A Waif of the Plains, Bret Harte [sight word books txt] 📗

Then followed to Clarence three uneventful years. During that interval he learnt that Jackson Brant, or Don Juan Robinson—for the tie of kinship was the least factor in their relations to each other, and after the 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 denationalized him. A bookish recluse, somewhat superfastidious towards 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 finally 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 cousin’s books with equally lawless and undisciplined 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; but in a few weeks the quick-witted Clarence acquired such a colloquial proficiency from his casual acquaintance with vaqueros 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 lifelong reputation depend upon a single trivial act, Clarence’s social status was settled forever at El 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, gesture, and spirit of the scene to his companion, and Don Juan’s unknown and youthful relation was at once recognized 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. “It is true, Mother of God,” said Chucha of the Mill; “it was Domingo who himself relates it as it were the Creed. When the American escort had 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 to him a gold piece of twenty pesos. 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 Domingo, and with a grace and fire admirable.” But it is certain that Clarence’s singular simplicity and truthfulness, a faculty of being picturesquely indolent in a way that suggested a 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 El Refugio. At the end of three years Don Juan found 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 unlettered 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 glancing 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 he had shown at their first meeting, suddenly asked him, “what business he expected to follow.” It seemed the more singular, as the speaker, like most 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 boyish directness—

“Has anything happened? Have I done anything wrong?”

“No, no,” returned Don Juan hurriedly. “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. It’s too bad,” he added fretfully, with a certain impatient forgetfulness of Clarence’s presence, and as if following his own thought. “Just as you are becoming of service to me, and justifying your ridiculous position here—and all this d—d nonsense that’s gone before—I mean, of course, Clarence,” he interrupted himself, catching sight of the boy’s whitening cheek and darkening eye, “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. Tomorrow we’ll ride over to San Jose and see the Father Secretary at the Jesuits’ College about your 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 crushing to an ingenuous nature than the sudden revelation of the aspect 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 ride through the lonely hills, and later in the sleepless solitude 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 boarder in the college. Don Juan’s position and Spanish predilections naturally made his relation acceptable to the faculty; but Clarence could not help perceiving that Father Sobriente, the Principal, regarded