Susy, A Story of the Plains by Bret Harte (bts book recommendations txt) 📕

Mrs. Peyton’s impatience, indignation, and opposition, which had successively given way before her husband’s quiet, masterful good humor, here took the form of a neurotic fatalism. She shook her head with superstitious resignation.

“Didn’t I tell you, John, that I always had a dread of something coming”—

“But if it comes in the shape of a shy young lad, I see nothing singularly portentous in it. They have not met since they were quite small; their tastes have changed; if they don’t quarrel and fight they may be equally bored with each other. Yet until then, in one way or another, Clarence will occupy the young lady’s vacant caprice, and her school friend, Mary Rogers, will be here, you know, to divide his attentions, and,” added Peyton, with mock solemnity, preserve the interest of strict propriety. Shall I break it to her,—or will you?”

“No,—yes,” hesitated Mrs. Peyton; “perhaps I had better.”

“Very well, I leave his character in your hands; only don’t prejudice her into a romantic fancy for him.” And Judge Peyton lounged smilingly away.

Then two little tears forced themselves from Mrs. Peyton’s eyes. Again she saw that prospect of uninterrupted companionship with Susy, upon which each successive year she had built so many maternal hopes and confidences, fade away before her. She dreaded the coming of Susy’s school friend, who shared her daughter’s present thoughts and intimacy, although she had herself invited her in a more desperate dread of the child’s abstracted, discontented eyes; she dreaded the advent of the boy who had shared Susy’s early life before she knew her; she dreaded the ordeal of breaking the news and perhaps seeing that pretty animation spring into her eyes, which she had begun to believe no solicitude or tenderness of her own ever again awakened,—and yet she dreaded still more that her husband should see it too. For the love of this recreated woman, although not entirely materialized with her changed fibre, had nevertheless become a coarser selfishness fostered by her loneliness and limited experience. The maternal yearning left unsatisfied by the loss of her first-born had never been filled by Susy’s thoughtless acceptance of it; she had been led astray by the child’s easy transference of dependence and the forgetfulness of youth, and was only now dimly conscious of finding herself face to face with an alien nature.

She started to her feet and followed the direction that Susy had taken. For a moment she had to front the afternoon trade wind which chilled her as it swept the plain beyond the gateway, but was stopped by the adobe wall, above whose shelter the stunted treetops— through years of exposure—slanted as if trimmed by gigantic shears. At first, looking down the venerable alley of fantastic, knotted shapes, she saw no trace of Susy. But half way down the gleam of a white skirt against a thicket of dark olives showed her the young girl sitting on a bench in a neglected arbor. In the midst of this formal and faded pageantry she looked charmingly fresh, youthful, and pretty; and yet the unfortunate woman thought that her attitude and expression at that moment suggested more than her fifteen years of girlhood. Her golden hair still hung unfettered over her straight, boy-like back and shoulders; her short skirt still showed her childish feet and ankles; yet there seemed to be some undefined maturity or a vague womanliness about her that stung Mrs. Peyton’s heart. The child was growing away from her, too!

“Susy!”

The young girl raised her head quickly; her deep violet eyes seemed also to leap with a sudden suspicion, and with a half-mechanical, secretive movement, that might have been only a schoolgirl’s instinct, her right hand had slipped a paper on which she was scribbling between the leaves of her book. Yet the next moment, even while looking interrogatively at her mother, she withdrew the paper quietly, tore it up into small pieces, and threw them on the ground.

But Mrs. Peyton was too preoccupied with her news to notice the circumstance, and too nervous in her haste to be tactful. “Susy, your father has invited that boy, Clarence Brant,—you know that creature we picked up and assisted on the plains, when you were a mere baby,—to come down here and make us a visit.”

Her heart seemed to stop beating as she gazed breathlessly at the girl. But Susy’s face, unchanged except for the alert, questioning eyes, remained fixed for a moment; then a childish smile of wonder opened her small red mouth, expanded it slightly as she said simply:—

“Lor, mar! He hasn’t, really!”

Inexpressibly, yet unreasonably reassured, Mrs. Peyton hurriedly recounted her husband’s story of Clarence’s fortune, and was even joyfully surprised into some fairness of statement.

“But you don’t remember him much, do you, dear? It was so long ago, and—you are quite a young lady now,” she added eagerly.

The open mouth was still fixed; the wondering smile would have been idiotic in any face less dimpled, rosy, and piquant than Susy’s. After a slight gasp, as if in still incredulous and partly reminiscent preoccupation, she said without replying:—

“How funny! When is he coming?”

“Day after to-morrow,” returned Mrs. Peyton, with a contented smile.

“And Mary Rogers will be here, too. It will be real fun for her.”

Mrs. Peyton was more than reassured. Half ashamed of her jealous fears, she drew Susy’s golden head towards her and kissed it. And the young girl, still reminiscent, with smilingly abstracted toleration, returned the caress.

CHAPTER II.

It was not thought inconsistent with Susy’s capriciousness that she should declare her intention the next morning of driving her pony buggy to Santa Inez to anticipate the stagecoach and fetch Mary Rogers from the station. Mrs. Peyton, as usual, supported the young lady’s whim and opposed her husband’s objections.

