BANCROFT 
 
 LIBRARY 
 > 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 .___ 
 
' Medical opinion, hastily summoned from Santa Inez' [p. 152 
 
SUSY 
 
 BY 
 
 BRET HARTE \ 
 ^ ) 
 
 'He had just thrown himself into an easy chair' [p. 213 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 1893 
 
Bancroft Li 
 
 SUSY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 WHERE the San Leandro turnpike stretches 
 its dusty, hot, and interminable length along 
 the valley at a point where the heat and dust 
 have become intolerable, the monotonous ex- 
 panse of wild oats on either side illimitable, 
 and the distant horizon apparently remoter 
 than ever it suddenly slips between a stunted 
 thicket or hedge of ' scrub oaks,' which until 
 that moment had been undistinguishable 
 above the long, misty, quivering level of the 
 grain. The thicket rising gradually in height, 
 but with a regular slope whose gradient had 
 been determined by centuries of Western 
 
 B 
 
2 SUSY 
 
 Trade winds, presently becomes a fair wood of 
 4 live oak,' and a few hundred yards further 
 at last assumes the aspect of a primeval forest. 
 A delicious coolness fills the air ; the long 
 shadowy aisles greet the aching eye with a 
 soothing twilight ; the murmur of unseen 
 brooks are heard, and, by a strange irony, 
 the enormous, widely-spaced stacks of wild 
 oats are replaced by a carpet of tiny-leaved 
 mosses and chickweed at the root of trees, 
 and the minutest clover in more open spaces. 
 The baked and cracked adobe soil of the now 
 vanished plains is exchanged for a heavy red 
 mineral dust and gravel ; rocks and boulders 
 make their appearance, and at times the road 
 is crossed by the white veins of quartz. It is 
 still the San Leandro turnpike a few miles 
 later to rise from this Canada into the upper 
 plains again but it is also the actual gate- 
 way and avenue to the old Robles Rancho. 
 When the departing visitors of Judge Peyton 
 now owner of the Rancho reach the outer 
 plains again, after twenty minutes' drive from 
 the house, the Canada, rancho, and avenue 
 
SUSY 3 
 
 have as completely disappeared from view 
 as if they had been swallowed up in a 
 plain. 
 
 A cross road from the turnpike is the 
 usual approach to the casa or mansion a 
 long, low quadrangle of brown adobe wall on 
 a bare but gently-sloping eminence. And 
 here a second surprise meets the stranger. 
 He seems to have emerged from the forest 
 upon another illimitable plain, but one utterly 
 trackless, wild, and desolate. It is, however, 
 only a lower terrace of the same valley, and, 
 in fact, comprises the three square leagues 
 of the Robles Rancho. Uncultivated and 
 savage as it appears given over to wild 
 cattle and horses that sometimes sweep in 
 frightened bands around the very casa itself 
 the long south wall of the corral embraces an 
 orchard of gnarled pear trees, an old vine- 
 yard, and a venerable garden of olives and 
 oranges. A manor, formerly granted by 
 Charles V. to Don Vincente Robles, of An- 
 dalusia, and pious and ascetic memory, it had 
 commended itself to Judge Peyton, of Ken- 
 
 B 2 
 
4 SUSY 
 
 tucky, a modern heretic pioneer of bookish 
 tastes and secluded habits, who had bought 
 it of Don Vincente's descendants. Here 
 Judge Peyton seemed to have realised his 
 idea of a perfect climate, and a retirement, 
 half-studious, half-active, with something of 
 the seignoralty of the old slaveholder that 
 he had been. Here, too, he had seen the 
 hope of restoring his wife's health for which 
 he had undertaken the overland emigration 
 more than fulfilled in Mrs. Peyton's im- 
 proved physical condition, albeit at the ex- 
 pense, perhaps, of some of the languorous 
 graces of ailing American wifehood. 
 
 It was with a curious recognition of this 
 latter fact that Judge Peyton watched his wife 
 crossing the patio or courtyard with her arm 
 around the neck of her adopted daughter, 
 * Suzette.' A sudden memory crossed his 
 mind of the first day that he had seen them 
 together the day that he had brought the 
 child and her boy-companion two estrays 
 from an emigrant train on the plains to his 
 wife in camp. Certainly Mrs. Peyton was 
 
SUSY 5 
 
 stouter and stronger fibred ; the wonderful 
 Californian climate had materialised her 
 figure, as it had their Eastern fruits and 
 flowers, but it was stranger that ' Susy ' the 
 child of homelier frontier blood and parent- 
 age, whose wholesome peasant plumpness 
 had at first attracted them should have 
 grown thinner and more graceful, and even 
 seemed to have gained the delicacy his wife 
 had lost. Six years had imperceptibly 
 wrought this change ; it had never struck 
 him before so forcibly as on this day of 
 Susy's return from the convent school at 
 Santa Clara for the holidays. 
 
 The woman and child had reached the 
 broad verandah which on one side of the 
 patio replaced the old Spanish corridor. It 
 was the single modern innovation that Peyton 
 had allowed himself when he had broken the 
 quadrangular symmetry of the old house 
 with a wooden ' annexe,' or addition beyond 
 the walls. It made a pleasant lounging- 
 place, shadowed from the hot mid-day sun 
 by sloping roofs and awnings, and sheltered 
 
6 SUSY 
 
 from the boisterous afternoon Trade winds by 
 the opposite side of the court. But Susy did 
 not seem inclined to linger there long that 
 morning, in spite of Mrs. Peyton's evident 
 desire for a maternal tete-a-tete. The nervous 
 preoccupation and capricious ennui of an 
 indulged child showed in her pretty but dis- 
 contented face, and knit her curved eyebrows, 
 and Peyton saw r a look of pain pass over his 
 wife's face as the young girl suddenly and 
 half-laughingly broke away and fluttered off 
 towards the old garden. 
 
 Mrs. Peyton looked up and caught her 
 husband's eye. 
 
 ' I am afraid Susy finds it more dull here 
 every time she returns,' she said, with an 
 apologetic smile. ' I am glad she has in- 
 vited one of her school friends to come for a 
 visit to-morrow. You know yourself, John,' 
 she added with a slight partisan attitude, 
 ' that the lonely old house and wild plain is 
 not particularly lively for young people, how- 
 ever much it may suit your ways.' 
 
 * It certainly must be dull if she can't 
 
SUSY 7 
 
 stand it for three weeks in the year,' said her 
 husband drily. ' But we really cannot open 
 the San Francisco house for her summer 
 vacation, nor can we move from the Rancho 
 to a more fashionable locality. Besides, it 
 will do her good to run wild here. I can 
 remember when she wasn't so fastidious. 
 In fact, I was thinking just now how changed 
 she was from the day when we picked her 
 up- 
 
 * How often am I to remind you, John,' 
 interrupted the lady with some impatience, 
 ' that we agreed never to speak of her past, 
 or even to think of her as anything but our 
 own child. You know how it pains me. 
 And the poor dear herself has forgotten it, 
 and thinks of us only as her own parents. I 
 really believe that if that wretched father 
 and mother of hers had not been killed by 
 the Indians, or were to come to life again, 
 she would neither know them nor care for 
 them. I mean, of course, John,' she said, 
 averting her eyes from a slightly cynical 
 smile on her husband's face, 'that it's only 
 
8 SUSY 
 
 natural for young children to be forgetful, 
 and ready to take new impressions.' 
 
 ' And as long, dear, as we are not the 
 subjects of this youthful forgetful ness, and 
 she isn't really finding us as stupid as the 
 Rancho,' replied her husband cheerfully, ' I 
 suppose we mustn't complain.' 
 
 ' John, how can you talk such nonsense ! ' 
 said Mrs. Peyton impatiently. ' But I have 
 no fear of that,' she added with a slightly 
 ostentatious confidence. * I only wish I was 
 as sure 
 
 1 Of what ? ' 
 
 * Of nothing happening that could take 
 her from us. I do not mean death, John 
 like our first little one. That does not happen 
 to one twice, but I sometimes dread ' 
 
 .' What ? She's only fifteen, and it's rather 
 early to think about the only other inevitable 
 separation marriage. Come, Ally, this is 
 mere fancy. She has been given up to us 
 by her family at least, by all that we know 
 are left of them. I have legally adopted her. 
 If I have not made her my heiress, it is 
 
SUSY 9 
 
 because I prefer to leave everything to you, 
 and I would rather she should know that she 
 was dependent upon you for the future than 
 upon me.' 
 
 ' And I can make a will in her favour if I 
 want to ? ' said Mrs. Peyton quickly. 
 
 * Always,' responded her husband smilingly, 
 1 but you have ample time to think of that, I 
 trust. Meanwhile I have some news for you 
 which may make Susy's visit to the Rancho 
 this time less dull to her. You remember 
 Clarence Brant, the boy who was with her 
 when we picked her up, and who really 
 saved her life ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't,' said Mrs. Peyton pettishly; 
 ' nor do I want to ! You know, John, how 
 distasteful and unpleasant it is for me to 
 have those dreary, petty, and vulgar details 
 of the poor child's past life recalled, and, 
 thank Heaven, I have forgotten them except 
 when you choose to drag them before me. 
 You agreed, long ago, that we were never to 
 talk of the Indian massacre of her parents, 
 so that we could also ignore it before her ; 
 
io 
 
 then why do you talk of her vulgar friends, 
 who are just as unpleasant ? Please let us 
 drop the past.' 
 
 ' Willingly, my dear ; but, unfortunately, 
 we cannot make others do it. And this is 
 a case in point. 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 drily, '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 learnt 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 
 
SUSY n 
 
 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 asso- 
 ciates like that Jim Hooker, and as you 
 yourself admit the blood of an assassin, 
 duellist, 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 ? ' 
 
 4 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 
 
12 SUSY 
 
 unfair one, like your remembrance of his 
 past. Father Sobiente, 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 anyone's, and his father's blood 
 won't hurt him in California or the South- 
 west. At least, he is received everywhere, 
 and Don Jose 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 Sobiente 
 evidently knew Clarence's former companion- 
 ship with Susy and her parents, it would be 
 hardly politic for us to ignore it or seem to be 
 ashamed of it. So I entrusted Sobiente with 
 an invitation to young Brant on the spot.' 
 
 Mrs. Peyton's impatience, indignation, 
 and opposition, which had successively given 
 
SUSY 13 
 
 way before her husband's quiet, masterful 
 good-humour, here took the form of a neu- 
 rotic fatalism. She shook her head with 
 superstitious resignation. 
 
 1 Didn't I tell you, John, that I always 
 
 had a dread of something coming ' 
 
 1 But if it comes in the shape of a shy 
 young lad, I see nothing singularly porten- 
 tous 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, ' pre- 
 serve the interest of strict propriety. Shall 
 I break it to her or will you ? ' 
 
 ' No yes,' hesitated Mrs. Peyton, ' Per- 
 haps I had better.' 
 
 ' Very well, I leave his character in your 
 hands ; only don't prejudice her into a 
 
14 SUSY 
 
 romantic fancy for him.' And Judge Pey- 
 ton lounged smilingly away. 
 
 Then two little tears forced themselves 
 from Mrs. Peyton's eyes. Again she saw 
 that prospect of uninterrupted companion- 
 ship 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 in- 
 vited 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 materialised 
 with her changed fibre, had nevertheless be- 
 
SUSY 15 
 
 come a coarser selfishness fostered by her 
 loneliness and limited experience. The ma- 
 ternal 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 transfer- 
 ence 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 tree- 
 tops through years of exposure slanted as 
 if trimmed by gigantic shears. At first, look- 
 ing clown 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 arbour. In the midst of this 
 
16 SUSY 
 
 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 sug- 
 gested more than her fifteen years of girl- 
 hood. 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 mechani- 
 cal, 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. 
 
St/SY 17 
 
 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 question- 
 ing 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 hus- 
 band'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 
 * e 
 
iS SUSY 
 
 are quite a young lady now,' she added 
 eagerly. 
 
 The open mouth was still fixed ; the won- 
 dering 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 preoccu- 
 pation, 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. 
 
SUSY 19 
 
 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 
 stage-coach and fetch Mary Rogers from the 
 station. Mrs. Peyton, as usual, supported 
 the young lady's whim and opposed her hus- 
 band's objections. 
 
 * Because the stage-coach 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 horse- 
 back to see that she comes to no harm.' 
 
 1 But that isn't Pedro's business,' said 
 Peyton. 
 
 C2 
 
20 SUSY 
 
 1 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 stage-coach drew up the next after- 
 noon at the Santa Inez Hotel Susy was 
 already waiting in her pony-carriage before 
 it. Although the susceptible driver, express- 
 man, 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 humour 
 did not, however, impair her capacity for sen- 
 timent, was impressed and even embarrassed 
 by her demeanour ; 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 hover- 
 ing in the distance, Susy dropped the reins, 
 and, grasping her companion's arm, gasped, 
 in tones of dramatic intensity : 
 
SUSY 21 
 
 4 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 
 neutralise the effect of her comrade's vacuity. 
 
 1 You never could have imagined it ! 
 Never! Even /, when mother told me, I 
 thought I should have fainted, and all would 
 have been revealed ! ' 
 
 1 But,' hesitated the still wondering con- 
 fidante, ' 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 
 
22 SUSY 
 
 were carefully averted. Mary Rogers, al- 
 though 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 friend- 
 ship. 
 
 ' Mother knows nothing of it, of course, 
 and a word from you or him would ruin 
 everything,' continued the breathless Susy. 
 1 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 feel- 
 
SUSY 23 
 
 ings, 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 
 quarrelled, 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, ap- 
 proaching 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. 
 
24 
 
 ' 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 ! Some- 
 times 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 
 
SUSY 25 
 
 to recognise 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 : 
 
 1 And your father always sends an out- 
 rider like that with you ? How nice. So 
 picturesque and like the old Spanish days.' 
 
 * Hush ! ' said Susy, with another unutter- 
 able glance. 
 
 But this time Mary was in full sympa- 
 thetic 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 are times when we're alone, and Pedro 
 wheels down so near with such a look in his 
 black eyes that I'm all in a tremble. It's 
 dreadful ! They say he's a real Briones 
 and he sometimes says something in Spanish, 
 ending with " Senorita," but I pretend I 
 don't understand.' 
 
26 SUSY 
 
 ' And I suppose that if anything should 
 happen to the ponies he'd just risk his life to 
 save you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes and it would be so awful for I 
 just hate him ! ' 
 
 ' But if / was with you, dear, he couldn't 
 expect you to be as grateful as if you were 
 alone. Susy ! ' she continued after a pause, 
 1 if you just stirred up the ponies a little so 
 as to make 'em go fast, perhaps he might 
 think they'd got away from you, and come 
 dashing down here. It would be so funny 
 to see him wouldn't it ? ' 
 
 The two girls looked at each other ; their 
 eyes sparkled already with a fearful joy 
 they drew a long breath of guilty an- 
 ticipation. For a moment Susy even be- 
 lieved in her imaginary sketch of Pedro's 
 devotion. 
 
 ' Papa said I wasn't to use the whip ex- 
 cept in a case of necessity,' she said, reaching 
 for the slender silver-handled toy, and setting 
 her pretty lips together with the added de- 
 termination of disobedience. ' G'long ! ' and 
 
SUSY 27 
 
 she laid the lash smartly on the shining 
 backs of the animals. 
 
 They were wiry, slender brutes of Mo- 
 jave Indian blood, only lately broken to 
 harness, and still undisciplined in temper. 
 The lash sent them rearing into the air, 
 where forgetting themselves in the slackened 
 traces and loose reins, they came down with 
 a succession of bounds that brought the light 
 buggy leaping after them with its wheels 
 scarcely touching the ground. That unlucky 
 lash had knocked away the bonds of a few 
 months' servitude, and sent the half broken 
 brutes instinctively careering with arched 
 backs and kicking heels into the field towards 
 the nearest cover. 
 
 Mary Rogers cast a hurried glance over 
 her shoulder. Alas ! they had not calculated 
 on the insidious levels of the terraced plain, 
 and the faithful Pedro had suddenly disap- 
 peared ; the intervention of six inches of 
 rising wild oats had wiped him out of the 
 prospect and their possible salvation as 
 completely as if he had been miles away. 
 
28 SUSY 
 
 Nevertheless, the girls were not frightened ; 
 perhaps they had not time. There was, 
 however, the briefest interval for the most 
 dominant of feminine emotions, and it was 
 taken advantage of by Susy. 
 
 ' It was ally our fault, dear! ' she gasped, 
 as the forewheels of the buggy dropping into 
 a gopher rut suddenly tilted up the back of 
 the vehicle and shot its fair occupants into 
 the yielding palisades of dusty grain. The 
 shock detached the whiffle-tree from the 
 splinter-bar, snapped the light pole, and 
 turning the now thoroughly frightened ani- 
 mals again from their course, sent them, 
 goaded by the clattering fragments, flying 
 down the turnpike. Half a mile further on 
 they overtook the gleaming white canvas 
 hood of a slowly moving waggon drawn by 
 two oxen, and swerving again, the nearer 
 pony stepped upon a trailing trace and in- 
 gloriously ended their career by rolling 
 himself and his companion in the dust at the 
 very feet of the peacefully plodding team. 
 
 Equally harmless and inglorious was the 
 
SUSY 29 
 
 catastrophe of Susy and her friend. The 
 strong, elastic stalks of the tall grain broke 
 their fall and enabled them to scramble to 
 their feet, dusty, dishevelled, but unhurt, and 
 even unstunned by the shock. Their first 
 instinctive cries over a damaged hat or 
 ripped skirt were followed by the quick 
 reaction of childish laughter. They were 
 alone ; the very defection of Pedro consoled 
 them in its absence of any witness to their 
 disaster ; even their previous slight attitude 
 to each other was forgotten. They groped 
 their way, pushing and panting, to the road 
 again, where, beholding the overset buggy 
 with its wheels ludicrously in the air, they 
 suddenly seized and shook each other, and 
 in an outburst of hilarious ecstasy^ fairly 
 laughed until the tears came into their 
 eyes. 
 
 Then there was a breathless silence. 
 
 ' The stage will be coming by in a mo- 
 ment,' composedly said Susy. ' Fix me, 
 dear.' 
 
 Mary Rogers calmly walked around her 
 
30 SUSY 
 
 friend, bestowing a practical shake there, a 
 pluck here, completely retying one bow and 
 restoring an engaging fulness to another 
 yet critically examining, with her head on 
 one side, the fascinating result. Then Susy 
 performed the same function for Mary with 
 equal deliberation and deftness. Suddenly 
 Mary started and looked up. 
 
 'It's coming,' she said quickly, 'and 
 they've seen us' 
 
 The expression of the faces of the two 
 girls instantly changed. A pained dignity 
 and resignation, apparently born of the most 
 harrowing experiences and controlled only 
 by perfect good breeding, was distinctly 
 suggested in their features and attitude, as 
 they stood patiently by the wreck of their 
 overturned buggy awaiting the oncoming 
 coach. In sharp contrast was the evident 
 excitement among the passengers. A few 
 rose from their seats in their eagerness ; as 
 the stage pulled up in the road beside the 
 buggy, four or five of the younger men 
 leaped to the ground. 
 
SUSY 31 
 
 ' Are you hurt, Miss ? ' they gasped sym- 
 pathetically. 
 
 Susy did not immediately reply, but omi- 
 nously knitted her pretty eyebrows as if 
 repressing a spasm of pain. Then she said : 
 
 ' Not at all/ coldly, with the suggestion 
 of stoically concealing some lasting or per- 
 haps fatal injury, and took the arm of Mary 
 Rogers, who had, in the meantime, esta- 
 blished a touching yet graceful limp. 
 
 Declining the proffered assistance of the 
 passengers, they helped each other into the 
 coach, and freezingly requesting the driver 
 to stop at Mr. Peyton's gate, maintained a 
 statuesque and impressive silence. At the 
 gate they got down, followed by the sym- 
 pathetic glances of the others. 
 
 To all appearance their escapade, albeit 
 fraught with dangerous possibilities, had 
 happily ended. But in the economy of 
 human affairs, as in Nature, forces are not 
 suddenly let loose without more or less sym- 
 pathetic disturbance which is apt to linger 
 after the impelling cause is harmlessly spent. 
 
32 SUSY 
 
 The fright which the girls had unsuccessfully 
 attempted to produce in the heart of their 
 escort, had passed him to become a panic 
 elsewhere. Judge Peyton, riding near the 
 gateway of his Rancho, was suddenly con- 
 fronted by the spectacle of one of his 
 vacqueros driving on before him the two 
 lassooed and dusty ponies, with a face that 
 broke into violent gesticulating at his master's 
 quick interrogation. 
 
