Susy, A Story of the Plains - Bret Harte (ebook reader for pc and android txt) 📗

“I think I ought to have been prepared,” he began grimly, “for this addition to—to—the skirts of my family.”

“Why, John,” returned Mrs. Peyton quickly; “do you mean to say you haven’t noticed that the poor child has for weeks been looking positively indecent?”

“Really, papa, I’ve been a sight to behold. Haven’t I, Mary?” chimed in Susy.

“Yes, dear. Why, Judge, I’ve been wondering that Susy stood it so well, and never complained.”

Peyton glanced around him at this compact feminine embattlement. It was as he feared. Yet even here he was again at fault.

“And,” said Mrs. Peyton slowly, with the reserved significance of the feminine postscript in her voice, “if that Mr. Brant is coming here to-day, it would be just as well for him to see that SHE IS NO LONGER A CHILD, AS WHEN HE KNEW HER.”

An hour later, good-natured Mary Rogers, in her character of “a dear,”—which was usually indicated by the undertaking of small errands for her friend,—was gathering roses from the old garden for Susy’s adornment, when she saw a vision which lingered with her for many a day. She had stopped to look through the iron grille in the adobe wall, across the open wind-swept plain. Miniature waves were passing over the wild oats, with glittering disturbances here and there in the depressions like the sparkling of green foam; the horizon line was sharply defined against the hard, steel-blue sky; everywhere the brand-new morning was shining with almost painted brilliancy; the vigor, spirit, and even crudeness of youth were over all. The young girl was dazzled and bewildered. Suddenly, as if blown out of the waving grain, or an incarnation of the vivid morning, the bright and striking figure of a youthful horseman flashed before the grille. It was Clarence Brant! Mary Rogers had always seen him, in the loyalty of friendship, with Susy’s prepossessed eyes, yet she fancied that morning that he had never looked so handsome before. Even the foppish fripperies of his riding-dress and silver trappings seemed as much the natural expression of conquering youth as the invincible morning sunshine. Perhaps it might have been a reaction against Susy’s caprice or some latent susceptibility of her own; but a momentary antagonism to her friend stirred even her kindly nature. What right had Susy to trifle with such an opportunity? Who was SHE to hesitate over this gallant prince?

But Prince Charming’s quick eyes had detected her, and the next moment his beautiful horse was beside the grating, and his ready hand of greeting extended through the bars.

“I suppose I am early and unexpected, but I slept at Santa Inez last night, that I might ride over in the cool of the morning. My things are coming by the stagecoach, later. It seemed such a slow way of coming one’s self.”

Mary Rogers’s black eyes intimated that the way he had taken was the right one, but she gallantly recovered herself and remembered her position as confidante. And here was the opportunity of delivering Susy’s warning unobserved. She withdrew her hand from Clarence’s frank grasp, and passing it through the grating, patted the sleek, shining flanks of his horse, with a discreet division of admiration.

“And such a lovely creature, too! And Susy will be so delighted! and oh, Mr. Brant, please, you’re to say nothing of having met her at Santa Clara. It’s just as well not to begin with THAT here, for, you see” (with a large, maternal manner), “you were both SO young then.”

Clarence drew a quick breath. It was the first check to his vision of independence and equal footing! Then his invitation was NOT the outcome of a continuous friendship revived by Susy, as he had hoped; the Peytons had known nothing of his meeting with her, or perhaps they would not have invited him. He was here as an impostor,—and all because Susy had chosen to make a mystery of a harmless encounter, which might have been explained, and which they might have even countenanced. He thought bitterly of his old playmate for a brief moment,—as brief as Mary’s antagonism. The young girl noticed the change in his face, but misinterpreted it.

“Oh, there’s no danger of its coming out if you don’t say anything,” she said, quickly. “Ride on to the house, and don’t wait for me. You’ll find them in the patio on the veranda.”

Clarence moved on, but not as spiritedly as before. Nevertheless there was still dash enough about him and the animal he bestrode to stir into admiration the few lounging vacqueros of a country which was apt to judge the status of a rider by the quality of his horse. Nor was the favorable impression confined to them alone. Peyton’s gratification rang out cheerily in his greeting:—

“Bravo, Clarence! You are here in true caballero style. Thanks for the compliment to the rancho.”

For a moment the young man was transported back again to his boyhood, and once more felt Peyton’s approving hand pushing back the worn straw hat from his childish forehead. A faint color rose to his cheeks; his eyes momentarily dropped. The highest art could have done no more! The slight aggressiveness of his youthful finery and picturesque good looks was condoned at once; his modesty conquered where self-assertion might have provoked opposition, and even Mrs. Peyton felt herself impelled to come forward with an outstretched hand scarcely less frank than her husband’s. Then Clarence lifted his eyes. He saw before him the woman to whom his childish heart had gone out with the inscrutable longing and adoration of a motherless, homeless, companionless boy; the woman who had absorbed the love of his playmate without sharing it with him; who had showered her protecting and maternal caresses on Susy, a waif like himself, yet had not only left his heart lonely and desolate, but had even added to his childish distrust of himself the thought that he had excited her aversion. He saw her more beautiful than ever in her restored health, freshness of coloring, and mature roundness of outline. He was unconsciously touched with a man’s admiration for her without losing his boyish yearnings and half-filial affection; in her new materialistic womanhood his youthful imagination had lifted her to a queen and goddess. There was all this appeal in his still boyish eyes,—eyes that had never yet known shame or fear in the expression of their emotions; there was all this in the gesture with which he lifted Mrs. Peyton’s fingers to his lips. The little group saw in this act only a Spanish courtesy in keeping with his accepted role. But a thrill of surprise, of embarrassment, of intense gratification passed over her. For he had not even looked at Susy!

