A Waif of the Plains.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 442, 1 February 1890, Page 3

A Waif of the Plains.

BY BRET HARTE.

Author of ‘ The Argonauts,’ ‘ The Luck of Roaring Camp,’ ‘Cressv,’ Etc.

Copyright 1889—By tho Author. CHAPTER VIII. Then followed to Clarence three uneventful years. During than interval he learned that Jackson Brant or Don Juan Robinson —for the tie of kinship was the least factor in their relations to each other, and after ■he departure of Flynn was tacitly ignored by both—was more Spanish than American. An early residence in Lower California, marriage with a rich Mexican widow, whose dying childless left him sole heir, and some strange restraining idiosyncrasy of temperament, had quite denationalised him. A bookish recluse, somewhat superfastidious toward his own countrymen, the more Clarence knew him the more singular appeared his acquaintance with Flynn, but as he did not exhibit more communicativeness on this point than upon their own kinship, Clarence fi ally concluded that it was due to the dominant character of his former friend, and thought no more about it. He entered upon the new life at El Refugio with no disturbing past. Quickly adapting himself to the lazy freedom of this hacienda existence, he spent the mornings on horseback ranging the hills among his cousin’s cattle and the afternoons and evenings busied among his cou-in’s books with equally lawless, undiseip'ined independence. The easy-going Don Juan, it is true, attempted to make good his rash promise to teach the boy Spanish, and actually set him a few tasks, bat in afew weeks the quick- witted Clarence acquired such a colloquial proficiency from

his casual acquaintance with vaqueroa and small traders that he was glad to leave the matter in his young kinsman's hands. Again by one of those illogical sequences which make a life-long reputation depend upon a single trivial act, Clarence’s social status was settled for ever at HI Refugio Rancho by his picturesque diversion of Flynn’s parting gift. The grateful peon to whom the boy had scornfully tossed the coin, repeated the act, jesture, and spirit of the scene to his companions, and Don Jutn’s unknown and youthful relation was at once recognised as hijo de la familia, and undeniably a hidalgo born and bred. But in the more vivid imagination of feminine El Refugio the incident reached its highest poetic form. ‘lt is true, mother of God,’ said Chucha of the Mill; ‘it was Domingo who himself relates it as it were the creed. When the Atmrican escort has arrived with the young gentleman, this escort, look you, being not of the same quality, he is departing again without a word of permission. Comes to him at this moment, my little hidalgo. * You have yourself forgotten to take from me your demission,’ he said. This escort, thinking to make his peace with a mere muchacho, gives him a little gold piece of 20 pes >s. The little hidalgo has taken it -so, and with the words, ‘Ah ! you would make of me your almoner to my cousin’s people,’ has given it at the moment to D mingo, and with a grace and fire admirable. But it is certain that Clarence’s singular simplicity and truthfulness, a faculty of being picturesquely indole it in a way that suggested ri dreamy abstraction of mind, rather than any vulgar tendency to bodily ease and comfort, and possibly the fact that he was a good horseman, made him a popular hero at HI Rejugio. At the end of three years Don Juan fo ind that this inexperienced and apparently idle boy of fourteen knew more of the practical ruling of the rancho than he did himself. Also, that this unfe tercd young rustic had. devoured nearly all the books in his library with boyish recklessness of digestion. He found, too, that in spite of his singular independence of action, Clarence was possessed of an invincible loyalty of principle, and that asking no sentimental affection, and indeed yielding none, he was, without presuming on his relationship, devoted to his cousin's interest. It seemed that from being a graceful ray of sunshine in the house, evasive but never obtrusive, he had become a daily necessity of comfort and security to his benefactor. Clarence was, however, astonished when, one morning, Don Juan, with the same embarrassed manner be had shown at their first meeting, sudd nly asked him ‘ what business he expected to follow.’ It seemed the more singular, as the speaker, like ino-t abstracted men, had hitherto always studiously ignored the future in their daily intercourse. Yet this might have been either the habit of security or the caution of doubt. Whatever it was, it was some sudden disturbance of Don Juan’s equanimity, as disconcerting to himself as it was to Clarence. So conscious was the boy of this, that without replying to his cousin's question, but striving in vain to recall some delinquency of his own, he asked with his usual bovish directness

