its six rooms in half, extended a broad, arched passageway, picturesque with flowering cactus and hanging red earthern jars.A "gallery," low and broad, encircled the building.Vines climbed about it, and the adjacent ground was, for a space, covered with transplanted grass and shrubs.A little lake, long and narrow, glimmered in the sun at the rear.Further away stood the shacks of the Mexican workers, the corrals, wool sheds and shearing pens.To the right lay the low hills, splattered with dark patches of chaparral; to the left the unbounded green prairie blending against the blue heavens.
"It's a home, Teddy," said Octavia, breathlessly;that's what it is -- it's a home."
"Not so bad for a sheep ranch," admitted Teddy, with excusable pride."I've been tinkering on it at odd times."A Mexican youth sprang from somewhere in the grass, and took charge of the creams.The mistress and the manager entered the house.
"Here's Mrs.MacIntyre," said Teddy, as a placid, neat, elderly lady came out upon the gallery to meet them."Mrs.Mac, here's the boss.Very likely she will be wanting a hunk of ham and a dish of beans after her drive."Mrs.MacIntyre, the housekeeper, as much a fixture on the place as the lake or the live-oaks, received the imputation of the ranch's resources of refreshment with mild indignation, and was about to give it utterance when Octavia spoke.
"Oh, Mrs.MacIntyre, don't apologize for Teddy.
Yes, I call him Teddy.So does every one whom he hasn't duped into taking him seriously.You see, we used to cut paper dolls and play jackstraws together ages ago.No one minds what he says.""No," said Teddy, "no one minds what he says, just so he doesn't do it again."Octavia cast one of those subtle, sidelong glances toward him from beneath her lowered eyelids -- a glance that Teddy used to describe as an upper-cut.But there was nothing in his ingenuous, weather-tanned face to warrant a suspicion that he was making an allusion --nothing.Beyond a doubt, thought Octavia, he had forgotten.
"Mr.Westlake likes his fun," said Mrs.Maclntyre, as she conducted Octavia to her rooms."But," she added, loyally, "people around here usually pay attention to what he says when he talks in earnest.I don't know what would have become of this place without him."Two rooms at the east end of the house had been arranged for the occupancy of the ranch's mistress.When she entered them a slight dismay seized her at their bare appearance and the scantiness of their furniture; but she quickly reflected that the climate was a semi-tropical one, and was moved to appreciation of the well-conceived efforts to conform to it.The sashes had already been removed from the big windows, and white curtains waved in the Gulf breeze that streamed through the wide jalousies.
The bare floor was amply strewn with cool rugs; the chairs were inviting, deep, dreamy willows; the walls were papered with a light, cheerful olive.One whole side of her sitting room was covered with books on smooth, unpainted pine shelves.She flew to these at once.Before her was a well-selected library.She caught glimpses of titles of volumes of fiction and travel not yet seasoned from the dampness of the press.
Presently, recollecting that she was now in a wilderness given over to mutton, centipedes and privations, the incongruity of these luxuries struck her, and, with intuitive feminine suspicion, she began turning to the fly-leaves of volume after volume.Upon each one was inscribed in fluent characters the name of Theodore Westlake, Jr.
Octavia, fatigued by her long journey, retired early that night.Lying upon her white, cool bed, she rested deliciously, but sleep coquetted long with her.She listened to faint noises whose strangeness kept her faculties on the alert -- the fractious yelping of the coyotes, the ceaseless, low symphony of the wind, the distant booming of the frogs about the lake, the lamentation of a concertina in the Mexicans' quarters.There were many conflicting feelings in her heart -- thankfulness and rebellion, peace and disquietude, loneliness and a sense of protecting care, happiness and an old, haunting pain.
She did what any other woman would have done --sought relief in a wholesome tide of unreasonable tears, and her last words, murmured to herself before slumber, capitulating, came softly to woo her, were "He has forgotten."The manager of the Rancho de las Sombras was no dilettante.He was a "hustler." He was generally up, mounted, and away of mornings before the rest of the household were awake, making the rounds of the flocks and camps.This was the duty of the majordomo, a stately old Mexican with a princely air and manner, but Teddy seemed to have a great deal of confidence in his own eyesight.Except in the busy seasons, he nearly always returned to the ranch to breakfast at eight o'clock, with Octavia and Mrs.Maclntyre, at the little table set in the central hallway, bringing with him a tonic and breezy cheerfulness full of the health and flavour of the prairies.
A few days after Octavia's arrival he made her get out one of her riding skirts, and curtail it to a shortness demanded by the chaparral brakes.
With some misgivings she donned this and the pair of buckskin leggings he prescribed in addition, and, mounted upon a dancing pony, rode with him to view her posses-sions.He showed her everything -- the flocks of ewes, muttons and grazing lambs, the dipping vats, the shearing pens, the uncouth merino rams in their little pasture, the water-tanks I prepared against the summer drought --giving account of his stewardship with a boyish enthus-siasm that never flagged.