“Because the stagecoach happens to pass our gate, John, it is no reason why Susy shouldn’t drive her friend from Santa Inez if she prefers it. It’s only seven miles, and you can send Pedro to follow her on horseback to see that she comes to no harm.”

“But that isn’t Pedro’s business,” said Peyton.

“He ought to be proud of the privilege,” returned the lady, with a toss of her head.

Peyton smiled grimly, but yielded; and when the stagecoach drew up the next afternoon at the Santa Inez Hotel, Susy was already waiting in her pony carriage before it. Although the susceptible driver, expressman, and passengers generally, charmed with this golden-haired vision, would have gladly protracted the meeting of the two young friends, the transfer of Mary Rogers from the coach to the carriage was effected with considerable hauteur and youthful dignity by Susy. Even Mary Rogers, two years Susy’s senior, a serious brunette, whose good-humor did not, however, impair her capacity for sentiment, was impressed and even embarrassed by her demeanor; but only for a moment. When they had driven from the hotel and were fairly hidden again in the dust of the outlying plain, with the discreet Pedro hovering in the distance, Susy dropped the reins, and, grasping her companion’s arm, gasped, in tones of dramatic intensity:—

“He’s been heard from, and is coming HERE!”

“Who?”

A sickening sense that her old confidante had already lost touch with her—they had been separated for nearly two weeks—might have passed through Susy’s mind.

“Who?” she repeated, with a vicious shake of Mary’s arm, “why, Clarence Brant, of course.”

“No!” said Mary, vaguely.

Nevertheless, Susy went on rapidly, as if to neutralize the effect of her comrade’s vacuity.

“You never could have imagined it! Never! Even I, when mother told me, I thought I should have fainted, and ALL would have been revealed!”

“But,” hesitated the still wondering confidante, “I thought that was all over long ago. You haven’t seen him nor heard from him since that day you met accidentally at Santa Clara, two years ago, have you?”

Susy’s eyes shot a blue ray of dark but unutterable significance into Mary’s, and then were carefully averted. Mary Rogers, although perfectly satisfied that Susy had never seen Clarence since, nevertheless instantly accepted and was even thrilled with this artful suggestion of a clandestine correspondence. Such was the simple faith of youthful friendship.

“Mother knows nothing of it, of course, and a word from you or him would ruin everything,” continued the breathless Susy. “That’s why I came to fetch you and warn you. You must see him first, and warn him at any cost. If I hadn’t run every risk to come here to-day, Heaven knows what might have happened! What do you think of the ponies, dear? They’re my own, and the sweetest! This one’s Susy, that one Clarence,—but privately, you know. Before the world and in the stables he’s only Birdie.”

“But I thought you wrote to me that you called them ‘Paul and Virginie,’” said Mary doubtfully.

“I do, sometimes,” said Susy calmly. “But one has to learn to suppress one’s feelings, dear!” Then quickly, “I do so hate deceit, don’t you? Tell me, don’t you think deceit perfectly hateful?”

Without waiting for her friend’s loyal assent, she continued rapidly: “And he’s just rolling in wealth! and educated, papa says, to the highest degree!”

“Then,” began Mary, “if he’s coming with your mother’s consent, and if you haven’t quarreled, and it is not broken off, I should think you’d be just delighted.”

But another quick flash from Susy’s eyes dispersed these beatific visions of the future. “Hush!” she said, with suppressed dramatic intensity. “You know not what you say! There’s an awful mystery hangs over him. Mary Rogers,” continued the young girl, approaching her small mouth to her confidante’s ear in an appalling whisper. “His father was—a PIRATE! Yes—lived a pirate and was killed a pirate!”

The statement, however, seemed to be partly ineffective. Mary Rogers was startled but not alarmed, and even protested feebly. “But,” she said, “if the father’s dead, what’s that to do with Clarence? He was always with your papa—so you told me, dear—or other people, and couldn’t catch anything from his own father. And I’m sure, dearest, he always seemed nice and quiet.”

“Yes, SEEMED,” returned Susy darkly, “but that’s all you know! It was in his BLOOD. You know it always is,—you read it in the books,—you could see it in his eye. There were times, my dear, when he was thwarted,—when the slightest attention from another person to me revealed it! I have kept it to myself,—but think, dearest, of the effects of jealousy on that passionate nature! Sometimes I tremble to look back upon it.”

Nevertheless, she raised her hands and threw back her lovely golden mane from her childish shoulders with an easy, untroubled gesture. It was singular that Mary Rogers, leaning back comfortably in the buggy, also accepted these heart-rending revelations with comfortably knitted brows and luxuriously contented concern. If she found it difficult to recognize in the picture just drawn by Susy the quiet, gentle, and sadly reserved youth she had known, she said nothing. After a silence, lazily watching the distant wheeling vacquero, she said:—

“And your father always sends an outrider like that with you? How nice! So picturesque—and like the old Spanish days.”

“Hush!” said Susy, with another unutterable glance.

But this time Mary was in full sympathetic communion with her friend, and equal to any incoherent hiatus of revelation.

“No!” she said promptly, “you don’t mean it!”

“Don’t ask me, I daren’t say anything to papa, for he’d be simply furious. But there