‘ Has anything happened ? Have I done anything wrong V ‘No, no, returned Don Juan, hurriedly. 1 But you see it’s time that you should think of your future—or at least prepare for it. I mean you ought to have some more regular education. You will have to go to school. Jt’s too bad,’ he added fretfully with a certain impatient forgetfulness of Clarence’s presence and as if following his one thought. ‘Just as you are becoming of service bo me and justifying your ridiculous position here--and all this d d nonsense that’s gone before—l mean, of course, Clarence,’ he interrupted himself catching sight of the boy’s whitening cheek and darkeni g eve, ‘I mean, you know—this ridiculousness of my keeping you from school at your age, and trying to teach you myself—don’t you see.’ ‘You think it is—ridiculous,’ repeated Clarence with dogged persistency. ‘ I mean I am ridiculous,’ said Don Juan, hastily—* There ! there —Let’s say no more about it. To-morrow we'll ride over bo San Jose and see the Father Secretary at the Jesuits’ College about you entering at once. It’s a good school, and you’ll always be near the rancho !’ And so the interview ended.

I am afraid that Clarence’s first idea was to run away. There are few experiences more to the ingenuous nature than the sudden revelation of the asoeeb in which it is regarded by others. The unfortunate Clarence, conscious only of his loyalty to his cousin’s interest, and what he believed were the duties of his position, awoke to find that position ‘ridiculous.’ In an afternoon’s gloomy fide through the lonely hills, and later in the sleepless soli tude of his room at night, he concluded that his cousin was right. He would go to school—he would study hard—so hard, that in a little—a very little while—he could make a living for himself. He awoke contented. It was the blessing of youth that this resolve and execution seemed as one and the same thing. The next day found him installed as a pupil and b >arder in the college. Don Juan’s position and Spanish predilections naturally made hi-> relation a ceptable to the faculty ; but Clarence could not help perceiving that Father Sobriente, the Principal, regarded him at times with a thoughtful curiosity that made him suspect that his cousin had especially bespoken that attention ; and that he occasionally questioned him on his anfecedents in a wav that made him dread a renewal of the old questioning about his progenitor. For the rest he was a polished, cultivated man ; yet, in the characteristic, material criticism of youth, I am afraid that Clarence chit fly identified him as a priest with large hands, whose soft palms seemed to be cushioned with kindness, and whose equally large feet, encased in extraordinary shapeless shoes of undyed leather, seemed to tread down noiselessly—rather than to ostentatiously crush—the obstacles that; beset the path of the young student. In the cloistered galleries of the courtyard Clarence sometimes felt himself borne down by the protecting weight of this paternal hand; in the midnight silence of the dormitory he fancied he was often conscious of the soft browsing eread and snufflv muffled breathing of his elephantinefooted mentor. -

His relations with his schoolfellows, however. were at first far from pleasant. Whether they suspected favouritism: whether they resented that older and unsympathetic manner which sprang from his habits of association with his elders, or whether they rested their objections on the broader grounds of his being a stranger, I do not know, but they presently passed from cruel sneers to physical opposition. It was then found that this gentle and , reserved youth had retained certain objectionable, rude, direct, rustic qualities of ‘ fist and foot, and tha,t violating'all rules and disdairiihgLhe pomp and circumstance/of schoolboy warfare, of which" he knew nothing— he simply thrashed a few of his equals out of hand, with or. without ceremony, as the occasion, or the insult happened. ,In this emergency, one ofbheeeriiorswas.selectedto teach this youthful ,savage his proper position A challenge, was given ‘and ,accepted by Clarence with a feverish alacrity that sur-