 ' Ah ! Mother of God ! It was an evil 
 day ! For the bronchos had run away, upset 
 the buggy, and had only been stopped by a 
 brave Americano of an ox-team whose lasso 
 was even now around their necks to prove 
 it and who had been dragged a matter of a 
 hundred varas like a calf at their heels. The 
 senoritas ah ! had he not already said they 
 were safe, by the mercy of Jesus! picked 
 up by the coach, and would be here at this 
 moment.' 
 
 1 But where was Pedro all the time ? 
 What was he doing ?' demanded Peyton, 
 with a darkened face and gathering anger. 
 
SUSY 33 
 
 The vacquero looked at his master and 
 shrugged his shoulders significantly. At any 
 other time Peyton would have remembered 
 that Pedro, as the reputed scion of a decayed 
 Spanish family and claiming superiority, was 
 not a favourite with his fellow retainers. 
 But the gesture half of suggestion, half of 
 depreciation irritated Peyton still more. 
 
 ' Well, where is this American who did 
 something when there wasn't a man among 
 you all able to stop a child's runaway ponies ? ' 
 he said sarcastically. * Let me see him.' 
 
 The vacquero became still more depre- 
 catory. 
 
 ' Ah ! He had driven on with his team 
 towards San Antonio ; he would not stop to 
 be thanked. But that was the whole truth. 
 He, Incarnacion, could swear to it as to the 
 Creed. There was nothing more.' 
 
 ' Take those beasts around the back way 
 to the corral,' said Peyton, thoroughly en- 
 raged, ' and not a word of this to anyone at 
 the casa, do you hear ? Not a word to Mrs. 
 Peyton or the servants, or, by Heaven, I'll 
 
 D 
 
34 SUSY 
 
 clear the Rancho of the whole lazy crew of 
 you at once. Out of the way there, and be 
 off!' 
 
 He spurred his horse past the frightened 
 menial, and dashed down the narrow lane 
 that led to the gate. But, as Incarnacion 
 had truly said, * It was an evil day,' for at 
 the bottom of the lane, ambling slowly along 
 as he lazily puffed a yellow cigarette, ap- 
 peared the figure of the erring Pedro. Utterly 
 unconscious of the accident, attributing the 
 disappearance of his charges to the inequa- 
 lities of the plain, and, in truth, little inte- 
 rested in what he firmly believed was his 
 purely artificial function, he had even made 
 a larger circuit to stop at a wayside fonda for 
 refreshments. 
 
 Unfortunately, there is no more illogical 
 sequence of human emotion than the exas- 
 peration produced by the bland manner of 
 the unfortunate object who has excited it, 
 although that very unconcern may be the 
 convincing proof of innocence of intention. 
 Judge Peyton already influenced was furi- 
 
SUSY 35 
 
 ous at the comfortable obliviousness of his 
 careless henchman, and rode angrily towards 
 him. Only a quick turn of Pedro's wrist 
 kept the two men from coming into collision. 
 
 1 Is this the way you attend to your 
 duty ? ' demanded Peyton, in a thick, sup- 
 pressed voice. ' Where is the buggy ? 
 Where is my daughter ? ' 
 
 There was no mistaking Judge Peyton's 
 manner, even if the reason of it was not so 
 clear to Pedro's mind, and his hot Latin 
 blood flew instinctively to his face. But for 
 that he might have shown some concern, or 
 asked an explanation. As it was, he at once 
 retorted with the national shrug and the 
 national half-scornful, half-lazy ' Quien sabe?' 
 
 ' Who knows ? ' repeated Peyton hotly. 
 'I do! She was thrown out of her buggy 
 through your negligence and infernal lazi- 
 ness ! The ponies ran away and were stopped 
 by a stranger who wasn't afraid of risking 
 his bones, while you were limping around 
 somewhere like a slouching cowardly coyote.' 
 
 The vacquero struggled a moment be- 
 
 D 2 
 
36 
 
 tween blank astonishment and inarticulate 
 rage. At last he burst out : 
 
 * I am no coyote ! I was there ! I saw 
 no runaway ! ' 
 
 1 Don't lie to me, sir ! ' roared Peyton. 
 ' I tell you the buggy was smashed, the girls 
 
 were thrown out and nearly killed ' He 
 
 stopped suddenly. The sound of youthful 
 laughter had come from the bottom of the 
 lane, where Susy Peyton and Mary Rogers, 
 just alighted from the coach, in the reaction 
 of their previous constrained attitude, were 
 flying hilariously into view. A slight em- 
 barrassment crossed Peyton's face, a still 
 deeper flush of anger overspread Pedro's 
 sullen cheek. 
 
 Then Pedro found tongue again his 
 native one rapidly, violently, half inco- 
 herently. * Ah, yes ! It had come to this. 
 It seems he was not a vacquero a com- 
 panion of the padron on lands that had 
 been his own before the Americanos robbed 
 him of it but a servant, a lackey of mu- 
 chachas, an attendant on children to amuse 
 
37 
 
 them, or why not ? an appendage to his 
 daughter's state ! Ah, Jesus Maria ! such a 
 state ! such a muchacha \ A picked-up 
 foundling a swineherd's daughter to be 
 ennobled by his, Pedro's, attendance, and for 
 whose vulgar, clownish tricks tricks of a 
 swineherd's daughter he, Pedro, was to be 
 brought to book and insulted as if she were 
 of Hidalgo blood ! Ah, Caramba ! Don 
 Juan Peyton would find he could no more 
 make a servant of him than he could make 
 a lady of her ! ' 
 
 The two young girls were rapidly ap- 
 proaching. Judge Peyton spurred his horse 
 beside the vacquero's, and, swinging the 
 long thong of his bridle ominously in his 
 clenched fingers, said, with a white face : 
 ' Varnos ! ' 
 
 Pedro's hand slid towards his sash. 
 Peyton only looked at him with a rigid smile 
 of scorn. 
 
 'Or I'll lash you here before them both,' 
 he added in a lower voice. 
 
 The vacquero met Peyton's relentless 
 
3 8 SUSY 
 
 eyes with a yellow flash of hate, drew his 
 reins sharply until his mustang, galled by 
 the cruel bit, reared suddenly as if to strike 
 at the immovable American, then, apparently 
 with the same action, he swung it around on 
 its hind legs as on a pivot, and dashed to- 
 wards the corral at a furious gallop. 
 
SUSY 39 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MEANTIME the heroic proprietor of the 
 peaceful ox team, whose valour Incarnacion 
 had so infelicitously celebrated, was walking 
 listlessly in the dust beside his waggon. At 
 a first glance his slouching figure, taken in 
 connection with his bucolic conveyance, did 
 not immediately suggest a hero. As he 
 emerged from the dusty cloud it could be 
 seen that he was wearing a belt from which 
 a large dragoon revolver and hunting knife 
 were slung, and placed somewhat ostenta- 
 tiously across the waggon seat was a rifle. 
 Yet the other contents of the waggon were 
 of a singularly inoffensive character, and 
 even suggested articles of homely barter. 
 Culinary utensils of all sizes, tubs, scullery 
 
40 SUSY 
 
 brushes, and clocks, with several rolls of 
 cheap carpeting and calico, might have been 
 the wares of some travelling vendor. Yet 
 as they were only visible through a flap of 
 the drawn curtains of the canvas hood, they 
 did not mitigate the general aggressive effect 
 of their owner's appearance. A red ban- 
 danna handkerchief knotted and thrown 
 loosely over his shoulders, a slouched hat 
 pulled darkly over a head of long tangled 
 hair, which, however, shadowed a round, 
 comfortable face, scantily and youthfully 
 bearded, were part of these confusing incon- 
 sistencies. 
 
 The shadows of the team waggon were 
 already lengthening grotesquely over the 
 flat cultivated fields, which for some time 
 had taken the place of the plains of wild oats 
 in the branch road into which they had 
 turned. The gigantic shadow of the pro- 
 prietor occasionally projected before it was 
 in characteristic exaggeration, and was often 
 obliterated by a puff of dust, stirred by the 
 plodding hoofs of the peaceful oxen and 
 
SUSY 41 
 
 swept across the field by the strong after- 
 noon Trades. The sun sank lower, although 
 a still potent presence above the horizon 
 line ; the creaking waggon lumbered still 
 heavily along. Yet at intervals its belli- 
 gerent proprietor would start up from his 
 slouching, silent march, break out into 
 violent, disproportionate, but utterly ineffec- 
 tive objurgation of his cattle, jump into the 
 air and kick his heels together in some 
 paroxysm of indignation against them, an 
 act, however, which was received always 
 with heavy bovine indifference, the dogged 
 scorn of swaying, repudiating heads, or the 
 dull contempt of lazily flicking tails. 
 
 Towards sunset one or two straggling 
 barns and cottages indicated their approach 
 to the outskirts of a country town or settle- 
 ment. Here the team halted, as if the belli- 
 gerent-looking teamster had felt his appear- 
 ance was inconsistent with an effeminate civil- 
 isation, and the oxen were turned into an 
 open waste opposite a nondescript wooden 
 tenement, half farmhouse and half cabin, 
 
42 SUSY 
 
 evidently of the rudest Western origin. He 
 may have recognised the fact that these 
 1 shanties ' were not, as the ordinary traveller 
 might infer, the first rude shelter of the 
 original pioneers or settlers, but the later 
 makeshifts of some recent Western immi- 
 grants who, like himself, probably found 
 themselves unequal to the settled habits of 
 the village, and who still retained their 
 nomadic instincts. It chanced, however, 
 that the cabin at present was occupied by 
 a New England mechanic and his family, 
 who had emigrated by ship around Cape 
 Horn, and who had no experience of the 
 West, the plains, or its people. It was, 
 therefore, with some curiosity and a certain 
 amount of fascinated awe that the mechanic's 
 only daughter regarded from the open door 
 of her dwelling the arrival of this wild and 
 lawless-looking stranger. 
 
 Meantime he had opened the curtains 
 of the waggon and taken from its interior 
 a number of pots, pans, and culinary uten- 
 sils, which he proceeded to hang upon cer- 
 
SUSY 43 
 
 tain hooks that were placed on the outer 
 ribs of the board and the sides of the 
 vehicle. To this he added a roll of rag 
 carpet, the end of which hung from the tail- 
 board, and a roll of pink calico temptingly 
 displayed on the seat. The mystification 
 and curiosity of the young girl grew more 
 intense at these proceedings. It looked like 
 the ordinary exhibition of a travelling pedlar, 
 but the gloomy and embattled appearance 
 of the man himself scouted so peaceful 
 and commonplace a suggestion. Under the 
 pretence of chasing away a marauding hen, 
 she sallied out upon the waste near the 
 waggon. It then became evident that the 
 traveller had seen her, and was not averse 
 to her interest in his movements, although 
 he had not changed his attitude of savage 
 retrospection. An occasional ejaculation of 
 suppressed passion, as if the memory of 
 some past conflict was too much for him, 
 escaped him even in this peaceful occupa- 
 tion. As this possibly caused the young 
 girl to still hover timidly in the distance, he 
 
44 
 
 suddenly entered the waggon and reappeared 
 carrying a tin bucket, with which he some- 
 what ostentatiously crossed her path, his 
 eyes darkly wandering as if seeking some- 
 thing. 
 
 ' If you're lookin' for the spring it's a 
 spell furder on by the willows.' 
 
 It was a pleasant voice the teamster 
 thought, albeit with a dry, crisp New Eng- 
 land accent unfamiliar to his ears. He 
 looked into the depths of an unlovely blue 
 check sun-bonnet and saw certain small, 
 irregular features and a sallow cheek lit up 
 by a pair of perfectly innocent, trustful, and 
 wondering brown eyes. Their timid pos- 
 sessor seemed to be a girl of seventeen, 
 whose figure, although apparently clad in 
 one of her mother's gowns, was still unde- 
 veloped and repressed by rustic hardship 
 and innutrition. As her eyes met his she 
 saw that the face of this gloomy stranger 
 was still youthful, by no means implacable, 
 and, even at that moment, was actually suf- 
 fused by a brick-coloured blush ! In matters 
 
SVSY 45 
 
 of mere intuition, the sex even in its most 
 rustic phase is still our superior ; and this 
 unsophisticated girl, as the trespasser stam- 
 mered, ' Thank ye, Miss,' was instinctively 
 emboldened to greater freedom. 
 
 ' Dad ain't tu hum, but ye kin have a 
 drink o' milk if ye keer for it.' 
 
 She motioned shyly towards the cabin 
 and then led the way. The stranger, with 
 an inarticulate murmur, afterwards disguised 
 as a cough, followed her meekly. Neverthe- 
 less, by the time they had reached the cabin 
 he had shaken his long hair over his eyes 
 again, and a dark abstraction gathered chiefly 
 in his eyebrows. But it did not efface from 
 the girl's mind the previous concession of a 
 blush, and, although it added to her curi- 
 osity, did not alarm her. He drank the 
 milk awkwardly. But by the laws of cour- 
 tesy, even among the most savage tribes, 
 she felt he was, at that moment at least, 
 harmless. A timid smile fluttered around 
 her mouth as she said : 
 
 ' When ye hung up them things I thought 
 
46 SUSY 
 
 ye might be havin' suthing to swap or sell. 
 That is ' with tactful politeness * mother 
 was wantin' a new skillet, and it would have 
 been handy if you'd had one. But ' with 
 an apologetic glance at his equipments ' if 
 it ain't your business it's all right, and no 
 offence. 
 
 ' I've got a lot o' skillets,' said the strange 
 teamster, with marked condescension, * and 
 she can have one. They're all that's left 
 outer a heap o' trader's stuff captured by 
 Injuns t'other side of Laramie. We had a 
 big fight to get 'em back. Lost two of our 
 best men scalped at Bloody Creek and 
 had to drop a dozen redskins in their tracks 
 me and another man lyin' flat in er 
 waggon and firm' under the flaps of the 
 canvas. I don't know ez they waz wuth it,' 
 he added in gloomy retrospect ; ' but I've 
 got to get rid of 'em, I reckon, somehow, 
 afore I work over to Deadman's Gulch 
 again.' 
 
 The young girl's eyes brightened timidly 
 with a feminine mingling of imaginative awe 
 
SUSY 47 
 
 and personal, pitying interest. He was, 
 after all, so young and amiable-looking for 
 such hardships and adventures. And with 
 all this, he this Indian fighter was a little 
 afraid of her \ 
 
 1 Then, that's why you carry that knife 
 and six-shooter ? ' she said. * But you won't 
 want 'em now, here in the settlement.' 
 
 * That's ez mebbe,' said the stranger 
 darkly. He paused, and then suddenly, as 
 if recklessly accepting a dangerous risk, un- 
 buckled his revolver and handed it abstract- 
 edly to the young giil. But the sheath of 
 the bowie-knife was a fixture in his body- 
 belt, and he was obliged to withdraw the 
 glittering blade by itself, and to hand it to 
 her in all its naked terrors. The young girl 
 received the weapons with a smiling com- 
 placency. Upon such altars as these the 
 sceptical reader will remember that Mars 
 had once hung his * battered shield,' his 
 lance, and ' uncontrolled crest.' 
 
 Nevertheless, the warlike teamster was 
 not without embarrassment. Muttering 
 
48 SUSY 
 
 something about the necessity of ' looking 
 after his stock,' he achieved a hesitating 
 bow, backed awkwardly out of the door, and 
 receiving from the conquering hands of the 
 young girl his weapons again, was obliged 
 to carry them somewhat ingloriously in his 
 hands across the road, and put them on the 
 waggon seat, where, in company with the 
 culinary articles, they seemed to lose their 
 distinctively aggressive character. Here, 
 although his cheek was still flushed from 
 his peaceful encounter, his voice regained 
 some of its hoarse severity as he drove the 
 oxen from the muddy pool into which they 
 had luxuriantly wandered, and brought their 
 fodder from the waggon. Late, as the sun 
 was setting, he lit a corn-cob pipe, and some- 
 what ostentatiously strolled down the road 
 with a furtive eye lingering upon the still 
 open door of the farmhouse. Presently two 
 angular figures appeared from it the farmer 
 and his wife intent on barter. 
 
 These he received with his previous 
 gloomy preoccupation, and a slight variation 
 
SUSY 49 
 
 of the story he had told their daughter. It 
 is possible that his suggestive indifference 
 piqued and heightened the bargaining in- 
 stincts of the woman, for she not only 
 bought the skillet, but purchased a clock 
 and a roll of carpeting. Still more, in some 
 effusion of rustic courtesy, she extended an 
 invitation to him to sup with them, which 
 he declined and accepted in the same em- 
 barrassed breath, returning the proffered 
 hospitality by confidentially showing them a 
 couple of dried scalps, presumably of Indian 
 origin. It was in the same moment of 
 human weakness that he answered their 
 polite query as to ' what they might call 
 him,' by intimating that his name was * Red 
 Jim' a title of achievement by which he 
 was generally known, which for the present 
 must suffice them. But during the repast 
 that followed this was shortened to * Mister 
 Jim,' and even familiarly by the elders to 
 plain ' Jim.' Only the young girl habitually 
 used the formal prefix in return for the 
 ' Miss Phoebe' that he called her. 
 
50 SUSY 
 
 With three such sympathetic and unex- 
 perienced auditors the gloomy embarrass- 
 ment of Red Jim was soon dissipated, al- 
 though it could hardly be said that he 
 was generally communicative. Dark tales 
 of Indian warfare, of night attacks and wild 
 stampedes, in which he had always taken a 
 prominent part, flowed freely from his lips, 
 but little else of his past history or present 
 prospects. And even his narratives of ad- 
 venture were more or less fragmentary and 
 imperfect in detail. 
 
 ' You woz saying,' said the farmer, with 
 slow, matter-of-fact, New England delibera- 
 tion, ' ez how you guessed you woz beguiled 
 amongst the Injins by your Mexican partner 
 a pow'ful influential man and yet you 
 woz the only one escaped the gen'ral slar- 
 terin'. How came the Injins to kill him 
 their friend ? ' 
 
 ' They didn't,' returned Jim, with omi- 
 nously averted eves 
 
 'What became of him?' continued the 
 farmer. 
 
SUSY 51 
 
 Red Jim shadowed his eyes with his 
 hand, and cast a dark glance of scrutiny out 
 of the doors and windows. The young girl 
 perceived it with timid, fascinated concern, 
 and said, hurriedly : 
 
 1 Don't ask him, father ! Don't you see 
 he mustn't tell ? ' 
 
 ' Not when spies may be hangin' round, 
 and doggin' me at every step,' said Red Jim, 
 as if reflecting, with another furtive glance 
 towards the already fading prospect without. 
 ' They've sworn to revenge him,' he added 
 moodily. 
 
 A momentary silence followed. The far- 
 mer coughed slightly, and looked dubiously 
 at his wife. But the two women had already 
 exchanged feminine glances of sympathy for 
 this evident slayer of traitors, and were 
 apparently inclined to stop any adverse 
 criticism. 
 
 In the midst of which a shout was heard 
 from the road. The farmer and his family 
 instinctively started. Red Jim alone re- 
 mained unmoved, a fact which did not lessen 
 
 E 2 
 
52 SUSY 
 
 the admiration of his feminine audience. 
 The host rose quickly and went out. The 
 figure of a horseman had halted in the road, 
 but after a few moments' conversation with 
 the farmer they both moved towards the 
 house and disappeared. When the farmer 
 returned it was to say that ' one of them 
 'Frisco dandies, who didn't keer about 
 stoppin' at the hotel in the settlement,' had 
 halted to give his ' critter ' a feed and drink 
 that he might continue his journey. He 
 had asked him to come in while the horse 
 was feeding, but the stranger had ' guessed 
 he'd stretch his legs outside and smoke his 
 cigar ; ' he might have thought the company 
 * not fine enough for him,' but he was ' civil 
 spoken enough, and had an all-fired smart 
 hoss, and seemed to know how to run him.' 
 To the anxious inquiries of his wife and 
 daughter he added that the stranger didn't 
 seem like a spy or a Mexican ; was ' as young 
 as kintj pointing to the moody Red Jim, ' and 
 a darned sight more peaceful like in style.' 
 
