A Vendetta of the Hills - Willis George Emerson

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my lord, shall you see the lady fair. But remember,” Dick went on banteringly, “that you are not to practise any riata-throwing on Miss Merle Farnsworth.”

      “I understand. But we won’t fall out over her. You may have your beautiful brunette. I have always been partial to blondes.”

      “In the plural number,” grinned Dick. “But Grace Darlington will dim the light of all your previous flames. She is the most perfect blonde you have ever yet encountered.”

      “You are certainly enthusiastic—for a disinterested party.”

      “Well, you’ll say the same thing, Ches, my boy, when you see her.”

      It was not yet four o’clock when they approached the Rancho La Siesta. The house was of a style quite unusual in California—a miniature castle that might have been planned by some European architect of renown. It stood amid noble oak trees, old and gnarled and of gigantic size, but not too numerous to hide the architectural features of the building. To the rear the trees grew more thickly till they finally merged into one great forest that covered the lower ridge of the mountain beyond. Far up, just within the timber line, could be seen the red-tiled roof of a house which Dick told his friend was the home of a Mr. Ricardo Robles. Beneath the forest, the gently undulating lands sloped away to a considerable stream that dashed down from one of the mountain canyons and debouched into the great valley.

      “Whew!” exclaimed Munson admiringly, as they rode up and turned their horses over to an attendant. “Some swell architecture around here! Is this your work, Dick?”

      

      “Oh, no!” replied Willoughby. “I had nothing to do with it. But I do like the architectural lines of Mrs. Darlington’s home. She’s English and has English tastes, and transplanted ideas are not always successful in a new country. But in this case the building just seems to fit the scenery. It has always delighted me.”

      “It is certainly beautiful,” concurred Munson as they walked along a winding graveled pathway that climbed the gentle slope and led to the portico of the mansion.

      Around them were gay beds of flowers dotting the greensward. Almost hiding the columns of the portico were climbing roses, one bush of the purest white, the other of deep crimson.

      As they passed under the porch roof, a handsome and well-preserved lady of middle age appeared at the top of the steps with a welcoming smile. She descended to give them gracious greeting.

      “How glad I am to see you, Mr. Willoughby. No one could be more welcome at La Siesta.”

      “Thank you,” said Dick with marked chivalry.

      “Mrs. Darlington, permit me to present my friend, Lieutenant Munson.”

      The introduction over, they ascended the steps together, and passed into a spacious courtyard, with broad verandahs running all around and a fountain playing in the centre. The hostess conducted her visitors to a cosy corner, screened by glass panels from the open air and furnished with rich Persian rugs, divans, cushions, tapestries, carved ebony tabarets, all in oriental fashion. When they were comfortably settled, she opened the conversation.

      “Lieutenant, the young ladies of La Siesta are most impatient to meet you. Mr. Willoughby has told us so much about you and yet has been so very dilatory—yes, really you have, Mr. Willoughby—in bringing you over, that we have put down several black marks against his name.”

      “Oh, thank you,” stammered the young officer, reddening. “I quite agree with you about Willoughby, for I have been pleading with him to present me from the very first day of my arrival.” Turning to Mrs. Darlington, Dick laughingly protested: “My dear Mrs. Darlington, that is the first whopper you have heard from my esteemed friend. You have yet to learn that he always speaks in the superlative degree.”

      At this moment Grace Darlington stepped through one of the French windows. As she stood hesitating for a moment, Chester Munson there and then agreed with all the preliminary praise Dick Willoughby had bestowed. She was certainly a vision of loveliness, with a wealth of golden hair and eyes of sapphire blue; petite, her figure plump but beautifully molded, her cheeks aglow with the red roses of health and youth and happiness.

      “My daughter Grace,” announced Mrs. Darlington, rising and formally introducing the lieutenant to her as she joined the group.

      Again Munson blushed and stammered. Dick was chuckling; he saw that the gallant son of battle, with a penchant for blonde beauties, had succumbed to the first glance from Grace Darlington’s eyes.

      “Delighted to meet you, Lieutenant Munson,” she declared with frank friendliness as they shook hands.

      “Where’s Merle?” asked Dick almost before Grace had time to turn to him.

      “There now, Mr. Impatience,” she replied, shaking her finger teasingly at, him, “Merle will be here in her own good time. She’s busy with Bob just now.”

      “Who the dickens is Bob?” asked Dick, visibly disconcerted.

      “Oh, her new Irish terrier,” laughed Grace, her voice ringing with mischievous merriment. “And such a beauty!”

      Dick breathed again. The lieutenant had recovered his composure; it was his turn now to bestow a sardonic smile upon his comrade.

      “We’ll have afternoon tea,” suggested Mrs. Darlington. “And of course you two young men will stay for dinner.”

      Both uttered a simultaneous protest—they were only in riding clothes. But Mrs. Darlington made short work of the argument, and touched a pushbutton by her side. A maid responded, the extra covers for dinner were ordered, and meanwhile tea was to be sent on to the verandah. Pleasant small talk succeeded, the lieutenant being called upon for his first impressions of California.

      Of a sudden Grace exclaimed in a voice, half of joy, half of surprise:

      “Why, here comes Mr. Robles!”

      Advancing along the verandah, hat in hand, was a man of striking presence and dignity, perhaps fifty years of age. His jet black hair was streaked with gray, the full beard almost verging on whiteness. Olive complexion and brown eyes, together with the courtly manner of his salutation, indicated the thoroughbred Castilian.

      He bowed and raised to his lips the hand of his hostess. To Grace he paid the same deference. Next he turned to Dick Willoughby and extended his hand.

      “I have met Mr. Willoughby. I am pleased, sir, to see you again.”

      Then his eyes rested on Lieutenant Munson, and Mrs. Darlington presented the young army officer.

      “And where, I pray, is Miss Merle?” Mr. Robles finally asked, glancing around.

      “That’s what I want to know,” blurted out Dick. Then he reddened just a little.

      The older man looked kindly at Dick, and smilingly said: “The audacity of youth.”

      “Yes,” put in Grace, “the audacity and the impatience as well.”

      But just at that moment there floated from the recesses of the home the fragment of a song: “I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at my side.”

      “Ah, here comes the recreant now,” exclaimed Mrs. Darlington.

      The song stopped abruptly, and a moment later Merle Farnsworth appeared. She went first of all to Mr. Robles and greeted him warmly, giving him both her hands, which he kissed in his princely fashion. For Willoughby she had a pleasant smile, and for his friend, the lieutenant, a kindly welcome to California.

      The tea tray had meanwhile arrived,

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