prised himself as much as his adversary. This was a youth of 18, his superior in size and skill. The first blow bathed Clarence’s face in his own blood. But the sanguinary chrism to the alarm of the spectators, effected an instantaneous and unhallowed change in the boy. lu*tanbly closing with his adversary he sprang at his throat like an animal, and locking his arm around his neck, began to strangle him. Blind to the blows that ra ned upon him, he eventually bore his staggering enemy by sheer onset and surprise to the earth. Amidst the general alarm the strength of half-a-dozen hastily-summoned teachers was necessaiy to unlock his hold. Even then he struggled to renew the conflict. But his adversary had disappeared, and from that day forward Clarence was never again molested ! Seated before Father Sobriente in the infirmary, with swollen and bandaged fac**, and eyes that still seemed to see everything in the murky light of his own blood. Clarence felt the soft weight of the father’s hand upon his knee. ‘My son,’ said the priest gently, ‘yon are nob of our religion, or I should claim as a right to ask a question of your own heart at this moment. I'ijb as to a good friend, Claro, a good friend,’ he continued, pitting the boy’s knee. ‘You will tell me, old Father Sobriente, frankly and truthfully, as is your habit, one little thing. Were you nob afraid ?’ ‘ No,’ said Clarence doggedly, * I’ll lick him again to-morrow.’ ‘ Softly, my son ! It was nob of him I speak, but of something more terrible and awful, - Were you not afraid of—of— ’ he paused, arid suddenly darting his clear eyes into the very depths of Clarence’s soul, added— * of yourself /’ The boy started, shuddered, and burst into tears. * So, so,’ said the priest, gently, ‘ we have found our real enemy. Good ! Now, by the grace of God, my little warrior, we shall fight him and conquer.’ Whether Clarence profited by this lesson or whether ihis brief exhibition of his quality prevented any repetition of the cause, th.e episode was soon forgotten. As his schoolfellow.* had never been his associates or confidents, it mattered little to him whether they teared, respecied him, or were hypocritically obsequious after the fashion of the weaker. His studies, at all events, profited by this lack of di-traction. Already his two years of desultory and oranive'OU" reading had given him a facile familiarity with many things, which left him utterly free of the timidity, awkward ness, or non interest of a beginner. His usually reserved manner, which had been lack of expression rather than of conviction, had deceived his tutors. The audacity of a mind that had never been dominated by others, and owed no allegiance to precedent, made his merely superficial progress something marvellous. At the end of the first year ho was a phenomenal scholar, who seemed capable of anything. Nevertheless Father Sobriente had an interview with Don Juan, and as.a result Clarence was slightly kept back in his studies, had accorded a freedom from the rules, and was even encouraged to . bake some diversion. Of such was the privilege to visit the neighbouring town of Santa Clara unrestricted and unattended. lie had always been liberally furnished with pocket monev, for which in his coni pan i unless state and Sparban habits he had a singular and unboyish contempt. Nevertheless, he always appeared dressed with scrupulous neatness, and was rather distinguished-looking in his older re-erve and melancholy self reliance. Lounging one afternoon along the Alameda, a leafy avenue set out by the early Mission Fathers between the village of San Jos6 and the convent of Santa Clara, he saw adouble file of young girls from the convent approaching on bhrir usual promenade. A view of this procession being the fondest ambition of the San Jose collegian, and especially interdicted and circumvented by the good father attending the college excursions, Clarence felt for it the profound indifference of a bov who, in the intermediate temperate zone of fifteen years, thinks that he is no longer young and romantic ' He, was passing them with a careless glance, when a pair of deep violet eyi-s caught his own under the broad shade of a coquettishly be ribboned hat, even as it had once looked at him from the depths of a calico sunbonnet. Susy ! He smarted and would have spoken, but with a quick little gesture of caution and a meaning glance at the two nuns who.walked at the head and foot of the file, she indicated him to follow. He did so at a respectful distance—albeit wondering. A little further on Susy dropped her handkerchief, and was obliged to dart out and run back to the end of the file to recover it. But she gave another swift glance of her blue eyes as she snatched it up and demurely ran back bo her place. The p ocessipn passed on, bub when Clarence reached the spot where she had paused he saw a three-cornered bit of paper lying in the grass. He was too discreet to pick it up while the girls were still in sight, bub continued on ; returning to it later. It contained a few words in a schoolgirl’s hand hastily scrawled in pencil, ‘ Come to the south wall near the big pear tree at six. ’

Delighted as Clarence felt, he was at the same time embarrassed. He could not unlerstand the necessity of this mysterious rendezvous. He knew that if she was a scholar, she was under certain conventional restraints; but with the privileges of his position a id friendship with his teachers, he believed that Father Sobriente would easily procure him an.interview with this old playfellow, of whomhehad often spoken, and who was wi th himself the solesurvivor of the tragical pa«t. And trusted as he was by Sobriente, there was something in this clandestine though .mn oo ®?!' rendezvous that went against his loyalty. Nevertheless he kept the appointment, and at the stated time was at the south wall of the convent, over which the gnar ed boughs of the distinguishing pear tree hung. Hard by in the wall was a grated wicket door that seemed unused. ■ r

Would she appear among the boughs or on the edge of the wall? But to his surprise he heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. The grated door suddenly turned on its hinges, and Susy slipped out. Grasping his band she said, ‘Let’s run, Clarence.’ and before he could reply, she started off with him at a rapid pace. ( To be Continued.)