SUSY 53 
 
 Perhaps owing to the criticism of the 
 farmer, perhaps from some still lurking sus- 
 picion of being overheard by eavesdroppers, 
 or possibly from a humane desire to relieve 
 the strained apprehension of the women, 
 Red Jim as the farmer disappeared to re- 
 join the stranger again dropped into a 
 lighter and gentler vein of reminiscence. He 
 told them how, when a mere boy, he had 
 been lost from an emigrant train in company 
 with a little girl some years his junior. How, 
 when they found themselves alone on the 
 desolate plain, with the vanished train be- 
 yond their reach, he endeavoured to keep 
 the child from a knowledge of the real dan- 
 ger of their position, and to soothe and com- 
 fort her. How he carried her on his back 
 until, exhausted, he sank in a heap of sage 
 bush. How he was surrounded by Indians, 
 who, however, never suspected his hiding- 
 place ; and how he remained motionless and 
 breathless with the sleeping child for three 
 hours until they departed ; how, at the last 
 
54 SUSY 
 
 moment, he had perceived a train in the dis- 
 tance, and had staggered with her thither, 
 although shot at and wounded by the train 
 men in the belief that he was an Indian ; 
 how it was afterwards discovered that the 
 child was the long lost daughter of a million- 
 aire ; how he had resolutely refused any 
 gratuity for saving her, and she was now a 
 peerless young heiress famous in California. 
 Whether this lighter tone of narrative suited 
 him better, or whether the active feminine 
 sympathy of his auditors helped him along, 
 certain it was that his story was more co- 
 herent and intelligible and his voice less 
 hoarse and constrained than in his previous 
 belligerent reminiscences ; his expression 
 changed, and even his features worked into 
 something like gentler emotion. The bright 
 eyes of Phcebe, fastened upon him, turned 
 dim with a faint moisture, and her pale cheek 
 took upon itself a little colour. The mother, 
 after interjecting ' Du tell,' and ' I wanter 
 know/ remained open-mouthed, staring at 
 her visitor. And in the silence that followed 
 
SUSY 55 
 
 a pleasant, but somewhat melancholy, voice 
 came from the open door. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, but I thought I 
 couldn't be mistaken. It is my old friend, 
 Jim Hooker ! ' 
 
 Everybody started. Red Jim stumbled 
 to his feet with an inarticulate and hysteric 
 exclamation. Yet the apparition that now 
 stood in the doorway was far from being 
 terrifying or discomposing. It was evidently 
 the stranger a slender, elegantly-knit figure, 
 whose upper lip was faintly shadowed by a 
 soft dark moustache indicating early man- 
 hood, and whose unstudied ease in his well- 
 fitting garments bespoke the dweller of 
 cities. Good-looking and well-dressed, with- 
 out the consciousness of being either ; self- 
 possessed through easy circumstances, yet 
 without self-assertion ; courteous by nature 
 and instinct as well as from an experience of 
 granting favours, he might have been a wel- 
 come addition to even a more critical com- 
 pany. But Red Jim, hurriedly seizing his 
 outstretched hand, instantly dragged him 
 
56 SUSY 
 
 away from the doorway into the road and 
 out of hearing of his audience. 
 
 * Did you hear what I was saying ? ' he 
 asked hoarsely. 
 
 ' Well, yes I think so,' returned the 
 stranger, with a quiet smile. 
 
 ' Ye ain't goin' back on me, Clarence, are 
 ye ain't goin' to gimme away afore them, 
 old pard, are ye?' said Jim, with a sudden 
 change to almost pathetic pleading. 
 
 * No/ returned the stranger smiling. 
 ' And certainly not before that interested 
 young lady, Jim. But stop. Let me look 
 at you.' 
 
 He held out both hands, took Jim's, 
 spread them apart for a moment with a boy- 
 ish gesture, and, looking in his face, said 
 half mischievously, half sadly, ' Yes ; it's the 
 same old Jim Hooker unchanged.' 
 
 * But you re changed reg'lar war paint. 
 Big Injin style ! ' said Hooker, looking up at 
 him with an awkward mingling of admiration 
 and envy. ' Heard you struck it rich with 
 the old man, and was Mr. Brant now ? ' 
 
SUSY 57 
 
 ' Yes,' said Clarence gently, yet with a 
 smile that had not only a tinge of weariness 
 but even of sadness in it. 
 
 Unfortunately, the act, which was quite 
 natural to Clarence's sensitiveness, and in- 
 deed partly sprang from some concern in his 
 old companion's fortunes, translated itself by 
 a very human process to Hooker's conscious- 
 ness as a piece of rank affectation. He 
 would have been exalted and exultant in 
 Clarence's place, consequently any other ex- 
 hibition was only ' airs.' Nevertheless, at 
 the present moment Clarence was to be 
 placated. 
 
 ' You didn't mind my telling that story 
 about your savin' Susy as my own, did ye ? ' 
 he said, with a hasty glance over his shoulder. 
 1 1 only did it to fool the old man and woman 
 folks and make talk. You won't blow on 
 me ? Ye ain't mad about it ? ' 
 
 It had crossed Clarence's memory that 
 when they were both younger Jim Hooker 
 had once not only borrowed his story, but his 
 name and personality as well. Yet in his 
 
58 SUSY 
 
 loyalty to old memories there was mingled 
 no resentment for past injury. ' Of course 
 not,' he said, with a smile that was, however, 
 still thoughtful. ' Why should I ? Only I 
 ought to tell you that Susy Peyton is living 
 with her adopted parents not ten miles from 
 here, and it might reach their ears. She's 
 quite a young lady now, and if / wouldn't 
 tell her story to strangers I don't think you 
 ought to, Jim.' 
 
 He said this so pleasantly that even the 
 sceptical Jim forgot what he believed were 
 the * airs and graces ' of self-abnegation, and 
 said, ' Let's go inside, and I'll introduce you,' 
 and turned to the house. But Clarence 
 Brant drew back. ' I'm going on as soon as 
 my horse is fed, for I'm on a visit to Peyton, 
 and I intend to push as- far as Santa Inez 
 still to-night. I want to talk with you about 
 yourself, Jim,' he added gently, 'your pro- 
 spects and your future. I heard,' he went 
 on hesitatingly, ' that you were at work 
 in a restaurant in San Francisco. I'm glad 
 to see that you are at least your own master 
 
SUSY 59 
 
 here ' he glanced at the waggon. ' You 
 are selling things, I suppose ? For yourself 
 or another? Is that team yours? Come,' 
 he added, still pleasantly, but in an older and 
 graver voice, with perhaps the least touch 
 of experienced authority, 'be frank, Jim. 
 Which is it ? Never mind what things 
 you've told in there ; tell me the truth about 
 yourself. Can I help you in any way ? 
 Believe me, I should like to. We have 
 been old friends ; whatever difference in our 
 luck I am yours still.' 
 
 Thus adjured, the redoubtable Jim, in a 
 hoarse whisper, with a furtive eye on the 
 house, admitted that he was travelling for an 
 itinerant pedlar, whom he expected to join 
 later in the settlement ; that he had his own 
 methods of disposing of his wares, and 
 (darkly) that his proprietor and the world 
 generally had better not interfere with him ; 
 that (with a return to more confidential 
 lightness) he had already ' worked the Wild 
 West Injin' business so successfully as to 
 dispose of his wares, particularly in yonder 
 
60 SUSY 
 
 house, and might do even more if not pre- 
 maturely and wantonly ' blown upon,' ' gone 
 back on,' or * given away.' 
 
 1 But wouldn't you like to settle down on 
 some bit of land like this and improve it for 
 yourself ? ' said Clarence. ' All these valley 
 terraces are bound to rise in value, and 
 meantime you would be independent. It 
 could be managed, Jim. I think / could 
 arrange it for you,' he went on, with a slight 
 glow of youthful enthusiasm. * Write to me 
 at Peyton's ranch, and I'll see you when I 
 come back, and we'll hunt up something for 
 you together.' As Jim received the propo- 
 sition with a kind of gloomy embarrassment, 
 he added lightly, with a glance at the farm- 
 house : * It might be near here, you know ; 
 and you'd have pleasant neighbours, and 
 even eager listeners to your old adventures.' 
 
 ' You'd better come in a minit before you 
 go,' said Jim clumsily, evading a direct 
 reply. Clarence hesitated a moment, and 
 then yielded. For an equal moment Jim 
 Hooker was torn between secret jealousy of 
 
SC/SY 61 
 
 his old comrade's graces and a desire to 
 present them as familiar associations of his 
 own. But his vanity was quickly appeased. 
 Need it be said that the two women 
 received this fleck and foam of a super-civil- 
 isation they knew little of as almost an im- 
 pertinence compared to the rugged, gloomy, 
 pathetic, and equally youthful hero of an 
 adventurous wilderness of which they knew 
 still less ! What availed the courtesy and 
 gentle melancholy of Clarence Brant beside 
 the mysterious gloom and dark savagery of 
 Red Jim ? Yet they received him patron- 
 isingly, as one who was, like themselves, an 
 admirer of manly grace and power, and the 
 recipient of Jim's friendship. The farmer 
 alone seemed to prefer Clarence, and yet 
 the latter's tacit endorsement of Red Jim, 
 through his evident previous intimacy with 
 him, impressed the man in Jim's favour. 
 All of which Clarence saw with that sen- 
 sitive perception which had given him an 
 early insight into human weakness, yet still 
 had never shaken his youthful optimism. 
 
62 SUSY 
 
 He smiled a little thoughtfully, but was 
 openly fraternal to Jim, courteous to his host 
 and family, and as he rode away in the faint 
 moonlight, magnificently opulent in his lar- 
 gesse to the farmer his first and only asser- 
 tion of his position. 
 
 The farmhouse, straggling barn and 
 fringe of dusty willows, the white dome of 
 the motionless waggon with the hanging 
 frying-pans and kettles showing in the 
 moonlight like black silhouettes against the 
 staring canvas, all presently sank behind 
 Clarence like the details of a dream, and he 
 was alone with the moon, the hazy mystery 
 of the level, grassy plain, and the monotony 
 of the unending road. As he rode slowly 
 along he thought of that other dreary plain, 
 white with alkali patches and brown with 
 rings of deserted camp-fires, known to his 
 boyhood of deprivation, dependency, danger, 
 and adventure, oddly enough with a strange 
 delight and his later years of study, monas- 
 tic seclusion, and final ease and indepen- 
 dence, with an easy sense of wasted existence 
 
SUSY 63 
 
 and useless waiting. He remembered his 
 homeless childhood in the South, where ser- 
 vants and slaves took the place of the father 
 he had never known and the mother that he 
 rarely saw ; he remembered his abandon- 
 ment to a mysterious female relation, where 
 his natural guardians seemed to have over- 
 looked and forgotten him, until he was sent 
 an all too young adventurer! to work his 
 passage on an overland emigrant train across 
 the plains ; he remembered, as yesterday, 
 the fears, the hopes, the dreams and 
 clangers of that momentous journey ; he re- 
 called his little playmate, Susy, and their 
 strange adventures the whole incident that 
 the imaginative Jim Hooker had translated 
 and rehearsed as his own, rose vividly 
 before him. He thought of the cruel end of 
 that pilgrimage which again left him home- 
 less and forgotten by even the relative he 
 was seeking in a strange land. He remem- 
 bered his solitary journey to the gold mines, 
 taken with a boy's trust and a boy's fearless- 
 ness, and the strange protector he had found 
 
64 
 
 there, who had news of his missing kinsman ; 
 he remembered how this protector whom 
 he had at once instinctively loved trans- 
 ferred him to the house of this new found 
 relation, who treated him kindly and sent 
 him to the Jesuit school but who never 
 awakened in him a feeling of kinship. He 
 dreamed again of his life at school, his acci- 
 dental meeting with Susy at Santa Clara, the 
 keen revival of his boyish love for his old 
 playmate, now a pretty schoolgirl the petted, 
 adopted child of wealthy parents. He re- 
 called the terrible shock that interrupted this 
 boyish episode, the news of the death of his 
 protector, and the revelation that this hard, 
 silent, and mysterious man was his own 
 father, whose reckless life and desperate 
 reputation had impelled him to assume a 
 disguise. 
 
 He remembered how his sudden ac- 
 cession to wealth and independence had half 
 frightened him, and had always left a lurking 
 sensitiveness that he was unfairly favoured, 
 by some mere accident, above his less lucky 
 
SUSY 65 
 
 companions. The rude vices of his old as- 
 sociates had made him impatient of the 
 feebler sensual indulgences of the later com- 
 panions of his luxury, and exposed their 
 hollow fascinations ; his sensitive fastidious- 
 ness kept him clean among vulgar tempt- 
 ations ; his clear perceptions were never 
 blinded by selfish sophistry. Meantime his 
 feeling for Susy remained unchanged. Pride 
 had kept him from seeking the Peytons. 
 His present visit was as unpremeditated as 
 Peyton's invitation had been unlocked for 
 by him. Yet he had not allowed himself to 
 be deceived. He knew that this courtesy 
 was probably due to the change in his for- 
 tune, although he had hoped it might have 
 been some change in their opinion brought 
 about by Susy. But he would at least see 
 her again, not in the pretty, half-clandestine 
 way she had thought necessary, but openly 
 and as her equal. 
 
 In his rapid ride he seemed to have sud- 
 denly penetrated the peaceful calm of the 
 night. The restless Jrritation of the after- 
 
 F 
 
66 susy 
 
 noon Trade winds had subsided ; the tender 
 moonlight had hushed and tranquilly pos- 
 sessed the worried plain ; the unending files 
 of wild oats, far spaced and distinct, stood 
 erect and motionless as trees ; something 
 of the sedate solemnity of a great forest 
 seemed to have fallen upon their giant 
 stalks. There was no clew. In that light 
 dry air the heavier dust no longer rose 
 beneath the heels of his horse, whose flying 
 shadow passed over the field like a cloud, 
 leaving no trail or track behind it. In the 
 preoccupation of his thought and his breath- 
 less retrospect the young man had ridden 
 faster than he intended, and he now checked 
 his panting horse. The influence of the 
 night and the hushed landscape stole over 
 him ; his thoughts took a gentler turn ; in 
 that dim mysterious horizon line before him 
 his future seemed to be dreamily peopled 
 with airy, graceful shapes that more or less 
 took the likeness of Susy. She was bright, 
 coquettish, romantic, as he had last seen her ; 
 she was older, graver, and thoughtfully wel- 
 
SUSY 67 
 
 come of him, or she was cold, distant, and 
 severely forgetful of the past. How would 
 her adopted father and mother receive him ? 
 Would they ever look upon him in the light 
 of a suitor to the young girl ? He had no 
 fear of Peyton he understood his own sex, 
 and, young as he was, knew already how to 
 make himself respected : but how could he 
 overcome that instinctive aversion which 
 Mrs. Peyton had so often made him feel he 
 had provoked ? Yet in this dreamy hush of 
 earth and sky what was not possible ? His 
 boyish heart beat high with daring visions. 
 He saw Mrs. Peyton in the porch, wel- 
 coming him with that maternal smile which 
 his childish longing had so often craved to 
 share with Susy. Peyton would be there, 
 too. Peyton, who had once pushed back his 
 torn straw hat to look approvingly in his 
 boyish eyes, and Peyton, perhaps, might be 
 proud of him. 
 
 Suddenly he started. A voice in his 
 very ear. 
 
 ' Bah ! A yoke of vulgar cattle grazing 
 
 F 2 
 
68 st/sy 
 
 on lands that were thine by right and law. 
 Neither more or less than that. And I tell 
 thee, Pancho, like cattle, to be driven off or 
 caught and branded for one's own. Ha ! 
 There are those who could swear to the 
 truth of this on the Creed. Ay ! and bring 
 papers stamped and signed by the governor's 
 rubric to prove it. And not that I hate 
 them bah ! what are those heretic swine to 
 me ? but thou dost comprehend me ? it 
 galls and pricks me to see them swelling 
 themselves with stolen husks, and men like 
 thee, Pancho, ousted from their own land.' 
 
 Clarence had halted in utter bewilder- 
 ment. No one was visible before him, be- 
 hind him, on either side. The words in 
 Spanish came from the air, the sky, the 
 distant horizon he knew not which. Was 
 he still dreaming ? A strange shiver crept 
 over his skin, as if the air had grown sud- 
 denly chill. Then another mysterious voice 
 arose, incredulous, half mocking, but equally 
 distinct and clear. 
 
 Caramba ? What is this ? You are 
 
SUSY 69 
 
 wandering, friend Pancho, You are still 
 smarting from his tongue. He has the 
 grant confirmed by his brigand Govern- 
 ment ; he has the possession, stolen by a 
 thief like himself. And he has the Corre- 
 gidors with him. For is he not one of them 
 himself, this Judge Peyton ? ' 
 
 Peyton ! Clarence felt the blood rush 
 back to his face in astonishment and indig- 
 nation. His heels mechanically pressed his 
 horse's flanks, and the animal sprang for- 
 ward. 
 
 ' G^Larda ! Mira ! ' said the voice again 
 in a quicker, lower tone. But this time it 
 was evidently in the field beside him, and 
 the heads and shoulders of two horsemen 
 emerged at the same moment from the tall 
 ranks of wild oats. The mystery was solved ! 
 The strangers had been making their way 
 along a lower level of the terraced plain, 
 hidden by the grain, not twenty yards away, 
 and parallel with the road they were now 
 ascending to join. Their figures were alike 
 formless in long striped serapes, and their 
 
70 svsy 
 
 features undistinmjishable under stiff black 
 
 o 
 
 sombreros. 
 
 * Buenas noches, Sefior,' said the second 
 voice, in formal and cautious deliberation. 
 
 A sudden inspiration made Clarence re- 
 spond in English, as if he had not compre- 
 hended the stranger's words, ' Eh ? ' 
 
 1 Gooda nighta,' repeated the stranger. 
 
 ' Oh, good night ! ' returned Clarence. 
 They passed him. Their spurs tinkled twice 
 or thrice, their mustangs sprang forward, and 
 the next moment the loose folds of their 
 serapes were fluttering at their sides like 
 wings in their flight. 
 
SUSY 71 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AFTER the chill of a dewless night, the morn- 
 ing sun was apt to look ardently upon the 
 Robles Rancho, if so strong an expression 
 could describe the dry, oven-like heat of "a 
 Californian coast range valley. Before ten 
 o'clock the adobe wall of the patio was warm 
 enough to permit lingering vacqueros and 
 \d\epeons to lean against it, and the exposed 
 annexe was filled with sharp, resinous odours 
 from the oozing sap of unseasoned ' redwood ' 
 boards, warped and drying in the hot sun- 
 shine. Even at that early hour the climbing 
 Castilian roses were drooping against the 
 wooden columns of the new verandah, scarcely 
 older than themselves, and mingling an al- 
 ready faded spice with the aroma of baking 
 
72 SUSY 
 
 wood and the more material fragrance of 
 steaming coffee, that seemed dominant every- 
 where. 
 
 In fact, the pretty breakfast-room, whose 
 three broad windows, always open to the 
 verandah, gave an al fresco effect to every 
 meal, was a pathetic endeavour of the 
 Southern-bred Peyton to emulate the soft, 
 luxurious and open-air indolence of his native 
 South, in a climate that was not only not 
 tropical, but even austere in its most fervid mo- 
 ments. Yet although cold draughts invaded 
 it from the rear that morning, Judge Peyton 
 sat alone, between the open doors and 
 windows, awaiting the slow coming of his 
 wife and the young ladies. He was not in 
 an entirely comfortable mood that morning. 
 Things were not going on well at Robles. 
 That truculent vagabond, Pedro, had the night 
 before taken himself off with a curse that had 
 frightened even the vacqueros, who most 
 hated him as a companion, but who now 
 seemed inclined to regard his absence as an 
 injury done to their race. Peyton, uneasily 
 
SUSY 73 
 
 conscious that his own anger had been ex- 
 cited by an exaggerated conception of the 
 accident, was now, like most obstinate men, 
 inclined to exaggerate the importance of 
 Pedro's insolence. He was well out of it to 
 get rid of this quarrelsome hanger-on, whose 
 presumption and ill-humour threatened the 
 discipline of the Rancho ; yet he could not 
 entirely forget that he had employed him on 
 account of his family claims and from a desire 
 to placate racial jealousy, and settle local dif- 
 ferences. For the inferior Mexicans and 
 Indian half-breeds still regarded their old 
 masters with affection ; were, in fact, more 
 concerned for the integrity of their caste than 
 the masters were themselves, and the old 
 Spanish families who had made alliances with 
 Americans, and shared their land with them, 
 had rarely succeeded in alienating their re- 
 tainers with their lands. Certain experiences 
 in the proving of his grant before the Land 
 Commission had taught Peyton that they 
 were not to be depended upon. And lately 
 there had been unpleasant rumours of the 
 
74 SUSY 
 
 discovery of some unlooked-for claimants to 
 a division of the grant itself, which might 
 affect his own title. 
 