Her relenting was graceful. She welcomed him with a winning smile. Then she motioned pleasantly towards Susy.

“But here is an older friend, Mr. Brant, whom you do not seem to recognize,—Susy, whom you have not seen since she was a child.”

A quick flush rose to Clarence’s cheek. The group smiled at this evident youthful confession of some boyish admiration. But Clarence knew that his truthful blood was merely resenting the deceit his lips were sealed from divulging. He did not dare to glance at Susy; it added to the general amusement that the young girl was obliged to present herself. But in this interval she had exchanged glances with Mary Rogers, who had rejoined the group, and she knew she was safe. She smiled with gracious condescension at Clarence; observed, with the patronizing superiority of age and established position, that he had GROWN, but had not greatly changed, and, it is needless to say, again filled her mother’s heart with joy. Clarence, still intoxicated with Mrs. Peyton’s kindliness, and, perhaps, still embarrassed by remorse, had not time to remark the girl’s studied attitude. He shook hands with her cordially, and then, in the quick reaction of youth, accepted with humorous gravity the elaborate introduction to Mary Rogers by Susy, which completed this little comedy. And if, with a woman’s quickness, Mrs. Peyton detected a certain lingering glance which passed between Mary Rogers and Clarence, and misinterpreted it, it was only a part of that mystification into which these youthful actors are apt to throw their mature audiences.

“Confess, Ally,” said Peyton, cheerfully, as the three young people suddenly found their tongues with aimless vivacity and inconsequent laughter, and started with unintelligible spirits for an exploration of the garden, “confess now that your bete noir is really a very manly as well as a very presentable young fellow. By Jove! the padres have made a Spanish swell out of him without spoiling the Brant grit, either! Come, now; you’re not afraid that Susy’s style will suffer from HIS companionship. ‘Pon my soul, she might borrow a little of his courtesy to his elders without indelicacy. I only wish she had as sincere a way of showing her respect for you as he has. Did you notice that he really didn’t seem to see anybody else but you at first? And yet you never were a friend to him, like Susy.”

The lady tossed her head slightly, but smiled.

“This is the first time he’s seen Mary Rogers, isn’t it?” she said meditatively.

“I reckon. But what’s that to do with his politeness to you?”

“And do her parents know him?” she continued, without replying.

“How do I know? I suppose everybody has heard of him. Why?”

“Because I think they’ve taken a fancy to each other.”

“What in the name of folly, Ally”—began the despairing Peyton.

“When you invite a handsome, rich, and fascinating young man into the company of young ladies, John,” returned Mrs. Peyton, in her severest manner, “you must not forget you owe a certain responsibility to the parents. I shall certainly look after Miss Rogers.”

CHAPTER V.

Although the three young people had left the veranda together, when they reached the old garden Clarence and Susy found themselves considerably in advance of Mary Rogers, who had become suddenly and deeply interested in the beauty of a passion vine near the gate. At the first discovery of their isolation their voluble exchange of information about themselves and their occupations since their last meeting stopped simultaneously. Clarence, who had forgotten his momentary irritation, and had recovered his old happiness in her presence, was nevertheless conscious of some other change in her than that suggested by the lengthened skirt and the later and more delicate accentuation of her prettiness. It was not her affectation of superiority and older social experience, for that was only the outcome of what he had found charming in her as a child, and which he still good-humoredly accepted; nor was it her characteristic exaggeration of speech, which he still pleasantly recognized. It was something else, vague and indefinite,—something that had been unnoticed while Mary was with them, but had now come between them like some unknown presence which had taken the confidante’s place. He remained silent, looking at her half-brightening cheek and conscious profile. Then he spoke with awkward directness.

“You are changed, Susy, more than in looks.”

“Hush,” said the girl in a tragic whisper, with a warning gesture towards the blandly unconscious Mary.

“But,” returned Clarence wonderingly, “she’s your—our friend, you know.”

“I DON’T know,” said Susy, in a still deeper tone, “that is—oh, don’t ask me! But when you’re always surrounded by spies, when you can’t say your soul is your own, you doubt everybody!” There was such a pretty distress in her violet eyes and curving eyebrows, that Clarence, albeit vague as to its origin and particulars, nevertheless possessed himself of the little hand that was gesticulating dangerously near his own, and pressed it sympathetically. Perhaps preoccupied with her emotions, she did not immediately withdraw it, as she went on rapidly: “And if you were cooped up here,