A Waif of the Plains.

Auckland Star, Volume XXI, Issue 32, 8 February 1890, Page 3 (Supplement)

A Waif of the Plains.

I3IIET HARTE.

Author of 'The Argonauts,' 'The Luck of RoAJitNU Camp,' 'Ckessy,' Etc.

Copyright 1889--By bhe Author,

CHAPTER IX

When ho reached the college the Angelas had long since runpr. In the corridor he met one of the Fathers, who, instead of questioning him, returned his salutation with a grave gentleness thab struck him. He had turned into Father Sobriento's quiet study with the intention of reporting himself when ho was disturbed to find him in consultation with three or four of the faculty, who seemed to bo thrown into some slight confusion by his entrance. Clarence was about to retire hurriedly when Father Sobriente, breaking up the council with a significant glance ab the others, called him back. Confused and embarrassed with the dread of something impending, the boy tried to avert it by a hurried account of his meeting with Susy, and his hopes of Father Sobriente's counsel and assistance. Taking upon himself the idea of suggesting Susy's escapade, ho confessed the laulb. The old man gazed into his frank eyes with a thoughtful, halfcompassionate smilo. * I was just thinking of giving you a holiday wifch—with Don Juan Robinson.' The unusual substitution of this final title for the habibual • your cousin,' struck Clarence uneasily. ' Bub we will speak of that laber. Sib down, my son, lam nob busy. Wo shall talk a little. Father Pedeo says you are getting on fluently with your translations. That is excellent, my son, excellent.'

Clarence's face beamed wibh relief and pleasure. Ilia vague fears began bo dissipate.

• And you translate even from dictation ? Good ! We have an hour to spare, and you shall give to me a specimen of your skill. Eh ? Good ! I will walk here and dictate to you in my poor English, and you shall sit there and render it to me in your good Spanish. Eh ? So we shall amuse and insbrucb ourselves.'

Clarencesmiled. Thesesporadic moment a of in.?bruction and admonitions were nob unusual to the good father. He cheerfully seated himself at the Padre's table before a blank sheet of naper, with a pen in his hand. Father Sibriente paced the apartment with his usual heavy but noiseless tread. To his surprise the good priest, after an exhaustive pinch of snuff, blew his nose, and be_an, in his most lugubrious style of pulpit exhortation :—

'Ib has been written that the sins of tho father shall be visited" upon the children, and the unthinking and worldly have sought refuge from this law by declaring ifc harsh and cruel! Miserable and blind ! For do we nob see that bhe wicked man, who in the pridG of his power and vain glory is willing to risk punishment o f himself—and believes ib to be courage—must p .use before the awful mandate that condemns an equal suffering to those he loves —which he cannot withhold nor suffer for. In the spectacle of theso innocents struggling against dissrraco, perhaps disease, poverty, or desertions, what avails his haughty all-defying spirib? Lob us imagine, Clarence.' 'Sir,' said tho literal Clarence, pausing in his exercise. 'I mean,' continued tho priest with a slight cough, ' Let the thoughtful man picture a father'! A desperate, self-willed man who scorned the laws of God and society—keeping only faith, wibh a miserable subterfuge ho called "honour"—and relying only on his own courage and his knowledge of human weakness ! Imagine him cruel and bloody—a gambler by profession, an outlaw among men, an outcast from the Church, voluntarily abandoning friends and family, the wife he should have cherished, the son he should have reared and educated —for the gratification of his deadly passions. Yeb imagine that man, suddenly confronted with the thought of thab heritage of shame and disgust which he had brought upon his innocent offspring—to whom he cannot give even his own desperate recklessness to sustain its vicarious suffering. What must be bhe feeline of a parenb '

'Father Sobriente,' said Clarence, softly.

To the boy's surprise, scarcely had he spoken whr-n the soft protecting palm of the priest was already upon his shoulder, and bhe snuffy, but kindly upper lip, trembling with some strange emotion, close beside his cheek. 'What is it, Clarence?' he said, hurriedly. ' Speak, my son, without fear ! You would ask '

• I only wanted to know if " padre " takes a masculine verb here,' said Clarence, naively.

Father Sobriente blew his nose violently. 'Truly—though used for either gender, by the context masculine,' he responded, gravely. 'And,' be added, leaning over

Clarence, and scanning his work hastily, • Good, very good ! And now, possibly, 5 he continued, passing, his hand like a damp sponge over his heated brow, 'we shall reverse our exercise. I shall deliver to you, in Spanish, what you shall render back in English, eh? And—let us consider —wo shall make something more familiar and narrative, eh ?'

To this Clarence, somewhat bored by these present solemn abstractions, assented gladly, took up his pen ; and Father Sobrien*e, resuming his noiseless pacing,

began : •On the fertile plains of Guadalajara lived a certain caballero, possessed of flocks and land, and a wife and eon. But being also possessed of a fiery and roving nature, he did not value them as he did perilous adventure, feats of arms, and sanguinary encounters. To this may be added riotous excesses, gambling, and drunkenness, which in timo decreased his patrimony, even as his rebellious and quarrelsome spirit had alienated his family and neighbours. His wife, borne down by shame and sorrow died while her son was still an infant. In a fit of equal remorse and recklessness the caballero married again within the year. Bub the new wife was of a temper and bearing as bitter as her consort. Violenb quarrels ensued between bhem, ending in bhe husband abandoning his wife and son, and leaving St. Louis—l should say Guadalajara—for ever. Joining some adventurers in a foreign land, under an assumed name, he pursued his reckless course until, by ono or two acts of outlawry, he made his return to civilisation impossible. The deserted wife and stepmother of his child coldly accepted the situation, forbidding his name to bo spoken again in her presence, announced that he was dead, and kept the knowledge of his existence from his own son, whom she placed -under the charge of her sister. But the sister managed to secretly communicate with the outlawed father, and under a pretext arranged between bhem of sending the boy to another relation, actually despatched the innocent child to his unworthy parent. Perhaps stirred by remorse the infamous man '