 He looked up quickly as voices and light 
 steps on the verandah at last heralded the 
 approach of his tardy household from the 
 corridor. But in spite of his preoccupation 
 he was startled and even awkwardly impressed 
 with a change in Susy's appearance. She 
 was wearing, for the first time, a long skirt, 
 and this sudden maturing of her figure struck 
 him as a man much more forcibly than it 
 would probably have impressed a woman, 
 more familiar with details. He had not no- 
 ticed certain indications of womanhood as 
 significant perhaps in her carriage as her out- 
 lines, which had been lately perfectly apparent 
 to her mother and Mary, but which were to 
 him now, for the first time, indicated by a few 
 inches of skirt. She not only looked taller 
 to his masculine eyes, but these few inches 
 had added to the mystery as well as the 
 drapery of the goddess ; they were not so 
 much the revelation of maturity as the sug- 
 
SUSY 75 
 
 gestion that it was hidden. So impressed 
 was he that a half serious lecture on her yester- 
 day's childishness, the outcome of his irri- 
 tated reflections that morning, died upon his 
 lips. He felt he was no longer dealing with 
 a child. 
 
 He welcomed them with that smile of 
 bantering approbation, supposed to keep down 
 inordinate vanity, which for some occult 
 reason one always reserves for the members 
 of one's own family. He was quite conscious 
 that Susy was looking very pretty in this 
 new and mature frock, and that as she stood 
 beside his wife, far from ageing Mrs. Peyton's 
 good looks and figure, she appeared like an 
 equal companion, and that they mutually 
 ' became ' one another. This, and the fact 
 that they were all, including Mary Rogers, 
 in their freshest, gayest morning dresses, 
 awakened a half humorous, half real appre- 
 hension in his mind that he was now hope- 
 lessly surrounded by a matured sex, and in a 
 weak minority. 
 
 ( I think I ought to have been prepared,' 
 
;6 SUSY 
 
 he began grimly, ' for this addition to to 
 the skirts of my family.' 
 
 ' Why, John,' returned Mrs. Peyton 
 quickly, ' do you mean to say you haven't 
 noticed that the poor child has for weeks 
 been looking positively indecent?' 
 
 * Really, papa, I've been a sight to be- 
 hold ! Haven't I, Mary ? ' chimed in Susy. 
 
 'Yes, dear! Why, Judge, I've been 
 wondering that Susy stood it so well, and 
 never complained ! ' 
 
 Peyton glanced around him at this com- 
 pact feminine embattlement. It was as he 
 feared. Yet even here he was again at 
 fault. 
 
 ' And,' said Mrs. Peyton slowly, with the 
 reserved significance of the feminine post- 
 script in her voice, ' if that Mr. Brant is 
 coming here to-day, it would be just as well 
 for him to see that she is no longer a child 
 as when he knew her' 
 
 An hour later good-natured Mary Rogers, 
 in her character of ' a dear ' which was usu- 
 ally indicated by the undertaking of small 
 
SUSY 77 
 
 errands for her friend was gathering roses 
 from the old garden for Susy's adornment, 
 when she saw a vision which lingered with 
 her for many a day. She had stopped to 
 look through the iron grille in the adobe wall, 
 across the open wind-swept plain. Miniature 
 waves were passing over the wild oats, with 
 glittering disturbances here and there in the 
 depressions like the sparkling of green foam ; 
 the horizon line was sharply defined against 
 the hard, steel-blue sky ; everywhere the 
 brand-new morning was shining with almost 
 painted brilliancy ; the vigour, spirit, and 
 even crudeness of youth were over all. The 
 young girl was dazzled and bewildered. 
 Suddenly, as if blown out of the waving 
 grain, or an incarnation of the vivid morn- 
 ing, the bright and striking figure of a youth- 
 ful horseman flashed before the grille. It was 
 Clarence Brant ! Mary Rogers had always 
 seen him in the loyalty of friendship 
 with Susy's prepossessed eyes, yet she fancied 
 that morning that he had never looked so 
 handsome before. Even the foppish frip- 
 
78 SUSY 
 
 peries of his riding-dress and silver trappings 
 seemed as much the natural expression of 
 conquering youth as the invincible morning 
 sunshine. Perhaps it might have been a re- 
 action against Susy's caprice or some latent 
 susceptibility of her own ; but a momentary 
 antagonism to her friend stirred even her 
 kindly nature. What right had Susy to trifle 
 with such an opportunity ? Who was she to 
 hesitate over this gallant prince ? 
 
 But Prince Charming's quick eyes had 
 detected her, and the next moment his beau- 
 tiful horse was beside the grating, and his 
 ready hand of greeting extended through the 
 bars. 
 
 ' 1 suppose I am early and unexpected, 
 but I slept at Santa Inez last night that I 
 might ride over in the cool of the morning. 
 My things are coming by the stage coach 
 later. It seemed such a slow way of coming 
 one's self.' 
 
 Mary Rogers's black eyes intimated that 
 the way he had taken was the right one, but 
 she gallantly recovered herself and remeni- 
 
SISSY 79 
 
 bered her position as confidante. And here 
 was the opportunity of delivering Susy's 
 warning unobserved. She withdrew her 
 hand from Clarence's frank grasp, and pass- 
 ing it through the grating, patted the sleek, 
 shining flanks of his horse, with a discreet 
 division of admiration. 
 
 ' And such a lovely creature too ! And 
 Susy will be so delighted ! And oh ! Mr. 
 Brant, please you're to say nothing of having 
 met her at Santa Clara. It's just as well not 
 to begin with that here, for, you see ' (with 
 a large, maternal manner), ' you were both 
 so young then/ 
 
 Clarence drew a quick breath. It was 
 the first check to his vision of independence 
 and equal footing. Then his invitation was 
 not the outcome of a continuous friendship 
 revived by Susy, as he had hoped ; the 
 Peytons had known nothing of his meeting 
 with her, or perhaps they would not have 
 invited him. He was here as an impostor 
 and all because Susy had chosen to make a 
 mystery of a harmless encounter which might 
 
8o SUSY 
 
 have been explained, and which they might 
 have even countenanced. He thought bitterly 
 of his old playmate for a brief moment as 
 brief as Mary's antagonism. The young 
 girl noticed the change in his face, but mis- 
 interpreted it. 
 
 1 Oh, there's no danger of its coming out 
 if you don't say anything,' she said quickly. 
 * Ride on to the house, and don't wait for 
 me. You'll find them in the patio on the 
 verandah.' 
 
 Clarence moved on, but not as spiritedly 
 as before. Nevertheless there was still dash 
 enough about him and the animal he bestrode 
 to stir into admiration the few lounging 
 vacqueros of a country which was apt to 
 judge the status of a rider by the quality of 
 his horse. Nor was the favourable impres- 
 sion confined to them alone. Peyton's grati- 
 fication rang out cheerily in his greeting : 
 
 ' Bravo, Clarence ! You are here in true 
 Caballero style. Thanks for the compliment 
 to the Rancho.' 
 
 For a moment the young man was trans- 
 
SUSY 81 
 
 ported back again to his boyhood, and once 
 more felt Peyton's approving hand pushing 
 back the worn straw hat from his childish 
 forehead. A faint colour rose to his cheeks ; 
 his eyes momentarily dropped. The highest 
 art could have done no more. The slight 
 aggressiveness of his youthful finery and 
 picturesque good looks was condoned at once ; 
 his modesty conquered where self-assertion 
 might have provoked opposition, and even 
 Mrs. Peyton felt herself impelled to come 
 forward with an outstretched hand scarcely 
 less frank than her husband's. Then Clarence 
 lifted his eyes. He saw before him the 
 woman to whom his childish heart had gone 
 out with the inscrutable longing and adora- 
 tion of a motherless, homeless, companionless 
 boy ; the woman who had absorbed the love 
 of his playmate without sharing it with him ; 
 who had showered her protecting and ma- 
 ternal caresses on Susy a waif like himself 
 yet had not only left his heart lonely and 
 desolate, but had even added to his childish 
 distrust of himself the thought that he had 
 
 G 
 
82 SUSY 
 
 excited her aversion. He saw her more 
 beautiful than ever in her restored health, 
 freshness of colouring, and mature roundness 
 of outline. He was unconsciously touched 
 with a man's admiration for her without 
 losing his boyish yearnings and half filial 
 affection ; in her new materialistic woman- 
 hood his youthful imagination had lifted her 
 to a queen and goddess. There was all this 
 appeal in his still boyish eyes eyes that had 
 never yet known shame or fear in the ex- 
 pression of their emotions ; there was all this 
 in the gesture with which he lifted Mrs. Pey- 
 ton's fingers to his lips. The little group 
 saw in this act only a Spanish courtesy in 
 keeping with his accepted role. But a thrill 
 of surprise, of embarrassment, of intense 
 gratification passed over her. For he ' had 
 not even looked at Susy ! 
 
 Her relenting was graceful. She wel- 
 comed him with a winning smile. Then she 
 motioned pleasantly towards Susy. 
 
 ' But here is an older friend, Mr. Brant, 
 whom you do not seem to recognise Susy, 
 
SUSY 83 
 
 whom you have not seen since she was a 
 child.' 
 
 A quick flush rose to Clarence's cheek. 
 The group smiled at this evident youthful 
 confession of some boyish admiration. But 
 Clarence knew that his truthful blood was 
 merely resenting the deceit his lips were sealed 
 from divulging. He did not dare to glance 
 at Susy ; it added to the general amusement 
 that the young girl was obliged to present 
 herself. But in this interval she had ex- 
 changed glances with Mary Rogers, who had 
 rejoined the group, and she knew she was 
 safe. She smiled with gracious condescension 
 at Clarence ; observed with the patronising 
 superiority of age and established position 
 that he had grown, but had not greatly 
 changed, and it is needless to say again filled 
 her mother's heart with joy. Clarence, still 
 intoxicated with Mrs. Peyton's kindliness, 
 and, perhaps, still embarrassed by remorse, 
 had not time to remark the girl's studied 
 attitude. He shook hands with her cordially, 
 and then, in the quick reaction of youth 
 
 G 2 
 
84 SUSY 
 
 accepted with humorous gravity the elaborate 
 introduction to Mary Rogers by Susy, which 
 completed this little comedy. And if, with 
 a woman's quickness, Mrs. Peyton detected 
 a certain lingering glance which passed be- 
 tween Mary Rogers and Clarence, and mis- 
 interpreted it, it was only a part of that 
 mystification into which these youthful actors 
 are apt to throw their mature audiences. 
 
 ' Confess, Ally,' said Peyton cheerfully, as 
 the three young people suddenly found their 
 tongues with aimless vivacity and inconse- 
 quent laughter, and started with unintelligible 
 spirits for an exploration of the garden, ' con- 
 fess now that your Mte noir is really a very 
 manly as well as a very presentable young 
 fellow. By Jove ! the padres have made a 
 Spanish swell out of him without spoiling the 
 Brant grit either ! Come, now ; you're not 
 afraid that Susy's style will suffer from his 
 companionship ? Ton my soul, she might 
 borrow a little of his courtesy to his elders 
 without indelicacy. I only wish she had as 
 sincere a way of showing her respect for you 
 
SUSY 85 
 
 as he has. Did you notice that he really 
 didn't seem to see anybody else but you at 
 first ? And yet you never were a friend to 
 him, like Susy.' 
 
 The lady tossed her head slightly, but 
 smiled. 
 
 ' This is the first time he's seen Mary 
 Rogers, isn't it ? ' she said meditatively. 
 
 ' I reckon. But what's that to do with 
 his politeness to you ? ' 
 
 ' And do her parents know him ? ' she 
 continued, without replying. 
 
 ' How do I know ? I suppose everybody 
 has heard of him. Why ? ' 
 
 1 Because I think they've taken a fancy to 
 each other.' 
 
 ' What in the name of folly, Ally 
 
 began the despairing Peyton. 
 
 1 When you invite a handsome, rich, and 
 fascinating young man into the company of 
 young ladies, John,' returned Mrs. Peyton, in 
 her severest manner, 'you must not forget 
 you owe a certain responsibility to the parents. 
 I shall certainly look after Miss Rogers.' 
 
86 SUSY 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ALTHOUGH the three young people had left 
 the verandah together, when they reached 
 the old garden Clarence and Susy found 
 themselves considerably in advance of Mary 
 Rogers, who had become suddenly and deeply 
 interested in the beauty of a passion vine 
 near the gate. At the first discovery of their 
 isolation their voluble exchange of informa- 
 tion about themselves and their occupations 
 since their last meeting stopped simultane- 
 ously. Clarence, who had forgotten his mo- 
 mentary irritation, and had recovered his old 
 happiness in her presence, was nevertheless 
 conscious of some other change in her than 
 that suggested by the lengthened skirt and 
 the later and more delicate accentuation of 
 
SUSY 87 
 
 her prettiness. It was not her affectation of 
 superiority and older social experience, for 
 that was only the outcome of what he had 
 found charming in her as a child, and which 
 he still goocl-humouredly accepted, nor was 
 it her characteristic exaggeration of speech 
 which he still pleasantly recognised. It was 
 something else, vague and indefinite. Some- 
 thing that had been unnoticed while Mary 
 was with them, but had now come between 
 them like some unknown presence which had 
 taken the confidante's place. He remained 
 silent, looking at her half-brightening cheek 
 and conscious profile. Then he spoke with 
 awkward directness. 
 
 ' You are changed, Susy, more than in 
 looks.' 
 
 * Hush ! ' said the girl in a tragic whisper, 
 with a warning gesture towards the blandly 
 unconscious Mary. 
 
 V 
 
 4 But,' returned Clarence wonderingly, 
 ' she's your our friend, you know.' 
 
 * I don I know,' said Susy, in a still 
 deeper tone, ' that is oh, don't ask me ! 
 
88 Sf/SY 
 
 But when you're always surrounded by spies, 
 when you can't say your soul is your own, 
 you doubt everybody ! ' There was such a 
 pretty distress in her violet eyes and curving 
 eyebrows that Clarence, albeit vague as to 
 its origin and particulars, nevertheless pos- 
 sessed himself of the little hand that was 
 gesticulating dangerously near his own and 
 pressed it sympathetically. Perhaps pre- 
 occupied with her emotions she did not im- 
 mediately withdraw it, as she went on 
 rapidly : * And if you were cooped up here 
 day after day behind these bars,' pointing to 
 ike grille, 'you'd know what I suffer.' 
 ' But,' began Clarence. 
 
 * Hush ! ' said Susy, with a stamp of her 
 little foot. 
 
 Clarence, who had only wished to point 
 out that the whole lower end of the garden 
 wall was in ruins and the grille really was no 
 prevention, ' hushed.' 
 
 * And listen ! don't pay me much atten- 
 tion to-day, but talk to her! indicating the 
 still discreet and distant Mary, * before father 
 
SUSY 89 
 
 and mother. Not a word to her of this con- 
 fidence, Clarence. To-morrow ride out alone 
 on your beautiful horse and come back by 
 way of the woods, beyond our turning, at 
 four o'clock. There's a trail to the right 
 of the big madrono tree. Take that. Be 
 careful and keep a good look out, for she 
 mustn't see you.' 
 
 * Who mustn't see me ? ' said the puzzled 
 Clarence. 
 
 ' Why, Mary, of course, you silly boy ! ' 
 returned the girl impatiently, ' She'll be 
 looking for me. Go now, Clarence ! Stop ! 
 Look at that lovely big maiden's blush up 
 there,' pointing to a pink-suffused specimen 
 of rose grandiflora hanging on the wall. 
 ' Get it, Clarence that one I'll show you 
 where there ! ' They had already plunged 
 into the leafy bramble, and, standing on tip- 
 toe, with her hand on his shoulder and head 
 upturned, Susy's cheek had innocently ap- 
 proached Clarence's own. At this moment 
 Clarence, possibly through some confusion 
 of colour, fragrance, or softness of contact, 
 
90 SISSY 
 
 seemed to have availed himself of the oppor- 
 tunity in a way which caused Susy to in- 
 stantly rejoin Mary Rogers with affected 
 dignity, leaving him to follow a few moments 
 later with the captured flower. 
 
 Without trying to understand the reason 
 of to-morrow's rendezvous, and perhaps not 
 altogether convinced of the reality of Susy's 
 troubles, he, however, did not find that diffi- 
 culty in carrying out her other commands 
 which he had expected. Mrs. Peyton was 
 still gracious, and with feminine tact induced 
 him to talk of himself until she was presently 
 in possession of his whole history barring 
 the episode of his meeting with Susy since 
 he had parted with them. He felt a strange 
 satisfaction in familiarly pouring out his 
 confidences to this superior woman whom 
 he had always held in awe. There w r as a 
 new delight in her womanly interest in his 
 trials and adventures, and a subtle pleasure 
 even in her half-motherly criticism and ad- 
 monition of some passages. I am afraid he 
 forgot Susy, who listened with the compla- 
 
SUSY 9 1 
 
 cency of an exhibitor ; Mary, whose black 
 eyes dilated alternately with sympathy for 
 the performer and deprecation of Mrs. 
 Peyton's critical glances ; and Peyton, who, 
 however, seemed lost in thought and pre- 
 occupied. Clarence was happy. The softly- 
 shaded lights in the broad, spacious, com- 
 fortably-furnished drawing-room shone on 
 the group before him. It was a picture of 
 refined domesticity which the homeless 
 Clarence had never known except as a 
 vague, half painful, boyish remembrance ; 
 it was a realisation of welcome that far ex- 
 ceeded his wildest boyish vision of the pre- 
 ceding night. With that recollection came 
 another a more uneasy one. He remem- 
 bered how that vision had been interrupted 
 by the strange voices in the road, and their 
 vague but ominous import to his host. A 
 feeling of self-reproach came over him. The 
 threats had impressed him as only mere brag- 
 gadocio he knew the characteristic exagge- 
 ration of the race but perhaps he ought to 
 privately tell Peyton of the incident at once. 
 
92 SUSY 
 
 The opportunity came later when the 
 ladies had retired, and Peyton, wrapped in a 
 poncho in a rocking-chair, on the now chilly 
 verandah, looked up from his reverie and a 
 cigar. Clarence casually introduced the inci- 
 dent, as if only for the sake of describing the 
 supernatural effect of the hidden voices, but 
 he was concerned to see that Peyton was 
 considerably disturbed by their more material 
 import. After questioning him as to the 
 appearance of the two men, his host said : ' I 
 don't mind telling you, Clarence, that as far 
 as that fellow's intentions go he is quite 
 sincere, although his threats are only bor- 
 rowed thunder. He is a man whom I have 
 just dismissed for carelessness and insolence 
 two things that run in double harness in 
 this country but I should be more afraid to 
 find him at my back on a dark night, alone on 
 the plains, than to confront him in daylight, 
 in the witness box, against me. He was only 
 repeating a silly rumour that the title to this 
 Rancho and the nine square leagues beyond 
 would be attacked by some speculators.' 
 
SUSY 93 
 
 ' But I thought your title was confirmed 
 two years ago,' said Clarence. 
 
 * The grant was confirmed,' returned 
 Peyton, ' which means that the conveyance 
 of the Mexican Government of these lands 
 to the ancestor of Victor Robles was held to 
 be legally proven by the United States Land 
 Commission, and a patent issued to all those 
 who held under it. I and my neighbours 
 hold under it by purchase from Victor Rob- 
 les, subject to the confirmation of the Land 
 Commission. But that confirmation was 
 only of Victor's great grandfather s title, and 
 it is now alleged that as Victor's father died 
 without making a will, Victor has claimed 
 and disposed of property which he ought to 
 have divided with his sisters. At least, some 
 speculating rascals in San Francisco have 
 set up what they call "The Sisters' Title," 
 and are selling it to actual settlers on the un- 
 occupied lands beyond. As, by the law, it 
 would hold possession against the mere ordi- 
 nary squatters, whose only right is based 
 as you know on the presumption that there 
 
94 
 
 is no title claimed, it gives the possessor 
 immunity to enjoy the use of the property 
 until the case is decided, and even should 
 the original title hold good against his, the 
 successful litigant would probably be willing 
 to pay for improvements and possession to 
 save the expensive and tedious process of 
 ejectment.' 
 
 ' But this does not affect you, who have 
 already possession ? ' said Clarence quickly. 
 
