A Waif of the Plains by Bret Harte (13 ebook reader TXT) 📖

of passers-by, assumed an air of severe propriety, dropped her hands by her side, and with an affected conscientiousness walked on, a little further from Clarence’s side, until they reached the ice-cream saloon.

“Get a table near the back, Clarence,” she said, in a confidential whisper, “where they can’t see us—and strawberry, you know, for the lemon and vanilla here are just horrid!”

They took their seats in a kind of rustic arbor in the rear of the shop, which gave them the appearance of two youthful but somewhat over-dressed and over-conscious shepherds. There was an interval of slight awkwardness, which Susy endeavored to displace. “There has been,” she remarked, with easy conversational lightness, “quite an excitement about our French teacher being changed. The girls in our class think it most disgraceful.”

And this was all she could say after a separation of four years! Clarence was desperate, but as yet idealess and voiceless. At last, with an effort over his spoon, he gasped a floating recollection: “Do you still like flapjacks, Susy?”

“Oh, yes,” with a laugh, “but we don’t have them now.”

“And Mose” (a black pointer, who used to yelp when Susy sang), “does he still sing with you?”

“Oh, HE’S been lost ever so long,” said Susy composedly; “but I’ve got a Newfoundland and a spaniel and a black pony;” and here, with a rapid inventory of her other personal effects, she drifted into some desultory details of the devotion of her adopted parents, whom she now readily spoke of as “papa” and “mamma,” with evidently no disturbing recollection of the dead. From which it appeared that the Peytons were very rich, and, in addition to their possessions in the lower country, owned a rancho in Santa Clara and a house in San Francisco. Like all children, her strongest impressions were the most recent. In the vain hope to lead her back to this material yesterday, he said—

“You remember Jim Hooker?”

“Oh, HE ran away, when you left. But just think of it! The other day, when papa and I went into a big restaurant in San Francisco, who should be there WAITING on the table—yes, Clarence, a real waiter—but Jim Hooker! Papa spoke to him; but of course,” with a slight elevation of her pretty chin, “I couldn’t, you know; fancy— a waiter!”

The story of how Jim Hooker had personated him stopped short upon Clarence’s lips. He could not bring himself now to add that revelation to the contempt of his small companion, which, in spite of its naivete, somewhat grated on his sensibilities.

“Clarence,” she said, suddenly turning towards him mysteriously, and indicating the shopman and his assistants, “I really believe these people suspect us.”

“Of what?” said the practical Clarence.

“Don’t be silly! Don’t you see how they are staring?”

Clarence was really unable to detect the least curiosity on the part of the shopman, or that any one exhibited the slightest concern in him or his companion. But he felt a return of the embarrassed pleasure he was conscious of a moment before.

“Then you’re living with your father?” said Susy, changing the subject.

“You mean my COUSIN,” said Clarence, smiling. “You know my father died long before I ever knew you.”

“Yes; that’s what YOU used to say, Clarence, but papa says it isn’t so.” But seeing the boy’s wondering eyes fixed on her with a troubled expression, she added quickly, “Oh, then, he IS your cousin!”

“Well, I think I ought to know,” said Clarence, with a smile, that was, however, far from comfortable, and a quick return of his old unpleasant recollections of the Peytons. “Why, I was brought to him by one of his friends.” And Clarence gave a rapid boyish summary of his journey from Sacramento, and Flynn’s discovery of the letter addressed to Silsbee. But before he had concluded he was conscious that Susy was by no means interested in these details, nor in the least affected by the passing allusion to her dead father and his relation to Clarence’s misadventures. With her rounded chin in her hand, she was slowly examining his face, with a certain mischievous yet demure abstraction. “I tell you what, Clarence,” she said, when he had finished, “you ought to make your cousin get you one of those sombreros, and a nice gold-braided serape. They’d just suit you. And then—then you could ride up and down the Alameda when we are going by.”

“But I’m coming to see you at—at your house, and at the convent,” he said eagerly. “Father Sobriente and my cousin will fix it all right.”

But Susy shook her head, with superior wisdom. “No; they must never know our secret!—neither papa nor mamma, especially mamma. And they mustn’t know that we’ve met again—AFTER THESE YEARS!” It is impossible to describe the deep significance which Susy’s blue eyes gave to this expression. After a pause she went on—

“No! We must never meet again, Clarence, unless Mary Rogers helps. She is my best, my ONLIEST friend, and older than I; having had trouble herself, and being expressly forbidden to see him again. You can speak to her about Suzette—that’s my name now; I was rechristened Suzette Alexandra Peyton by mamma. And now, Clarence,” dropping her voice and glancing shyly around the saloon, “you may kiss me just once under my hat, for good-by.” She adroitly slanted her broad-brimmed hat towards the front of the shop, and in its shadow advanced her fresh young cheek to Clarence.

Coloring and laughing, the boy pressed his lips to it twice. Then Susy arose, with the faintest affectation of a sigh, shook out her skirt, drew on her gloves with the greatest gravity, and saying, “Don’t follow me further than the door—they’re coming now,” walked with supercilious dignity past the preoccupied proprietor and waiters to the entrance. Here she said, with marked civility, “Good-afternoon, Mr. Brant,” and tripped away towards the hotel. Clarence lingered for a moment to look after the lithe and elegant little figure, with its shining undulations of hair that fell over the back and shoulders of her white frock like a golden mantle, and then turned away in the opposite direction.

He walked home in a state, as it seemed to him, of absurd perplexity. There were many reasons why his encounter with Susy should have been of unmixed pleasure. She had remembered him of her own free will, and, in spite of the change in her fortune, had made the first advances. Her doubts about her future interviews had affected him but little; still less, I fear, did he think of the other changes in her character and disposition, for he was of that age when they added only a piquancy and fascination to her—as of one who, in spite of her weakness of nature, was still devoted to him! But he was painfully conscious that this meeting had revived in him all the fears, vague uneasiness, and sense of wrong that had haunted his first boyhood, and which he thought he had buried at El Refugio four years ago. Susy’s allusion to his father and the reiteration of Peyton’s skepticism awoke in his older intellect the first feeling of suspicion that was compatible with his open nature. Was this recurring reticence and mystery due to any act of his father’s? But, looking back upon it in after-years, he concluded that the incident of that day was a premonition rather than a recollection.