'Stop,' paid Clarence, suddenly

He had thrown down his pen, and was standing erect and rir.'id before the father. ' You are trying to tell me something, Father Sobriente,' he said, with an effort. ' Speak out, I implore you. I can stand anything but this mystery. lam no longer a child. I have a right to know all. This thab you are telling me is no fable—l see ib in your faco, Father Sobriente ; it is the story of—ot—'

'Your father, Clarence,' said bhe priesb, in a trembling voice.

The boy drew back with a white face. 'My father !' he repeated. ' Living or dead ?'

' Living—when you first left your home,' raid the old man hurriedly, seizing Clarence's hand, ' for ib was he who in the name of your cousin sonfc for you ; living ! yes, while you wero here, for it was he who for tho past three years stood in the shadow of this assumed oou?in Don Juan, and at Inst 6enb you to this school; living, Clarence, yes ; but living under a namo and reputation that would have blasted you ! And now dead —dead iv Mexico, shob aa an insurgent in a still desperate career! May God have mercy on his soul!'

4 Dead !' repeated Clarence, trembling, ' only now !'

'The news of the insurrection and his fate came only an hour since,' continued tho Padre, quickly; * his complicity with ib and his identity were known only to Don Juan. He would have spared you any knowledge of the truth—even as this dead man would. But I and my brothers thought otherwise. I have broken it to you badly, my son—but forgive me.' A hysterical laugh broke from Clarence, and the priest recoiled before him. ' Forgive yon I What was this man to me ?' he said, with boyish vehemence. 'He never loved me ! He deserted me ; he made my life a lie. He never sought me, came near me, or stretched out a hand to rao bhab I could bake.'

' Hush ! hush !' said the priest, with a horrified look, laying his huge hand upon the boy's shoulder and beai-ing him down to his seat. ' You know not what you say. Think--think, Clarence ! was there none of all those who have befriended you—who wero kind to you in your wanderings—to whom your heart turned unconsciously ? Think, Clarence, you yourself have spoken to me of such a one. Deb your heart speak again for his sake —for the sake of the dead !'

A gentler lighb suffused the boy's eyes, and he started. Catching convulsively at his companion's sleove, he said in an eager boyish whisper, ' There was one, a wicked, desperate man whom they all feared— Flynn, who brought me from the mines. Yes, I thought thab he was my cousin's loyal friend—more than all bhe rest, and I told him everything, all that I never told the man thab I thought my cousin, or any one, or even you ; and I think, I think, father, I liked him best of all. I thought since ib was wrong,' he conbinued with a trembling smile, 'for I was foolishly fond even of the way others feared him—he that I feared not, and who was so kind to me. Yeb he, too, left me without a word, and when I would have followed him,'—but the boy broke down and buried his face in his hands.

'No, no,' said Father Sobriente, with eager persistence, ' that was his foolish pride to spare you the knowledge of your kinship with one so feared, and part of the blind and mistaken penance he had laid upon himself. For even at bhab momenb of your boyish indignation he never was so fond of you as then. Yes, my poor boy, this man, to whom God led your wandering feet at Deadman's Gulch—the man who brought you here, and by some secret hold —I know nob what—in Don Juan's past, persuaded him to assume to be your relation — this man-Flynn, this Jackson Brant, the gambler, this Hamilton Brant the outlaw— was your father! Ah, yes ! Weep on, my son ; each tear of love and forgiveness from thee hath vicarious power to wash away hi 3 sin.'

With a single sweep of his protecting hand he drew Clarence towards his breast, until the boy slowly sank upon his knees at his feet. Then, lifting his eyes towards the ceiling, he said softly in an older tongue, ' And thou boo, unhappy and perburbed spirib, rest.'

It was nearly dawn when the good Padro wiped the last tears from Clarence' 3 clearer eyes. ' And now, my son,' he said, with a gentle smile, as he rose to his feeb, * leb us nob forgeb bhe Although your stepmother has, bhrough her own acb, no legal cla.\m upon you, far be ib from me bo indicate your attitude bowards her. Enough bhat you are independent' Ho turned, and, opening a drawer in his secretaire, took out a bank book, and placed ib in bhe hands of bhe wondering boy. 4lb was Am? wish, Clarence, that even after his death you should never have to prove your kinship to claim your rights. Taking'advantage of the boyish deposit yon had left wibh Mr Garden ab bhe bank, with his connivance aud in your name he added to ib, month by month and year by year ; Mr Garden cheerfully accepting the trust and management of the fund. The seed thus sown has produced a thousandfold, Clarence, beyond all expectations. You are not only free, my son,, but of yourself, and in whabever name ypu choose —your own master.' 'I shall keep his name,' said the boy simply. 'He was my father.' ' Amen,' said Father Sobriente. And with this discovery closed the strange chronicle of Clarence Brant's .boyhood. How he sustained that name and independence in after years, and whoi o.f those already mentioned in these pages, .helped him to make or Knar it, is a matter for future record. The End.