 ' No. Not as far as this hoiise and the 
 lands I actually occiipy and cultivate are con- 
 cerned ; and they know that I am safe to 
 fight to the last, and carry the case to the 
 Supreme Court in that case, until the swindle 
 is exposed or they drop it ; but I may have 
 to pay them something to keep the squatters 
 off my unoccupied land.' 
 
 1 But you surely wouldn't recognise those 
 rascals in any way ? ' said the astonished 
 Clarence. 
 
 ' As against other rascals ? why not ? ' 
 returned Peyton grimly. ' I only pay for 
 the possession which their sham title gives 
 
SUSY 95 
 
 me to my own land. If by accident that 
 title obtains I am still on the safe side.' 
 After a pause he said, more gravely, ' What 
 you overheard, Clarence, shows me that the 
 plan is more forward than I had imagined, 
 and that I may have to fight traitors here.' 
 
 ' I hope, sir,' said Clarence, with a quick 
 glow in his earnest face, ' that you'll let me 
 help you. You thought I did once, you re- 
 member with the Indians.' 
 
 There was so much of the old Clarence 
 in his boyish appeal and eager, questioning 
 face, that Peyton, who had been talking to 
 him as a younger but equal man of affairs, 
 was startled into a smile. ' You did, Clar- 
 ence, though the Indians butchered your 
 friends after all. I don't know, though, but 
 that your experiences with those Spaniards 
 you must have known a lot of them when 
 you were with Don Juan Robinson and at 
 the college might be of service in getting 
 at evidence, or smashing their witnesses if it 
 comes to a fight. But, just now, money is 
 everything. They must be bought off the 
 
96 SUSY 
 
 land, if I have to mortgage it for the purpose. 
 That strikes you as a rather heroic remedy, 
 Clarence, eh ? ' he continued, in his old, half- 
 bantering attitude towards Clarence's inex- 
 perienced youth, * don't it ? ' 
 
 But Clarence was not thinking of that. 
 Another more audacious but equally youthful 
 and enthusiastic idea had taken possession of 
 his mind, and he lay awake half that night 
 revolving it. It was true that it was some- 
 what impractically mixed with his visions of 
 Mrs. Peyton and Susy, and even included 
 his previous scheme of relief for the impro- 
 vident and incorrigible Hooker. But it 
 gave a wonderful sincerity and happiness to 
 his slumbers that night, which the wiser and 
 elder Peyton might have envied and I wot 
 not was in the long run as correct and saga- 
 cious as Peyton's sleepless cogitations. And 
 in the early morning Mr. Clarence Brant 
 the young capitalist sat down to his travel- 
 ling desk and wrote two clear-headed, logical, 
 and practical business letters one to his 
 banker and the other to his former guardian, 
 
SUSY 97 
 
 Don Juan Robinson as his first step in a 
 resolve that was, nevertheless, perhaps as 
 wildly quixotic and enthusiastic as any dream 
 his boyish and unselfish heart had ever 
 indulged. 
 
 At breakfast, in the charmed freedom of 
 the domestic circle, Clarence forgot Susy's 
 capricious commands of yesterday, and began 
 to address himself to her in his old earnest 
 fashion, until he was warned by a significant 
 knitting of the young lady's brows and mo- 
 nosyllabic responses. But, in his youthful 
 loyalty to Mrs. Peyton, he was more pained 
 to notice Susy's occasional unconscious indif- 
 ference to her adopted mother's affectionate 
 expression, and a more conscious disregard 
 of her wishes. So uneasy did he become, in 
 his sensitive concern for Mrs. Peyton's half- 
 concealed mortification, that he gladly ac- 
 cepted Peyton's offer to go with him to visit 
 the farm and corral. As the afternoon ap- 
 proached, with another twinge of self-re- 
 proach, he was obliged to invent some excuse 
 to decline certain hospitable plans of Mrs. 
 
 H 
 
9 8 SUSY 
 
 Peyton's for his entertainment, and at half- 
 past three stole somewhat guiltily, with his 
 horse, from the stables. But he had to pass 
 before the outer wall of the garden 2^ grille, 
 through which he had seen Mary the day 
 before. Raising his eyes mechanically, he 
 was startled to see Mrs. Peyton standing 
 behind the grating, with her abstracted gaze 
 fixed upon the wind-tossed, level grain be- 
 yond her. She smiled as she saw him, but 
 there were traces of tears in her proud, 
 handsome eyes. 
 
 1 You are going to ride ? ' she said plea- 
 santly. 
 
 * Y-e-es,' stammered the shamefaced Clar- 
 ence. 
 
 She glanced at him wistfully. 
 
 ' You are right. The girls have gone 
 away by themselves. Mr. Peyton has ridden 
 over to Santa Inez on this dreadful land 
 business, and I suppose you'd have found 
 him a dull riding companion. It is rather 
 stupid here. I quite envy you, Mr. Brant, 
 your horse and your freedom.' 
 
SUSY 99 
 
 ' But, Mrs. Peyton,' broke in Clarence 
 impulsively, ' you have a horse, I saw it a 
 lovely lady's horse eating its head off in 
 the stable. Won't you let me run back and 
 order it ; and won't you, please, come out 
 with me for a good long gallop ? ' 
 
 He meant what he said. He had spoken 
 quickly, impulsively, but with the perfect 
 understanding in his own mind that his 
 proposition meant the complete abandon - 
 ment of his rendezvous with Susy. Mrs. 
 Peyton was astounded and slightly stirred 
 with his earnestness, albeit unaware of all 
 it implied. 
 
 ' It's a great temptation, Mr. Brant,' she 
 said with a playful smile, which dazzled 
 Clarence with its first faint suggestion of a 
 refined woman's coquetry, ' but I'm afraid 
 that Mr. Peyton would think me going mad 
 in my old age. No ! Go on and enjoy your 
 gallop, and if you should see those giddy 
 girls anywhere send them home early for 
 chocolate, before the cold wind gets up.' 
 
 She turned, waved her slim white hand 
 
 H 2 
 
loo SUSY 
 
 playfully in acknowledgment of Clarence's 
 bared head, and moved away. 
 
 For the first few moments the young man 
 tried to find relief in furious riding, and in 
 bullying his spirited horse. Then he pulled 
 quickly up. What was he doing ? What 
 was he going to do ? What foolish, vapid 
 deceit was this that he was going to practise 
 upon that noble, queenly, confiding, generous 
 woman ? (He had already forgotten that she 
 had always distrusted him.) What a fool he 
 was not to tell her half-jokingly that he ex- 
 pected to meet Susy ! But would he have 
 dared to talk half-jokingly to such a woman 
 on such a topic ? And would it have been 
 honourable without disclosing the whole truth 
 that they had met secretly before ? And 
 was it fair to Susy ? dear, innocent, childish 
 Susy! Yet something must be done! It 
 was such trivial, purposeless deceit, after all ; 
 for this noble woman, Mrs. Peyton so kind, 
 so gentle would never object to his loving 
 Susy and marrying her. And they would 
 all live happily together ; and Mrs. Peyton 
 
SUSY ici 
 
 would never be separated from them, but 
 always beaming tenderly upon them, as she 
 did just now in the garden. Yes, he would 
 have a serious understanding with Susy, and 
 that would excuse the clandestine meeting 
 to-day. 
 
 His rapid pace meantime had brought him 
 to the imperceptible incline of the terrace, 
 and he was astonished in turning in the sad- 
 dle to find that the casa, corral, and out- 
 buildings had completely vanished, and that 
 behind him rolled only the long sea of grain, 
 which seemed to have swallowed them in 
 its yellowing depths. Before him lay the 
 wooded ravine through which the stage 
 coach passed, which was also the entrance 
 to the Rancho, and there too, probably, was 
 the turning of which Susy had spoken. But 
 it was still early for the rendezvous ; indeed, 
 he was in no hurry to meet her in his pre- 
 sent discontented state, and he made a listless 
 circuit of the field in the hope of discovering 
 the phenomenon that had caused the Rancho's 
 mysterious disappearance. When he had 
 
102 SUSY 
 
 found that it was the effect of the different 
 levels, his attention was arrested by a mul- 
 titude of moving objects in a still more dis- 
 tant field, which proved to be a band of wild 
 horses. In and out among them, circling 
 aimlessly (as it seemed to him), appeared two 
 horsemen, apparently performing some mystic 
 evolution. To add to their singular perform- 
 ance, from time to time one of the flying 
 herd, driven by the horsemen far beyond the 
 circle of its companions, dropped suddenly 
 and unaccountably in full career. The field 
 closed over it as if it had been swallowed up. 
 In a few moments it appeared again, trot- 
 ting peacefully behind its former pursuer. It 
 was some time before Clarence grasped the 
 meaning of this strange spectacle. Although 
 the clear, dry atmosphere sharply accented 
 the silhouette-like outlines of the men and 
 horses, so great was the distance that the 
 slender forty-foot lasso, which in the skilful 
 hands of the horsemen had effected these 
 captures, was completely invisible \ The 
 horsemen were Peyton's vacqueros, making 
 
SUSY 103 
 
 a selection from the young horses for the 
 market. He remembered now that Peyton 
 had told him that he might be obliged to 
 raise money by sacrificing some of his stock, 
 and the thought brought back Clarence's 
 uneasiness as he turned again to the trail. 
 Indeed, he was hardly in the vein for a gentle 
 tryst as he entered the wooded ravine to seek 
 the madrono tree which was to serve as a 
 guide to his lady's bower. 
 
 A few rods further, under the cool vault 
 filled with woodland spicing, he came upon 
 it. In its summer harlequin dress of scarlet 
 and green, with hanging bells of polytinted 
 berries like some personified sylvan Folly, it 
 seemed a fitting symbol of Susy's childish 
 masquerade of passion. Its bizarre beauty 
 so opposed to the sober gravity of the 
 sedate pines and hemlocks made it an un- 
 mistakable landmark. Here he dismounted 
 and picketed his horse. And here, beside it 
 to the right, ran the little trail crawling over 
 mossy boulders ; a narrow yellow track through 
 the carpet of pine needles between the closest 
 
104 SUSY 
 
 file of t-ees ; an almost imperceptible streak 
 across the pools of chickweed at their roots, 
 and a brown and ragged swathe through the 
 ferns. As he went on the anxiety and un- 
 easiness that had possessed him gave way to 
 a languid intoxication of the senses ; the my- 
 sterious seclusion of these woodland depths 
 recovered the old influence they had exerted 
 over his boyhood. He was not returning to 
 Susy as much as to the older love of his 
 youth, of which she was, perhaps, only an 
 incident. It was, therefore, with an odd 
 boyish thrill again that, coming suddenly upon 
 a little hollow, like a deserted nest, where 
 the lost trail made him hesitate, he heard the 
 crackle of a starched skirt behind him, was 
 conscious of the subtle odour of freshly ironed 
 and scented muslin, and felt the gentle pres- 
 sure of delicate fingers upon his eyes. 
 
 ' Susy ! ' 
 
 1 You silly boy ! Where were you blun- 
 dering to ? Why didn't you look around 
 
 you ? 
 
 1 1 thought I would hear your voices.' 
 
SUSY 105 
 
 ' Whose voices, idiot ? ' 
 
 ' Yours and Mary's,' returned Clarence 
 innocently, looking round for the confidante. 
 
 1 Oh, indeed ! Then you wanted to see 
 Mary ? Well, she's looking for me some- 
 where. Perhaps you'll go and find her or 
 shall I?' 
 
 She was offering to pass him when he 
 laid his hand on hers to detain her. She 
 instantly evaded it, and drew herself up to 
 her full height, incontestably displaying the 
 dignity of the added inches to her skirt. All 
 this was charmingly like the old Susy, but it 
 did not bid fair to help him to a serious inter- 
 view. And looking at the pretty pink mock- 
 ing face before him, with the witchery of the 
 woodland still upon him, he began to think 
 that he had better put it off. 
 
 * Never mind about Mary,' he said laugh- 
 ingly. ' But you said you wanted to see 
 me, Susy ; and here I am.' 
 
 ' Said I wanted to see you ! ' repeated 
 Susy, with her blue eyes lifted in celestial 
 scorn and wonderment. ' Said / wanted to 
 
106 SUSY 
 
 see you ! Are you not mistaken, Mr. Brant ? 
 Really, I imagined that you came here to see 
 me. 1 
 
 With her fair head upturned, and the 
 leaf of her scarlet lip temptingly curled over, 
 Clarence began to think this latest phase of 
 her extravagance the most fascinating. He 
 drew nearer to her as he said gently, ' You 
 know what I mean, Susy. You said yester- 
 day you were troubled. I thought you might 
 have something to tell me.' 
 
 ' I should think it was you who might 
 have something to tell me after all these 
 years,' she said, poutingly yet self-possessed. 
 * But I suppose you came here only to see 
 Mary and mother. I'm sure you let them 
 know that plainly enough last evening.' 
 
 ' But you said ' began the stupefied 
 
 Clarence. 
 
 ' Never mind what / said. It's always 
 what / say, never what you say ; and you 
 don't say anything.' 
 
 The woodland influence must have been 
 still very strong upon Clarence that he did 
 
SUSY 107 
 
 not discover in all this that while Susy's 
 general capriciousness was unchanged, there 
 was a new and singular insincerity in her 
 manifest acting. She was either concealing 
 the existence of some other real emotion or 
 assuming one that was absent. But he did 
 not notice it, and only replied tenderly : 
 
 ' But I want to say a great deal to you, 
 Susy. I want to say that if you still feel as 
 I do and as I have always felt and you 
 think you could be happy as I would be if 
 if we could be always together, we need not 
 conceal it from your mother and father any 
 longer. I am old enough to speak for my- 
 self, and I am my own master. Your mother 
 has been very kind to me so kind that it 
 doesn't seem quite right to deceive her and 
 when I tell her that I love you and that I 
 want you to be my wife, I believe she will 
 give us her blessing.' 
 
 Susy uttered a strange little laugh, and 
 with an assumption of coyness, that was how- 
 ever still affected, leant down to pick a few 
 berries from a manzanito bush. 
 
io8 SUSY 
 
 ' I'll tell you what she'll say, Clarence. 
 She'll say you're frightfully young and so 
 you are ! ' 
 
 The young fellow tried to echo the laugh, 
 but felt as if he had received a blow. For 
 the first time he was conscious of the truth : 
 this girl, whom he had fondly regarded as a 
 child, had already passed him in the race ; 
 she had become a woman before he was yet 
 a man, and now stood before him, maturer in 
 her knowledge and older in her understand- 
 ing of herself and him. This was the change 
 that had perplexed him ; this was the pre- 
 sence that had come between them a Susy 
 he had never known before. 
 
 She laughed at his changed expression, 
 and then swung herself easily to a sitting 
 posture on the low projecting branch of a 
 hemlock. The act was still girlish, but, 
 nevertheless, she still looked down upon him 
 in a superior patronising way. ' Now, Clar- 
 ence/ she said, with a half abstracted manner, 
 ' don't you be a big fool ! If you talk that 
 way to mother she'll only tell you to wait two 
 
SUSY log 
 
 or three years until you know your own mind, 
 and she'll pack me off to that horrid school 
 again, besides watching me like a cat every 
 moment you are here. If you want to stay 
 here, and see me sometimes like this, you'll 
 just behave as you have done, and say 
 nothing. Do you see ? Perhaps you don't 
 care to come, or are satisfied with Mary and 
 mother. Say so, then. Goodness knows, I 
 don't want to force you to come here.' 
 
 Modest and reserved as Clarence was 
 generally, I fear that bashfulness of approach 
 to the other sex was not one of these indica- 
 tions. He walked up to Susy with appal- 
 ling directness, and passed his arm around 
 her waist. She did not move, but remained 
 looking at him and his intruding arm with a 
 certain critical curiosity, as if awaiting some 
 novel sensation. At which he kissed her. 
 She then slowly disengaged her arm, and 
 said : 
 
 ' Really, upon my word, Clarence,' in 
 perfectly level tones, and slipped quietly to 
 the ground. 
 
i io SUSY 
 
 He again caught her in his arms, en- 
 circling her disarranged hair and part of the 
 beribbpned hat hanging over her shoulder, 
 and remained for an instant holding her thus 
 silently and tenderly. Then she freed her- 
 self with an abstracted air, a half smile and 
 an unchanged colour, except where her soft 
 cheek had been abraded by his coat collar. 
 
 * You're a bold, rude boy, Clarence,' she 
 said, putting back her hair quietly, and 
 straightening the brim of her hat. ' Heaven 
 knows where you learnt manners!' and then, 
 from a safer distance, with the same critical 
 look in her violet eyes, ' I suppose you think 
 mother would allow that if she knew it ? ' 
 
 But Clarence, now completely subjugated, 
 with the memory of the kiss upon him and 
 a heightened colour, protested that he only 
 wanted to make their intercourse less 
 constrained, and to have their relations 
 even their engagement recognised by her 
 parents ; still, he would take her advice. 
 Only there was always the danger that if 
 they were discovered she would be sent 
 
SUSY in 
 
 back to the convent all the same, and his 
 banishment, instead of being the probation 
 of a few years, would be a perpetual sepa- 
 ration. 
 
 * We could always run away, Clarence,' 
 responded the young girl calmly. * There's 
 nothing the matter with that' 
 
 Clarence was startled. The idea of 
 desolating the sad, proud, handsome Mrs. 
 Peyton whom he worshipped, and her kind 
 husband whom he was just about to serve, 
 was so grotesque and confusing, that he said 
 hopelessly, ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Of course,' she continued, with the same 
 odd affectation of coyness, which was, how- 
 ever, distinctly uncalled for, as she eyed him 
 from under her broad hat, 'you needn't come 
 with me unless you like. I can run away by 
 myself if I want to ! I've thought of it 
 before. One can't stand everything ! ' 
 
 ' But, Susy,' said Clarence, with a swift 
 remorseful recollection of her confidence 
 yesterday, ' is there really anything troubles 
 you ? Tell me, dear ; what is it ? 
 
n2 SUSY 
 
 'Oh, nothing everything\ It's no use 
 yoTi can't understand ! You like it I 
 know you do I can see it it's your style. 
 But it's stupid it's awful, Clarence ! With 
 mamma snooping over you and around you 
 all day, with her " dear child," " mamma's 
 pet," and "what is it, dear?" and " tell it all 
 to your own mamma " as if I would ! And 
 " my own mamma," indeed ! As if I didn't 
 know, Clarence, that she isrit. And papa, 
 caring for nothing but this hideous, dreary 
 Rancho, and the huge, empty plains. It's 
 worse than school, for there, at least when 
 you went out, you could see something be- 
 sides cattle and horses and yellow-faced 
 half-breeds ! But here Lord ! it's only a 
 wonder I haven't run away before ! ' 
 
 Startled and shocked as Clarence was at 
 this revelation, accompanied as it was by a 
 hardness of manner that was new to him, 
 the influence of the young girl was still so 
 strong upon him that he tried to evade it as 
 only an extravagance, and said with a faint 
 smile : ' But where would you run to ? ' 
 
SUSY 113 
 
 She looked at him cunningly with her 
 head on one side, and then said : 
 
 1 1 have friends, and ' 
 
 She hesitated, pursing up her pretty lips. 
 
 ' And what ? ' 
 
 ' Relations.' 
 
 ' Relations ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. An aunt by marriage she lives 
 in Sacramento. She'd be overjoyed to have 
 me come to her. Her second husband has 
 a theatre there.' 
 
 ' But, Susy, what does Mrs. Peyton know 
 of this ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing. Do you think I'd tell her, and 
 have her buy them up as she has my other 
 relations ? Do you suppose I don't know 
 that I've been bought up like a nigger ? ' 
 
 She looked indignant, compressing her 
 delicate little nostrils; and yet somehow 
 Clarence had the same singular impression 
 that she was only acting. 
 
 The calling of a far-off voice came faintly 
 through the wood. 
 
 ' That's Mary looking for me,' said Susy 
 
ii4 SUSY 
 
 composedly. ' You must go now, Clarence. 
 Quick! Remember what I said and don't 
 breathe a word of this. Good-bye ! ' 
 
 But Clarence was standing still breath- 
 less, hopelessly disturbed and irresolute. 
 Then he turned away mechanically towards 
 the trail. 
 
 ' Well, Clarence ! ' 
 
 She was looking at him half reproach- 
 fully, half coquettishly with smiling, parted 
 lips. He hastened to forget himself and his 
 troubles upon them twice and thrice. Then 
 she quickly disengaged herself, whispered 
 * Go, now,' and, as Mary's call was repeated, 
 Clarence heard her voice high and clear 
 answering, * Here, dear ! ' as he was plunging 
 into the thicket. 
 
