It appears that this boy, whom we brought to Sacramento to deliver to a relative”—
“And who was a wicked little impostor,—you remember that yourself, John, for he said that he was the son of Colonel Brant, and that he was dead; and you know, and my brother Harry knew, that Colonel Brant was alive all the time, and that he was lying, and Colonel Brant was not his father,” broke in Mrs. Peyton impatiently.
“As it seems you do remember that much,” said Peyton dryly, “it is only just to him that I should tell you that it appears that he was not an impostor. His story was TRUE. I have just learned that Colonel Brant WAS actually his father, but had concealed his lawless life here, as well as his identity, from the boy. He was really that vague relative to whom Clarence was confided, and under that disguise he afterwards protected the boy, had him carefully educated at the Jesuit College of San Jose, and, dying two years ago in that filibuster raid in Mexico, left him a considerable fortune.”
“And what has he to do with Susy’s holidays?” said Mrs. Peyton, with uneasy quickness. “John, you surely cannot expect her ever to meet this common creature again, with his vulgar ways. His wretched associates like that Jim Hooker, and, as you yourself admit, the blood of an assassin, duelist, and—Heaven knows what kind of a pirate his father wasn’t at the last—in his veins! You don’t believe that a lad of this type, however much of his father’s ill-gotten money he may have, can be fit company for your daughter? You never could have thought of inviting him here?”
“I’m afraid that’s exactly what I have done, Ally,” said the smiling but unmoved Peyton; “but I’m still more afraid that your conception of his present condition is an unfair one, like your remembrance of his past. Father Sobriente, whom I met at San Jose yesterday, says he is very intelligent, and thoroughly educated, with charming manners and refined tastes. His father’s money, which they say was an investment for him in Carson’s Bank five years ago, is as good as any one’s, and his father’s blood won’t hurt him in California or the Southwest. At least, he is received everywhere, and Don Juan Robinson was his guardian. Indeed, as far as social status goes, it might be a serious question if the actual daughter of the late John Silsbee, of Pike County, and the adopted child of John Peyton was in the least his superior. As Father Sobriente evidently knew Clarence’s former companionship with Susy and her parents, it would be hardly politic for us to ignore it or seem to be ashamed of it. So I intrusted Sobriente with an invitation to young Brant on the spot.”
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