 He had scarcely reached the madrono 
 tree again and remounted his horse, before 
 he heard the sound of hoofs approaching 
 from the road. In his present uneasiness he 
 did not care to be discovered so near the 
 rendezvous, and drew back into the shadow 
 until the horseman should pass. It was 
 
SUSY 115 
 
 Peyton with a somewhat disturbed face, 
 riding rapidly. Still less was he inclined 
 to join or immediately follow him, but he 
 was relieved w r hen his host, instead of taking 
 the direct road to the Rancho through the 
 wild oats, turned off in the direction of the 
 corral. 
 
 A moment later Clarence wheeled into 
 the direct road, and presently found himself 
 in the long afternoon shadows through the 
 thickest of the grain. He was riding slowly, 
 immersed in thought, when he was suddenly 
 startled by a hissing noise at his ear, and 
 what seemed to be the uncoiling stroke of a 
 leaping serpent at his side. Instinctively he 
 threw himself forward on his horse's neck, 
 and as the animal shied into the grain, felt 
 the crawling scrape and jerk of a horsehair 
 lariat across his back and down his horse's 
 flanks. He reined in indignantly and stood 
 up in his stirrups. Nothing was to be seen 
 above the level of the grain. Beneath him 
 the trailing riata had as noiselessly vanished 
 as if it had been indeed a gliding snake. Had 
 
 I 2 
 
n6 SUSY 
 
 he been the victim of a practical joke, or of 
 the blunder of some stupid vacquero ? for he 
 made no doubt that it was the lasso of one 
 of the performers he had watched that after- 
 noon. But his preoccupied mind did not 
 dwell long upon it, and by the time he had 
 reached the wall of the old garden the inci- 
 dent was forgotten. 
 
SUSY 117 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 RELIEVED of Clarence Brant's embarrassing 
 presence, Jim Hooker did not, however, re- 
 fuse to avail himself of that opportunity to 
 expound to the farmer and his family the 
 immense wealth, influence, and importance of 
 the friend who had just left him. Although 
 Clarence's plan had suggested reticence, 
 Hooker could not forego the pleasure of in- 
 forming them that ' Clar ' Brant had just 
 offered to let him into an extensive land 
 speculation. He had previously declined a 
 large share or original location in a mine of 
 Clarence's now worth a million because it 
 was not ' his style.' But the land speculation 
 in a country of unsettled titles and lawless 
 men he need not remind them required 
 
u8 SUSY 
 
 some experience of border warfare. He 
 would not say positively, although he left 
 them to draw their own conclusions with 
 gloomy significance, that this was why 
 Clarence had sought him. With this dark 
 suggestion he took leave of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hopkins and their daughter Phoebe the next 
 day not without some natural human emo- 
 tion and peacefully drove his team and 
 waggon into the settlement of Fair Plains. 
 
 He was not prepared, however, for a 
 sudden realisation of his imaginative pros- 
 pects. A few days after his arrival in Fair 
 Plains he received a letter from Clarence, 
 explaining that he had not time to return to 
 Hooker to consult him, but had nevertheless 
 fulfilled his promise by taking advantage of 
 an opportunity of purchasing the Spanish 
 Sisters' title to certain unoccupied lands 
 near the settlement. As these lands in part 
 joined the section already pre-empted and 
 occupied by Hopkins, Clarence thought that 
 Jim Hooker would choose that part for the 
 sake of his neighbour's company. He en- 
 
SUSY 119 
 
 closed a draft on San Francisco for a sum 
 sufficient to enable Jim to put up a cabin and 
 ' stock ' the property, which he begged he 
 would consider in the light of a loan, to be 
 paid back in instalments only when the pro- 
 perty could afford it. At the same time, if 
 Jim was in difficulty he was to inform him. 
 The letter closed with a characteristic, 
 Clarence-like mingling of enthusiasm and 
 older wisdom : ' I wish you luck, Jim, but 
 I see no reason why you should trust to it. 
 I don't know of anything that could keep you 
 from making yourself independent of any one, 
 if you go to work with a long aim and don't 
 fritter away your chances on short ones. If 
 I were you, old fellow, I'd drop the Plains 
 and the Indians out of my thoughts or at 
 least out of my talk for awhile ; they won't 
 help you in the long run. The people who 
 believe you will be jealous of you ; those who 
 don't will look down upon you, and if they 
 get to questioning your little Indian romances, 
 Jim, they'll be apt to question your civilised 
 facts. That won't help you in the ranching 
 
120 SUSY 
 
 business and that's your only real grip now.' 
 For the space of two or three hours after this 
 Jim was reasonably grateful and even sub- 
 dued. So much so that his employer, to 
 whom he confided his good fortune, frankly 
 confessed that he believed him, from that 
 unusual fact alone. Unfortunately, neither 
 the practical lesson conveyed in this grim 
 admission, nor the sentiment of gratitude, 
 remained long with Jim. Another idea had 
 taken possession of his fancy. Although the 
 land nominated in his bill of sale had been 
 except on the occasion of his own temporary 
 halt there always unoccupied, unsought, 
 and unclaimed, and although he was amply 
 protected by legal certificates, he gravely 
 collected a posse of three or four idlers from 
 Fair Plains, armed them at his own expense, 
 and, in the dead of night, took belligerent 
 and forcible possession of the peaceful domain 
 which the weak generosity and unheroic 
 dollars of Clarence had purchased for him. 
 A martial camp fire tempered the chill night 
 winds to the pulses of the invaders, and 
 
SUSY 121 
 
 enabled them to sleep on their arms in the 
 field they had won. The morning sun re- 
 vealed to the astonished Hopkins family the 
 embattled plain beyond with its armed 
 sentries. Only then did Jim Hooker con- 
 descend to explain the reason of his warlike 
 occupation, with dark hints of the outlying 
 'squatters' and 'jumpers,' whose incursions 
 their boldness alone had repulsed. The effect 
 of this romantic situation upon the two 
 women, with the slight fascination of danger 
 imported into their quiet lives, may well be 
 imagined. Possibly owing to some incautious 
 questioning by Mr. Hopkins, and some 
 doubts of the discipline and sincerity of his 
 posse, Jim discharged them the next day ; 
 but during the erection of his cabin by some 
 peaceful carpenters from the settlement, he 
 returned to his gloomy preoccupation and the 
 ostentatious wearing of his revolvers. As an 
 opulent and powerful neighbour, he took his 
 meals with the family while his house was 
 being built, and generally impressed them with 
 a sense of security they had never missed. 
 
122 SVSY 
 
 Meantime, Clarence, duly informed of the 
 installation of Jim as his tenant, underwent a 
 severe trial. It was necessary for his plans 
 that this should be kept a secret at present, 
 and this was no easy thing for his habitually 
 frank and open nature. He had once men- 
 tioned that he had met Jim at the settlement, 
 but the information was received with such 
 indifference by Susy, and Such marked dis- 
 favour by Mrs. Peyton, that he said no more. 
 He accompanied Peyton in his rides around 
 the Rancho, fully possessed himself of the 
 details of its boundaries, the debateable lands 
 held by the enemy, and listened with beating 
 pulses, but a hushed tongue, to his host's ill- 
 concealed misgivings. 
 
 ' You see, Clarence, that lower terrace ? ' 
 he said, pointing to a far-reaching longitudinal 
 plain beyond the corral ; ' it extends from my 
 corral to Fair Plains. That is claimed by the 
 Sisters' title, and, as things appear to be 
 going, if a division of the land is made it will 
 be theirs. It's bad enough to have this best 
 grazing land lying just on the flanks of the 
 
SUSY 123 
 
 corral held by these rascals at an absurd pro- 
 hibitory price, but I am afraid that it may be 
 made to mean something even worse. Ac- 
 cording to the old surveys, these terraces on 
 different levels were the natural divisions of 
 the property one heir or his tenant taking 
 one, and another taking another an easy dis- 
 tinction that saved the necessity of boundary 
 fencing or monuments, and gave no trouble to 
 people who were either kinsmen or lived in 
 lazy patriarchal concord. That is the form 
 of division they are trying to re-establish now. 
 Well,' he continued, suddenly lifting his eyes 
 to the young man's flushed face, in some un- 
 conscious, sympathetic response to his earnest 
 breathlessness, ' although my boundary line 
 extends half a mile into that field, my house 
 and garden and corral are actually upon that 
 terrace or level' They certainly appeared 
 to Clarence to be on the same line as the long 
 field beyond. ' If,' went on Peyton, 'such a 
 decision is made, these men will push on and 
 claim the house and everything on the terrace.' 
 ' But,' said Clarence quickly, ' you said 
 
124 Sf/S Y 
 
 their title was only valuable where they have 
 got or can give possession. You already have 
 yours. They can't take it from you except 
 by force.' 
 
 4 No/ said Peyton grimly, ' nor will they 
 dare to do it as long as I live to fight 
 them.' 
 
 ' But,' persisted Clarence, with the same 
 singular hesitancy of manner, * why didn't 
 you purchase possession of at least that 
 part of the land which lies so dangerously 
 near your own house ? ' 
 
 ' Because it was held by squatters, who 
 naturally preferred buying what might prove 
 a legal title to their land from these im- 
 postors than to sell out their possession to 
 me at a fair price.' 
 
 ' But couldn't you have bought from them 
 both ? ' continued Clarence. 
 
 ' My dear Clarence, I am not a Croesus 
 nor a fool. Only a man who was both would 
 attempt to treat with these rascals, who would 
 now, of course, insist that their whole claim 
 should be bought up at their own price by 
 
SUSY 125 
 
 the man who was most concerned in defeat- 
 ing them.' 
 
 He turned away a little impatiently. For- 
 tunately he did not observe that Clarence's 
 averted face was crimson with embarrass- 
 ment, and that a faint smile hovered ner- 
 vously about his mouth. 
 
 Since his late rendezvous with Susy, 
 Clarence had had no chance to interrogate 
 her further regarding her mysterious relative. 
 That that shadowy presence was more or less 
 exaggerated if not an absolute myth he 
 more than half suspected, but of the dis- 
 content that had produced it, or the reck- 
 lessness it might provoke, there was no doubt. 
 She might be tempted to some act of folly. 
 He wondered if Mary Rogers knew it. Yet, 
 with his sensitive ideas of loyalty, he would 
 have shrunk from any confidence with Mary 
 regarding her friend's secrets, although he 
 fancied that Mary's dark eyes sometimes 
 dwelt upon him with mournful consciousness 
 and premonition. He did not imagine the 
 truth that this romantic contemplation was 
 
126 SUSY 
 
 only the result of Mary's conviction that 
 Susy was utterly unworthy of his love. It 
 so chanced one morning that the vacquero 
 who brought the post from Santa Inez ar- 
 rived earlier than usual, and so anticipated 
 the two girls, who usually made a youthful 
 point of meeting him first as he passed the 
 garden wall. The letter bag was conse- 
 quently delivered to Mrs. Peyton in the 
 presence of the others, and a look of con- 
 sternation passed between the young girls. 
 But Mary quickly seized upon the bag, as if 
 with girlish and mischievous impatience, 
 opened it, and glanced within it. 
 
 ' There are only three letters for you,' she 
 said, handing them to Clarence with a quick 
 look of significance which he failed to com- 
 prehend, ' and nothing for me or Susy.' 
 
 1 But,' began the innocent Clarence, as 
 his first glance at the letters showed him 
 that one was directed to Susy, ' here is ' 
 
 A wicked pinch on his arm that was 
 nearest Mary stopped his speech, and he 
 quickly put the letters in his pocket. 
 
SUSY 127 
 
 ' Didn't you understand that Susy don't 
 want her mother to see that letter?' asked 
 Mary impatiently, when they were alone a 
 moment later. 
 
 ' No,' said Clarence simply, handing her 
 the missive. 
 
 Mary took it, and turned it over in her 
 hands. 
 
 ' It's in a man's handwriting,' she said 
 innocently. 
 
 * I hadn't noticed it,' returned Clarence 
 with invincible naivety ' but perhaps it 
 is/ 
 
 ' And you hand it over for me to give to 
 Susy, and ain't a bit curious to know who it's 
 from.' 
 
 ' No,' returned Clarence, opening his big 
 eyes in smiling and apologetic wonder. 
 
 ' Well,' responded the young lady, with 
 a long breath of melancholy astonishment, 
 'certainly of all things you are you really 
 are \ ' With which incoherency apparently 
 perfectly intelligible to herself she left him. 
 She had not herself the slightest idea who 
 
128 SUSY 
 
 the letter was from she only knew that 
 Susy wanted it concealed. 
 
 The incident made little impression on 
 Clarence except as part of the general un- 
 easiness he felt in regard to his old play- 
 mate. It seemed so odd to him that this 
 worry should come from her that she her- 
 self should form the one discordant note in 
 the Arcadian dream that he had found so 
 sweet. In his previous imaginings it was the 
 presence of Mrs. Peyton which he had 
 dreaded she whose propinquity now seemed 
 so full of gentleness, reassurance, and repose. 
 How worthy she seemed of any sacrifice 
 he could make for her ! He had seen 
 little of her for the last two or three days, 
 although her smile and greeting were 
 always ready for him. Poor Clarence did 
 not dream that she had found from cer- 
 tain incontestable signs and tokens, both in 
 the young ladies and himself, that he did 
 not require watching, and that, becoming 
 more resigned to Susy's indifference, which 
 seemed so general and passive in quality, 
 
SUSY 129 
 
 she was no longer tortured by the sting of 
 jealousy. 
 
 Finding himself alone that afternoon the 
 young man had wandered somewhat listlessly 
 beyond the low adobe gateway. The habits 
 of the siesta obtained in a modified form at 
 the Rancho. After luncheon its masters and 
 employes usually retired not so much from 
 the torrid heat of the afternoon sun, but from 
 the first harrying of the afternoon Trades, 
 whose monotonous whistle swept round the 
 walls. A straggling passion vine near the 
 gate beat and struggled against the wind. 
 Clarence had stopped near it, and was 
 gazing with worried abstraction across the 
 tossing fields, when a soft voice called his 
 name. 
 
 It was a pleasant voice Mrs. Peyton's ! 
 He glanced back at the gateway ; it was 
 empty. He looked quickly to the right and 
 left ; no one was there. 
 
 The voice spoke again with the musical 
 addition of a laugh ; it seemed to come from 
 the passion vine. Ah, yes ! behind it, and 
 
 K 
 
130 SUSY 
 
 half overgrown by its branches, was a long, 
 narrow embrasured opening in the wall de- 
 fended by the usual Spanish grating, and 
 still further back, as in the frame of a pic- 
 ture, the half-length figure of Mrs. Peyton, 
 very handsome and striking, too, with a 
 painted picturesqueness from the effect of the 
 chequered light and shade. 
 
 1 You looked so tired and bored out 
 there,' she said. ' I am afraid you are find- 
 ing it very dull at the Rancho. The prospect 
 is certainly not very enlivening from where 
 you stand.' 
 
 Clarence protested with a visible pleasure 
 in his eyes as he held back a spray before the 
 opening. 
 
 ' If you are not afraid of being worse * 
 bored, come in here and talk with me. You 
 have never seen this part of the house, I 
 think my own sitting-room. You reach it 
 from the hall in the gallery. But Lola or 
 Anita will show you the way.' 
 
 He re-entered the gateway, and quickly 
 found the hall a narrow, arched passage, 
 
SUSY 131 
 
 whose black, tunnel-like shadows were abso 
 lutely unaffected by the vivid, colourless 
 glare of the courtyard without, seen through 
 an opening at the end. The contrast was 
 sharp, blinding, and distinct ; even the edges 
 of the opening were black ; the outer light 
 halted on the threshold and never penetrated 
 within. The warm odour of verbena and 
 dried rose-leaves stole from a half-open door 
 somewhere in the cloistered gloom. Guided 
 by it, Clarence presently found himself on 
 the threshold of a low-vaulted room. Two 
 other narrow embrasured windows like the 
 one he had just seen, and a fourth, wider 
 latticed casement, hung with gauze curtains, 
 suffused the apartment with a clear, yet mys- 
 terious, twilight that seemed its own. The 
 gloomy walls were warmed by bright-fringed 
 bookshelves, topped with trifles of light 
 feminine colouring and adornment. Low 
 easy chairs and a. lounge, small fanciful 
 tables, a dainty desk, gaily coloured baskets 
 of worsteds or mysterious kaleidoscopic frag- 
 ments, and vases of flowers pervaded the 
 
 K 2 
 
132 sissy 
 
 apartment with a mingled sense of grace and 
 comfort. There was a womanly refinement 
 in its careless negligence, and even the deli- 
 cate wrapper of Japanese silk, gathered at 
 the waist and falling in easy folds to the feet 
 of the graceful mistress of this charming dis- 
 order, looked a part of its refined abandon- 
 ment. 
 
 Clarence hesitated as on the threshold of 
 some sacred shrine. But Mrs. Peyton, with 
 her own hands, cleared a space for him on 
 the lounge. 
 
 ' You will easily suspect from all this dis- 
 order, Mr. Brant, that I spend a greater part 
 of my time here, and that I seldom see 
 much company. Mr. Peyton occasionally 
 comes in long enough to stumble over a 
 footstool or upset a vase, and I think Mary 
 and Susy avoid it from a firm conviction that 
 there is work concealed in these baskets. 
 But I have my books here, and in the after- 
 noons, behind these thick walls, one forgets 
 the incessant stir and restlessness of the 
 dreadful winds outside. Just now you were 
 
SUSY 133 
 
 foolish enough to tempt them while you were 
 nervous, or worried, or listless. Take my 
 word for it it's a great mistake. There is 
 no more use fighting them, as I tell Mr. 
 Peyton, than of fighting the people born 
 under them. I have my own opinion that 
 these winds were sent only to stir this lazy 
 race of mongrels into activity, but they are 
 enough to drive us Anglo-Saxons into nerv- 
 ous frenzy. Don't you think so ? But you 
 are young and energetic, and perhaps you 
 are not affected by them.' 
 
 She spoke pleasantly and playfully, yet 
 with a certain nervous tension of voice and 
 manner that seemed to illustrate her theory. 
 At least, Clarence, in quick sympathy with 
 her slightest emotion, was touched by it. 
 There is no more insidious attraction in the 
 person we admire than the belief that we 
 know and understand their unhappiness, and 
 that our admiration for them is lifted higher 
 than a mere mutual instinctive sympathy 
 with beauty or strength. This adorable 
 woman had suffered, The very thought 
 
i 3 4 SUSY 
 
 aroused his chivalry. It loosened also, I 
 fear, his quick, impulsive tongue. 
 
 Oh, yes ; he knew it ! He had lived under 
 this whip of air and sky for three years, 
 alone in a Spanish rancho, with only the 
 native peons around him, and scarcely speak- 
 ing his own tongue even to his guardian. 
 He spent his mornings on horseback in fields 
 like these, until the vientos generates, as they 
 called them, sprang up and drove him nearly 
 frantic ; and his only relief was to bury him- 
 self among the books in his guardian's library 
 and shut out the world just as she did. 
 The smile which hovered around the lady's 
 mouth at that moment arrested Clarence 
 with a quick remembrance of their former 
 relative positions, and a sudden conviction of 
 his familiarity in suggesting an equality of 
 experience, and he blushed. But Mrs. Pey- 
 ton diverted his embarrassment with an air of 
 interested absorption in his story, and said : 
 
 * Then you know these people thoroughly, 
 Mr. Brant ? I am afraid that we do not.' 
 
 Clarence had already gathered that fact 
 
SUSY 135 
 
 within the last few days, and, with his usual 
 impulsive directness, said so. A slight knit- 
 ting of Mrs. Peyton's brows passed off, how- 
 ever, as he quickly and earnestly went on to 
 say that it was impossible for the Peytons in 
 their present relations to the natives to judge 
 them, or to be judged by them fairly. How 
 they were a childlike race, credulous and 
 trustful, but, like all credulous and trustful 
 people, given to retaliate when imposed upon 
 with a larger insincerity, exaggeration, and 
 treachery. How they had seen their houses 
 and lands occupied by strangers, their reli- 
 gion scorned, their customs derided, their 
 patriarchal society invaded by hollow civilisa- 
 tion or frontier brutality all this fortified by 
 incident and illustration, the outcome of some 
 youthful experience, and given with the glow- 
 ing enthusiasm of conviction. Mrs. Peyton 
 listened with the usual divided feminine in- 
 terest between subject and speaker. 
 
 Where did this rough, sullen boy as she 
 had known him pick up this delicate and 
 swift perception, this reflective judgment, 
 
136 SUSY 
 
 and this odd felicity of expression ? It was 
 not possible that it was in him while he was 
 the companion of her husband's servants or 
 the recognised 'chum' of the scamp Hooker. 
 No ! But if he could have changed like this, 
 why not Susy ? Mrs. Peyton, in the conser- 
 vatism of her sex, had never been quite free 
 from fears of her adopted daughter's heredi- 
 tary instincts, but, with this example before 
 her, she now took heart. Perhaps the change 
 was coming slowly ; perhaps even now what 
 she thought was indifference and coldness 
 was only some abnormal preparation or con- 
 dition. But she only smiled and said : 
 
 * Then, if you think those people have 
 been wronged, you are not on our side, Mr. 
 Brant ? ' 
 
 What to an older and more worldly man 
 would have seemed and probably was 
 only a playful reproach, struck Clarence 
 deeply, and brought his pent-up feelings to 
 his lips. 
 
 ' You have never wronged them. You 
 couldn't do it ; it isn't in your nature, I am on 
 
SUSY 137 
 
 your side, and for you and yours always, Mrs. 
 Peyton. From the first time I saw you on 
 the Plains, when I was brought, a ragged 
 boy, before you by your husband, I think I 
 would gladly have laid down my life for you. 
 I don't mind telling you now that I was even 
 jealous of poor Susy so anxious was I for 
 the smallest share in your thoughts, if only 
 for a moment. You could have done any- 
 thing with me you wished, and I should have 
 been happy far happier than I have been 
 ever since. I tell you this, Mrs. Peyton, 
 now, because you have just doubted if I 
 might be "on your side," but I have been 
 longing to tell it all to you before, and it is 
 that I am ready to do anything you want 
 all you want to be on yoztr side and at your 
 side, now and for ever.' 
 
 He was so earnest and hearty, and, 
 above all, so appallingly and blissfully happy 
 in this relief of his feelings, smiling as if it 
 were the most natural thing in the world, 
 and so absurdly unconscious of his twenty- 
 two years, his little brown curling mous- 
 
1 3 8 SUSY 
 
 tache, the fire in his wistful, yearning eyes, 
 and, above all, of his clasped hands and 
 lover-like attitude, that Mrs. Peyton at first 
 rigid as stone, then suffused to the eyes 
 cast a hasty glance round the apartment, 
 put her handkerchief to her face, and 
 laughed like a girl. 
 
 At which Clarence, by no means discom- 
 posed, but rather accepting her emotion as per- 
 fectly natural, joined her heartily, and added : 
 
 ' It's so, Mrs. Peyton ; I'm glad I told 
 you. You don't mind it, do you ? ' 
 
 But Mrs. Peyton had resumed her 
 gravity, and perhaps a touch of her previous 
 misgivings. 
 
 ' I should certainly be very sorry,' she 
 said, looking at him critically, ' to object to 
 your sharing your old friendship for your 
 little playmate with her parents and guar- 
 dians, or to your expressing it to them as 
 frankly as to her.' 
 
 She saw the quick change in his mobile 
 face and the momentary arrest of its happy 
 expression. She was frightened and yet 
 
SUSY 139 
 
 puzzled. It was not the sensitiveness of a 
 lover at the mention of the loved one's 
 name, and yet it suggested an uneasy con- 
 sciousness. If his previous impulsive out- 
 burst had been prompted honestly or even 
 artfully by his passion for Susy, why had he 
 looked so shocked when she spoke of her ? 
 
 But Clarence, whose emotion had been 
 caused by the sudden recall of his know- 
 ledge of Susy's own disloyalty to the woman 
 whose searching eyes were upon him, in his 
 revulsion against the deceit was, for an 
 instant, upon the point of divulging all. 
 Perhaps if Mrs. Peyton had shown more 
 confidence he would have done so, and 
 materially altered the evolution of this story. 
 But, happily, it is upon these slight human 
 weaknesses that your Romancer depends, 
 and Clarence, with no other reason than the 
 instinctive sympathy of youth with youth in 
 its opposition to wisdom and experience, let 
 the opportunity pass, and took the respon- 
 sibility of it out of the hands of this 
 chronicler. 
 
140 SUSY 
 
 Howbeit, to cover his confusion, he 
 seized upon the second idea that was in 
 his mind, and stammered, ' Susy ! Yes, I 
 wanted to speak to you about her.' Mrs. 
 Peyton held her breath, but the young man 
 went on, although hesitatingly, with evident 
 sincerity. ' Have you heard from any of her 
 relations since since you adopted her ? ' 
 
 It seemed a natural enough question, 
 although not the seqintztr she had expected. 
 1 No,' she said carelessly. * It was well 
 understood, after the nearest relation an 
 aunt by marriage had signed her consent 
 to Susy's adoption, that there should be no 
 further intercourse with the family. There 
 seemed to us no necessity for reopening the 
 past, and Susy herself expressed no desire.' 
 She stopped, and, again fixing her handsome 
 eyes on Clarence, said, ' Do you know any 
 of them ? ' 
 
 But Clarence by this time had recovered 
 himself, and was able to answer carelessly 
 and truthfully that he did not. Mrs. Peyton, 
 still regarding him closely, added somewhat 
 
141 
 
 deliberately, ' It matters little now what re- 
 lations she has. Mr. Peyton and I have 
 complete legal control over her until she is 
 of age, and we can easily protect her from 
 any folly of her own or others, or from any 
 of the foolish fancies that sometimes over- 
 take girls of her age and inexperience.' 
 
 To her utter surprise, however, Clarence 
 uttered a faint sigh of relief, and his face 
 again recovered its expression of boyish 
 happiness. 'I'm glad of it, Mrs. Peyton,' 
 he said heartily. ' No one could understand 
 better what is for her interest in all things 
 than yourself. Not,' he said, with hasty and 
 equally hearty loyalty to his old playmate, 
 ' that I think she would ever go against your 
 wishes, or do anything that she knows to be 
 wrong but she is very young and innocent. 
 As much of a child as ever don't you think 
 so, Mrs. Peyton ? ' 
 
 It was amusing, yet nevertheless puzz- 
 ling, to hear this boyish young man com- 
 ment upon Susy's girlishness. And Clarence 
 was serious, for he had quite forgotten in 
 
M2 SUSY 
 
 Mrs. Peyton's presence the impression of 
 superiority which Susy had lately made upon 
 him. But Mrs. Peyton returned to the 
 charge, or, rather, to an attack upon what 
 she conceived to be Clarence's old position. 
 
 ' I suppose she does seem girlish com- 
 pared to Mary Rogers, who is a much more 
 reserved and quiet nature. But Mary is 
 very charming, Mr. Brant, and I am really 
 delighted to have her here with Susy. She 
 has such lovely dark eyes and such good 
 manners. She has been well brought up, 
 and it is easy to see that her friends are 
 superior people. I must write to them to 
 thank them for her visit, and beg them to 
 let her stay longer. I think you said you 
 didn't know them ? ' 
 
 But Clarence, whose eyes had been 
 thoughtfully and admiringly wandering over 
 every characteristic detail of the charming 
 apartment, here raised them to its handsome 
 mistress, with an apologetic air and a ' No ! ' 
 of such unaffected and complete abstraction 
 that she was again dumbfounded. Certainly 
 
St/SY 143 
 
 it could not be Mary in whom he was in- 
 terested. 
 
 Abandoning any further inquisition for 
 the present, she let the talk naturally fall 
 upon the books scattered about the tables. 
 The young man knew them all far better 
 than she did, with a cognate knowledge of 
 others of which she had never heard. She 
 found herself in the attitude of receiving 
 information from this boy, whose boyishness, 
 however, seemed to have evaporated, whose 
 tone had changed with the subject, and who 
 now spoke with the conscious reserve of 
 knowledge. Decidedly she must have 
 grown rusty in her seclusion. This came, 
 she thought bitterly, of living alone ; of her 
 husband's preoccupation with the property ; 
 of Susy's frivolous caprices. At the end of 
 eight years to be outstripped by a former 
 cattle-boy of her husband's, and to have her 
 French corrected in a rnatter-of-fact way by 
 this recent pupil of the priests was really too 
 bad ! Perhaps he even looked down upon 
 Susy ! She smiled dangerously but suavely. 
 
144 SUSY 
 
 ' You must have worked so hard to edu- 
 cate yourself from nothing, Mr. Brant. You 
 couldn't read, I think, when you first came 
 to us. No ? Could you really ? I know it 
 has been very difficult for Susy to get on 
 with her studies in proportion. We had so 
 much to first eradicate in the way of man- 
 ners, style, and habits of thought which the 
 poor child had picked up from her com- 
 panions, and for which she was not respon- 
 sible. Of course, with a boy that does not 
 signify,' she added, with feline gentleness. 
 
 But the barbed speech glanced from the 
 young man's smoothly smiling abstraction. 
 
 ' Ah, yes ! But those were happy days, 
 Mrs. Peyton,' he answered, with an exasper- 
 ating return of his previous boyish enthu- 
 siasm, * perhaps because of our ignorance. I 
 don't think that Susy and I are any happier 
 for knowing that the plains are not as flat 
 as we believed they were, and that the sun 
 doesn't have to burn a hole in them every 
 night when it sets. But I know I believed 
 that you knew everything. When I once 
 
SUSY 145 
 
 saw you smiling over a book in your hand, 
 I thought it must be a different one from 
 any that I had ever seen, and perhaps made 
 expressly for you. I can see you there still. 
 Do you know ' quite confidentially ' that 
 you reminded me of course you were much 
 younger of what I remembered of my 
 mother ? ' 
 
 But Mrs. Peyton's reply of ' Ah, indeed ! ' 
 albeit polite, indicated some coldness and 
 lack of animation. Clarence rose quickly, but 
 cast a long and lingering look around him. 
 
 ' You will come again, Mr. Brant,' said 
 the lady more graciously. ' If you are going 
 to ride now, perhaps you would try to meet 
 Mr. Peyton. He is late already, and I am 
 always uneasy when he is out alone par- 
 ticularly on one of those half-broken horses, 
 which they consider good enough for riding 
 here. You have ridden them before and 
 understand them, but I am afraid that's 
 another thing we have got to learn.' 
 
 When the young man found himself 
 again confronting the glittering light of the 
 
146 SUSY 
 
 courtyard, he remembered the interview and 
 the soft twilight of the boudoir only as part 
 of a pleasant dream. There was a rude 
 awakening in the fierce wind, which had 
 increased with the lengthening shadows. It 
 seemed to sweep away the half-sensuous 
 comfort that had pervaded him, and made 
 him coldly realise that he had done nothing 
 to solve the difficulties of his relations to 
 Susy. He had lost the one chance of con- 
 fiding to Mrs. Peyton if he had ever really 
 intended to do so. It was impossible for 
 him to do it hereafter without a confession of 
 prolonged deceit. 
 
 He reached the stables impatiently, 
 where his attention was attracted by the 
 sound of excited voices in the corral. Look- 
 ing within, he was concerned to see that one 
 of the vacqueros was holding the dragging 
 bridle of a blown, dusty, and foam-covered 
 horse, around whom a dozen idlers were 
 gathered. Even beneath its coating of dust 
 and foam and the half displaced saddle 
 blanket, Clarence immediately recognised 
 
SUSY 147 
 
 the spirited pinto mustang which Peyton had 
 ridden that morning. 
 
 ' What's the matter ? ' said Clarence, 
 from the gateway. 
 
 The men fell apart, glancing at each 
 other. One said quickly in Spanish : 
 
 ' Say nothing to him. It is an affair of 
 the house.' 
 
 But this brought Clarence down like a 
 bombshell among them ; not to be over- 
 looked in his equal command of their tongue 
 and of them. ' Ah ! come, now. What 
 drunken piggishness is this ? Speak ! ' 
 
 ' The padron has been perhaps 
 thrown,' stammered the first speaker. ' His 
 horse arrives but he does not. We go to 
 inform the Senora.' 
 
 1 No, you don't ! Mules and imbeciles ! 
 Do you want to frighten her to death ? 
 Mount every one of you and follow me ! ' 
 
 The men hesitated but for only a 
 moment. Clarence had a fine assortment of 
 Spanish epithets, expletives and objurga- 
 tions, gathered in his rodeo experience at 
 
 L 2 
 
148 SUSY 
 
 El Refugio, and laid them about him with 
 such fervour and discrimination that two or 
 three mules presumably with guilty con- 
 sciences mistaking their direction, actually 
 cowered against the stockade of the corral 
 in fear. In another moment the vacqueros 
 had hastily mounted, and, with Clarence at 
 their head, were dashing down the road 
 towards Santa Inez. Here he spread them 
 in open order in the grain, on either side of 
 the track, himself taking the road. 
 
 They did not proceed very far. For 
 when they had reached the gradual slope 
 which marked the decline to the second 
 terrace, Clarence, obeying an instinct as 
 irresistible as it was unaccountable, which 
 for the last few moments had been forcing 
 itself upon him, ordered a halt. The casa 
 and corral had already sunken in the plain 
 behind them ; it was the spot where the 
 lasso had been thrown at him a few even- 
 ings before. Bidding the men converge 
 slowly towards the road, he went on more 
 cautiously with his eyes upon the track 
 
SUSY 149 
 
 before him. Presently he stopped. There 
 was a ragged displacement of the cracked 
 and crumbling soil and the unmistakable 
 scoop of kicking hoofs. As he stooped to 
 examine them, one of the men at the right 
 uttered a shout. By the same strange in- 
 stinct Clarence knew that Peyton was found. 
 
 He was, indeed, lying there among the 
 wild oats at the right of the road, but with j 
 out trace of life or scarcely human appear- 
 ance. His clothes where not torn and 
 shredded away were partly turned inside 
 out ; his shoulders, neck, and head were a 
 shapeless, undistinguishable mask of dried 
 earth and rags, like a mummy wrapping. His 
 left boot was gone. His large frame seemed 
 boneless, and, except for the cerements of his 
 mud-stiffened clothing, was limp and sodden. 
 
 Clarence raised his head suddenly from a 
 quick examination of the body, and looked 
 at the men around him. One of them was 
 already cantering away. Clarence instantly 
 threw himself on his horse and, putting spurs 
 to the animal, drew a revolver from his hoi- 
 
ISO 
 
 ster and fired over the man's head. The 
 rider turned in his saddle, saw his pursuer, 
 and pulled up. 
 
 ' Go back,' said Clarence, ' or my next 
 shot won't miss you.' 
 
 * I was only going to inform the Sefiora,' 
 said the man with a shrug and a forced smile. 
 
 * / will do that,' said Clarence grimly, 
 driving him back with him into the waiting 
 circle ; then turning to them he said slowly, 
 with deliberate smileless irony, ' and now, my 
 brave gentlemen knights of the bull and 
 gallant mustang hunters / want to inform 
 you that I believe that Mr. Peyton was mur- 
 dered, and if the man who killed him is 
 anywhere this side of hell, / intend to find 
 him. Good! You understand me! Now 
 lift up the body, you two, by the shoulders ; 
 you two, by the feet. Let your horses 
 follow r , for I intend that you four shall carry 
 home your master in your arms on foot. 
 Now, forward to the corral by the back trail. 
 
 Disobey me, or step cut of line and ' he 
 
 raised the revolver ominously. 
 
SUSY . 151 
 
 If the change wrought in the dead man 
 before them was weird and terrifying, no less 
 distinct and ominous was the change that 
 during the last few minutes had come over 
 the living speaker. For it was no longer 
 the youthful Clarence who sat there, but a 
 haggard, prematurely worn, desperate-looking 
 avenger, lank of cheek, and injected of eye, 
 whose white teeth glistened under the brown 
 moustache and thin pale lips that parted 
 when his restrained breath now and then 
 hurriedly escaped them. 
 
 As the procession moved on two men 
 slunk behind with the horses. 
 
 ' Mother of God ! Who is this wolf's 
 whelp ? ' said Manuel. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said his companion in a terrified 
 whisper. ' Have you not heard? It is the 
 son of Hamilton Brant, the assassin, the 
 duellist, he who was fusiladed in Sonora.' 
 He made the sign of the cross quickly. 
 ' Jesus Maria ! Let them look out who have 
 cause, for the blood of his father is in him ! ' 
 
152 SUSY 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WHAT other speech passed between Clar- 
 ence and Peyton's retainers was not known, 
 but not a word of the interview seemed to 
 have been divulged by those present. It 
 was generally believed and accepted that 
 Judge Peyton met his death by being thrown 
 from his half-broken mustang and dragged 
 at its heels, and medical opinion, hastily 
 summoned from Santa Inez after the body 
 had been borne to the corral, and stripped of 
 its hideous encasings, declared that the neck 
 had been broken and death had followed 
 instantaneously. An inquest was deemed 
 unnecessary. 
 
 Clarence had selected Mary to break the 
 news to Mrs. Peyton, and the frightened 
 
SUSY 153 
 
 young girl was too much struck with the 
 change still visible in his face, and the half 
 authority of his manner, to decline, or even 
 to fully appreciate the calamity that had 
 befallen them. After the first benumbing 
 shock, Mrs. Peyton passed into that strange 
 exaltation of excitement brought on by the 
 immediate necessity for action, followed by a 
 pallid calm, which the average spectator too 
 often unfairly accepts as incongruous, inade- 
 quate, or artificial. There had also occurred 
 one of those strange compensations that wait 
 on death or disrupture by catastrophe : such 
 as the rude shaking down of an unsettled 
 life, the forcible realisation of what were 
 vague speculations, the breaking of old 
 habits and traditions, and the unloosing of 
 half conscious bonds. Mrs. Peyton, without 
 insensibility to her loss or disloyalty to her 
 affections, nevertheless felt a relief to know 
 that she was now really Susy's guardian, free 
 to order her new life wherever and under 
 what conditions she chose as most favourable 
 to it, and that she could dispose of this house 
 
i$4 SUSY 
 
 that was wearying to her when Susy was 
 away, and which the girl herself had always 
 found insupportable. She could settle this 
 question of Clarence's relations to her daugh- 
 ter out of hand without advice or opposition. 
 She had a brother in the East who would 
 be summoned to take care of the property. 
 This consideration for the living pursued her 
 even while the dead man's presence still 
 awed the hushed house ; it was in her 
 thoughts as she stood beside his bier and 
 adjusted the flowers on his breast, which no 
 longer moved for or against these vanities, 
 and it stayed with her even in the solitude of 
 her darkened room. 
 
 But if Mrs. Peyton was deficient, it was 
 Susy who filled the popular idea of a 
 mourner, and whose emotional attitude of a 
 grief-stricken daughter left nothing to be 
 desired. It was she who, when the house 
 was filled with sympathising friends from 
 San Francisco and the few near neighbours 
 who had hurried with condolences, was over- 
 flowing in her reminiscences of the dead 
 
SUSY 155 
 
 man's goodness to her, and her own undying 
 affection ; who recalled ominous things that 
 he had said, and strange premonitions of her 
 own, the result of her ever present filial 
 anxiety ; it was she who had hurried home 
 that afternoon impelled with vague fears of 
 some impending calamity ; it was she who 
 drew a picture of Peyton as a doting and 
 almost too indulgent parent, which Mary 
 Rogers failed to recognise, and which brought 
 back vividly to Clarence's recollection her 
 own childish exaggerations of the Indian 
 massacre. I am far from saying that she 
 was entirely insincere or merely acting at 
 these moments ; at times she was taken with 
 a mild hysteria brought on by the exciting 
 intrusion of this real event in her monoto- 
 nous life, by the attentions of her friends, the 
 importance of her suffering as an only child, 
 and the advancement of her position as the 
 heiress of the Robles Rancho. If her tears 
 were near the surface they were at least 
 genuine, and filmed her violet eyes and red- 
 dened her pretty eyelids quite as effectually 
 
i$6 SUSY 
 
 as if they had welled from the depths of her 
 being. Her black frock lent a matured 
 dignity to her figure, and paled her delicate 
 complexion with the refinement of suffering. 
 Even Clarence was moved in that dark and 
 haggard abstraction that had settled upon 
 him since his strange outbreak over the body 
 of his old friend. 
 
 The extent of that change had not been 
 noticed by Mrs. Peyton, who had only ob- 
 served that Clarence had treated her grief 
 with a grave and silent respect. She was 
 grateful for that. A repetition of his boyish 
 impulsiveness would have been distasteful to 
 her at such a moment. She only thought 
 him more mature and more subdued, and as 
 the only man now in her household his 
 services had been invaluable in the emer- 
 gency. 
 
 The funeral had taken place at Santa 
 Inez, where half the county gathered to pay 
 their last respects to their former fellow- 
 citizen and neighbour, whose legal and com- 
 bative victories they had admired, and whom 
 
SVSY 157 
 
 death had lifted into a public character. 
 The family were returning to the house the 
 same afternoon Mrs. Peyton and the girls 
 in one carriage, the female house-servants in 
 another, and Clarence on horseback. They 
 had reached the first plateau, and Clarence 
 was riding a little in advance, when an extra- 
 ordinary figure rising from the grain beyond 
 began to gesticulate to him wildly. Check- 
 ing the driver of the first carriage, Clarence 
 bore down upon the stranger. To his 
 amazement it was Jim Hooker! Mounted 
 on a peaceful, unwieldy plough-horse, he 
 was nevertheless accoutred and armed after 
 his most extravagant fashion. In addition 
 to a heavy rifle across his saddle-bow, he 
 was weighted down with a knife and re- 
 volvers. Clarence was in no mood for 
 trifling, and almost rudely demanded his 
 business. 
 
 'Gord, Clarence, it ain't foolin'. The 
 Sisters' title was decided yesterday.' 
 
 'I knew it, you fool! It's your title! 
 You were already on your land and in pos- 
 
158 SUSY 
 
 session. What the devil are you doing 
 here ? ' 
 
 'Yes but,' stammered Jim, 'all the 
 boys holding that title moved up here to 
 " make the division " and grab all they could. 
 And I followed. And I found out that they 
 were going to grab Judge Peyton's house, 
 because it was on the line, if they could. 
 And findin' you was all away, by Gord they 
 did\ and they're in it! And I stole out 
 and rode down here to warn ye.' 
 
 He stopped, looked at Clarence, glanced 
 darkly around him and then down on his 
 accoutrements. Even in that supreme 
 moment of sincerity he could not resist the 
 possibilities of the situation. 
 
 1 It's as much as my life's worth,' he said 
 gloomily. ' But,' with a dark glance at his 
 weapons, ' I'll sell it dearly.' 
 
 1 Jim !' said Clarence, in a terrible voice, 
 ' you're not lying again ? ' 
 
 1 No,' said Jim hurriedly. 'I swear it, 
 Clarence! No! Honest Injin this time. 
 And look ! I'll help you. They ain't ex- 
 
SUSY 159 
 
 pectin' you yet, and they think ye' 11 come by 
 the road. Ef I raised a scare off there by 
 the corral while you're creepin' round by the 
 back, mebbe you could get in while they're 
 all lookin' for ye in front, don't you see ? 
 I'll raise a big row, and they needn't know 
 but what ye've got wind of it and brought a 
 party with you from Santa Inez.' 
 
 In a flash Clarence had wrought a feasible 
 plan out of Jim's phantasy. 
 
 4 Good ! ' he said, wringing his old com- 
 panion's hand. * Go back quietly now ; hang 
 round the corral, and when you see the 
 carriage climbing the last terrace raise your 
 alarm. Don't mind how loud it is there'll 
 be nobody but the servants in the carriages.' 
 
 He rode quickly back to the first carriage, 
 at whose window Mrs. Peyton's calm face 
 was already questioning him. He told her 
 briefly and concisely of the attack, and what 
 he proposed to do. 
 
 ' You have shown yourself so strong i n 
 matters of worse moment than this,' he added 
 quietly, ' that I have no fears for your 
 
160 SUSY 
 
 courage. I have only to ask you to trust 
 yourself to me to put you back at once in 
 your own home. Your presence there, just 
 now, is the one important thing whatever 
 happens afterwards.' 
 
 She recognised his maturer tone and de- 
 termined manner, and nodded assent. More 
 than that, a faint fire came into her hand- 
 some eyes ; the two girls kindled their own 
 at that flaming beacon, and sat with flushed 
 cheeks and suspended indignant breath. 
 They were Western Americans, and not 
 overmuch used to imposition. 
 
 ' You must get clown before we raise the 
 hill, and follow me on foot through the grain. 
 I was thinking,' he added, turning to Mrs. 
 Peyton, 'of your boudoir window.' 
 
 She had been thinking of it, too, and 
 nodded. 
 
 ' The vine has loosened the bars,' he said 
 
 ' If it hasn't we must squeeze through 
 them,' she returned simply. 
 
 At the end of the terrace Clarence dis- 
 mounted, and helped them from the carriage. 
 
SUSY 161 
 
 He then gave directions to the coachmen to 
 follow the road slowly to the. corral in front 
 of the casa, and tied his horse behind the 
 second carriage. Then with Mrs. Fey ton and 
 the two young girls he plunged into the grain. 
 
 It was hot, it was dusty ; their thin shoes 
 slipped in the crumbling adobe, and the great 
 blades caught in their crape draperies, but 
 they uttered no complaint. Whatever ulterior 
 thought was in their minds they were bent 
 only on one thing at that moment on enter- 
 ing the house at any hazard. Mrs. Peyton 
 had lived long enough on the frontier to 
 know the magic power of possession. Susy 
 already was old enough to feel the acute 
 feminine horror of the profanation of her 
 own belongings by alien hands. Clarence, 
 more cognisant of the whole truth than the 
 others, was equally silent and determined ; 
 and Mary Rogers was fired with the zeal of 
 loyalty. 
 
 Suddenly a series of blood-curdling yells 
 broke from the direction of the corral, and 
 they stopped. But Clarence at once recog- 
 
 M 
 
i62 SUSY 
 
 nised the well known war-whoop imitation of 
 Jim Hooker infinitely more gruesome and 
 appalling than the genuine aboriginal chal- 
 lenge. A half-dozen shots fired in quick 
 succession had evidently the same friendly 
 origin. 
 
 ' Now is our time,' said Clarence eagerly. 
 ' We must run for the house.' 
 
 They had fortunately reached by this 
 time the angle of the adobe wall of the casa, 
 and the long afternoon shadows of the build- 
 ing were in their favour. They pressed 
 forward eagerly with the sounds of Jim 
 Hooker's sham encounter still in their ears, 
 mingled with answering shouts of defiance 
 from strange voices within the building 
 towards the front. 
 
 They rapidly skirted the wall, even pass- 
 ing boldly before the back gateway, which 
 seemed empty and deserted, and the next 
 moment stood beside the narrow window 
 of the boudoir. Clarence's surmises were 
 correct ; the iron grating was not only loose, 
 but yielded to a vigorous wrench, the vine 
 
SUSY 163 
 
 itself acting as a lever to pull out the rusty 
 bars. The young man held out his hand, 
 but Mrs. Peyton, with the sudden agility 
 of a young girl, leaped into the window, 
 followed by Mary and Susy. The inner 
 casement yielded to her touch ; the next 
 moment they were within the room. Then 
 Mrs. Peyton's flushed and triumphant face 
 reappeared at the window. 
 
 ' It's all right ; the men are all in the 
 courtyard, or in the front of the house. 
 The boudoir door is strong, and we can bolt 
 them out.' 
 
 ' It won't be necessary,' said Clarence 
 quietly ; 'you will not be disturbed.' 
 
 ' But are you not coming in ? ' she asked 
 timidly, holding the window open. 
 
 Clarence looked at her with his first 
 faint smile since Peyton's death. 
 
 ' Of course I am, but not in that way. 
 I am going in by the front gate! 
 
 She would have detained him, but with 
 a quick wave of his hand he left her, and 
 ran swiftly around the wall of the casa to- 
 
 M 2 
 
1 64 SUSY 
 
 ward the front. The gate was half open ; 
 a dozen excited men were gathered before 
 it and in the archway, and among them, 
 whitened with dust, blackened with powder, 
 and apparently glutted with rapine and still 
 holding a revolver in his hand, was Jim 
 Hooker ! As Clarence approached, the 
 men quickly retreated inside the gate and 
 closed it, but not before he had exchanged 
 a meaning glance with Jim. When he 
 reached the gate a man from within roughly 
 demanded his business. 
 
 ' I wish to see the leader of this party/ 
 said Clarence quietly. 
 
 ' I reckon you do,' returned the man, 
 with a short laugh. ' But I kalkilate he 
 don't return the compliment.' 
 
 ' He probably will when he reads this 
 note to his employer,' continued Clarence 
 still coolly, selecting a paper from his pocket- 
 book. It was addressed to Francisco 
 Robles, Superintendent of ' The Sisters' 
 Title,' and directed him to give Mr. Clar- 
 ence Brant free access to the property and 
 
SUSY 165 
 
 the fullest information concerning it. The 
 man took it, glanced at it, looked again at 
 Clarence, and then passed the paper to a 
 third man among the group in the court- 
 yard. The latter read it, and approached 
 the gate carelessly. 
 
 ' Well, what do you want ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid you have the advantage 
 of me in being able to transact business 
 through bars,' said Clarence, with slow but 
 malevolent distinctness, ' and as mine is im- 
 portant, I think you had better open the 
 gate to me.' 
 
 The slight laugh that his speech had 
 evoked from the bystanders was checked 
 as the leader retorted angrily : 
 
 1 That's all very well ; but how do I 
 know that you're the man represented in 
 that letter? Pancho Robles may know you 
 but /don't.' 
 
 'That you can find out very easily,' said 
 Clarence. * There is a man among your 
 party who knows me Mr. Hooker. Ask 
 him.' 
 
1 66 SUSY 
 
 The man turned with a quick mingling 
 of surprise and suspicion to the gloomy, im- 
 perturbable Hooker. Clarence could not 
 hear the reply of that young gentleman, but 
 it was evidently not wanting in his usual 
 dark, enigmatical exaggeration. The man 
 surlily opened the gate. 
 
 ' All the same,' he said, still glancing 
 suspiciously at Hooker, ' I don't see what 
 he s got to do with you.' 
 
 ' A great deal,' said Clarence, entering 
 the courtyard and stepping into the veran- 
 dah ; ' he 's one of my tenants' 
 
 ' Your what ? ' said the man, with a 
 coarse laugh of incredulity. 
 
 ' My tenants,' repeated Clarence, glanc- 
 ing around the courtyard carelessly. Never- 
 theless, he was relieved to notice that the 
 three or four Mexicans of the party did not 
 seem to be old retainers of the Rancho. 
 There was no evidence of the internal 
 treachery he had feared. 
 
 ' Your tenants \ ' echoed the man, with 
 an uneasy glance at the faces of the others. 
 
susr 167 
 
 4 Yes,' said Clarence, with business bre- 
 vity ; ' and, for the matter of that although 
 I have no reason to be particularly proud 
 of it so are you all. You ask my business 
 here. It seems to be the same as yours 
 to hold possession of this house ! With this 
 difference, however,' he continued, taking 
 a document from his pocket. * Here is the 
 certificate, signed by the County Clerk, of 
 the bill of sale of the entire Sisters' title to 
 me. It includes the whole two leagues from 
 Fair Plains to the old boundary line of this 
 Rancho, which you forcibly entered this 
 morning. There is the document ; examine 
 it if you like. The only shadow of a claim 
 you could have to this property you would 
 have to derive from me. The only excuse 
 you could have for this act of lawlessness 
 would be orders from me. And all that you 
 have done this morning is only the asser- 
 tion of my legal right to this house. If 
 I disavow your act as I might I leave 
 you as helpless as any tramp that was ever 
 kicked from a doorstep as any burglar 
 
1 68 
 
 that was ever collared on the fence by a 
 constable.' 
 
 It was the truth. There was no denying 
 the authority of the document, the facts of 
 the situation, or its ultimate power and sig- 
 nificance. There was consternation, stupe- 
 faction, and even a half-humorous recognition 
 of the absurdity of their position on most of 
 the faces around him. Incongruous as the 
 scene was, it was made still more grotesque 
 by the attitude of Jim Hooker. Ruthlessly 
 abandoning the party of convicted trespas- 
 sers, he stalked gloomily over to the side of 
 Clarence with the air of having been all the 
 time scornfully in the secret and a mien of 
 wearied victoriousness, and thus halting, he 
 disdainfully, expectorated tobacco-juice on 
 the ground between him and his late com- 
 panions, as if to form a line of demarcation. 
 The few Mexicans began to edge towards 
 the gateway. This defection of his followers 
 recalled the leader, who was no coward, to 
 himself again. 
 
 ' Shut the gate, there,' he shouted. 
 
SUSY 169 
 
 As its two sides clashed together again, 
 he turned deliberately to Clarence. 
 
 4 That's all very well, young man, as 
 regards the title. You may have bo^lght up 
 the land, and legally own every square inch 
 of howling wilderness between this and San 
 Francisco, and I wish you joy of your d d 
 fool's bargain ; you may have got a whole 
 circus like that,' pointing to the gloomy Jim, 
 ' at your back. But with all your money 
 and all your friends you've forgotten one 
 thing. You haven't got possession, and we 
 have.' 
 
 ' That's just where we differ,' said 
 Clarence coolly, ' for if you take the trouble 
 to examine the house you will see that it is 
 already in possession of Mrs. Peyton my 
 tenant' 
 
 He paused to give effect to his revela- 
 tions. But he was, nevertheless, unprepared 
 for an unrehearsed dramatic situation. Mrs. 
 Peyton, who had been tired of waiting, and 
 was listening in the passage, at the mention 
 of her name entered the gallery, followed by 
 
i/o sc/sr 
 
 the young ladies. The slight look of sur- 
 prise upon her face at the revelation she 
 had just heard of Clarence's ownership, only 
 gave the suggestion of her having been un- 
 expectedly disturbed in her peaceful seclu- 
 sion. One of the Mexicans turned pale, 
 with a frightened glance at the passage, as 
 if he expected the figure of the dead man to 
 follow. 
 
 The group fell back. The game was 
 over and lost. No one recognised it more 
 quickly than the gamblers themselves. More 
 than that desperate and lawless as they 
 were they still retained the chivalry of 
 Western men, and every hat was slowly 
 doffed to the three black figures that stood 
 silently in the gallery. And even apologetic 
 speech began to loosen the clenched teeth 
 of the discomfited leader. 
 
 ' We were told there was no one in 
 the house,' he stammered. 
 
 1 And it was the truth,' said a pert, 
 youthful, yet slightly affected voice. ' For 
 
SUSY 171 
 
 we climbed into the window just as you 
 came in at the gate.' 
 
 It was Susy's words that stung their ears 
 again ; but it was Susy's pretty figure, sud- 
 denly advanced and in a slightly theatrical 
 attitude, that checked their anger. There 
 had been a sudden ominous silence as the 
 whole plot of rescue seemed to be revealed 
 to them in those audacious words. But a 
 sense of the ludicrous, which too often 
 was the only perception that ever mitigated 
 the passions of such assemblies, here sud- 
 denly asserted itself. The leader burst 
 into a loud laugh, which was echoed by 
 the others, and with waving hats the whole 
 party swept peacefully out through the 
 gate. 
 
 ' But what does all this mean about your 
 purchasing the land, Mr. Brant ? ' said Mrs. 
 Peyton quickly, fixing her eyes intently on 
 Clarence. 
 
 A faint colour the useless protest of his 
 truthful blood came to his cheek. 
 
172 SUSY 
 
 1 The house is yours and yours alone, 
 Mrs. Peyton. The purchase of the Sisters' 
 title was a private arrangement between 
 Mr. Peyton and myself, in view of an emer- 
 gency like this.' 
 
 She did not, however, take her proud 
 searching eyes from his face, and he was 
 forced to turn away. 
 
 ' It was so like dear, good, thoughtful 
 papa,' said Susy. * Why, bless me ' in a 
 lower voice 'if that isn't that lying old Jim 
 Hooker standing there by the gate ! ' , 
 
SUSY 173 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 JUDGE PEYTON had bequeathed his entire 
 property unconditionally to his wife. But 
 his affairs were found to be greatly in disorder, 
 and his papers in confusion, and although 
 Mrs. Peyton could discover, no actual record 
 of the late transaction with Mr. Brant, which 
 had saved her the possession of the home- 
 stead, it was evident that he had spent large 
 sums in speculative attempts to maintain the 
 integrity of his estate. That enormous 
 domain, although perfectly unencumbered, 
 had been nevertheless unremunerative, partly 
 through the costs of litigation, and partly 
 through the systematic depredations to which 
 its great size and long line of unprotected 
 boundary had subjected it. It had been in- 
 
174 
 
 vaded by squatters and 'jumpers, who had 
 sown and reaped crops without discovery ; 
 its cattle and wild horses had strayed or been 
 driven beyond its ill-defined and hopeless 
 limits. Against these difficulties the widow 
 felt herself unable and unwilling to contend, 
 and with the advice of her friends and her 
 lawyer she concluded to sell the estate, ex- 
 cept that portion covered by the Sisters' 
 title, which, with the homestead, had been 
 reconveyed to her by Clarence. She retired 
 with Susy to the house in San Francisco, 
 leaving Clarence to occupy and hold the casa, 
 with her servants, for her until order was 
 restored. The Robles Rancho thus became 
 the head-quarters of the new owner of the 
 Sisters' title, from which he administered 
 its affairs, visited its encumbencies, over^ 
 looked and surveyed its lands, and occa- 
 sionally collected its rents. There were not 
 wanting critics who averred that these were 
 scarcely remunerative, and that the young 
 San Francisco fine gentleman who was only 
 Hamilton Brant's son after all, yet who wished 
 
SUSY 175 
 
 to ape the dignity and degree of a large land- 
 holder had made a very foolish bargain. 
 I grieve to say that one of his own tenants, 
 namely, Jim Hooker, in his secret heart in- 
 clined to that belief, and looked upon Clar- 
 ence's speculation as an act of far-seeing and 
 inordinate vanity. 
 
 Indeed, the belligerent Jim had partly 
 and, of course, darkly intimated something 
 of this to Susy in their brief reunion at the 
 casa during the few days that followed its 
 successful reoccupation. And Clarence, re- 
 membering her older caprices, and her remark 
 on her first recognition of him, was quite sur- 
 prised at the easy familiarity of her reception 
 of this forgotten companion of their child- 
 hood. But he was still more concerned in 
 noticing, for the first time, a singular sym- 
 pathetic understanding of each other, and an 
 odd similarity of occasional action and ex- 
 pression between them. It was a part of 
 this monstrous peculiarity that neither the 
 sympathy nor the likeness suggested any 
 particular friendship or amity in the pair, but 
 
1 76 SUSY 
 
 rather a mutual antagonism and suspicion. 
 Mrs. Peyton, coldly polite to Clarence's for- 
 mer companion, but condescendingly gracious 
 to his present tenant and retainer, did not 
 notice it, preoccupied with the annoyance 
 and pain of Susy's frequent references to the 
 old days of their democratic equality. 
 
 ' You don't remember, Jim, the time that 
 you painted my face in the waggon, and got 
 me up as an Indian papoose ?' she said mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 But Jim, who had no desire to recall his 
 previous humble position before Mrs. Peyton 
 or Clarence, was only vaguely responsive. 
 Clarence, although joyfully touched at this 
 seeming evidence of Susy's loyalty to the 
 past, nevertheless found himself even more 
 acutely pained at the distress it caused Mrs. 
 Peyton, and was as relieved as she was by 
 Hooker's reticence. For he had seen little 
 of Susy since Peyton's death, and there had 
 been no repetition of their secret interviews. 
 Neither had he, nor she as far as he could 
 judge noticed the omission. He had been 
 
St/SY 177 
 
 more than usually kind, gentle, and protect- 
 ing in his manner towards her, with little 
 reference, however, to any response from her, 
 yet he was vaguely conscious of some change 
 in his feelings. He attributed it when he 
 thought of it at all to the exciting experi- 
 ences through which he had passed ; to some 
 sentiment of responsibility to his dead friend, 
 and to another secret preoccupation that was 
 always in his mind. He believed it would 
 pass in time. Yet he felt a certain satisfac- 
 tion that she was no longer able to trouble 
 him, except, of course, when she pained Mrs. 
 Peyton, and then he was half conscious of 
 taking the old attitude of the dead husband 
 in mediating between them. Yet so great 
 was his inexperience that he believed with 
 pathetic simplicity of perception that all this 
 was due to the slow maturing of his love for 
 her, and that he was still able to make her 
 happy. But this was something to be thought 
 of later. Just now Providence seemed to 
 have offered him a vocation and a purpose 
 that his idle adolescence had never known. 
 
 N 
 
178 SUSY 
 
 He did not dream that his capacity for 
 patience was only the slow wasting of his 
 love. 
 
 Meantime that more wonderful change 
 and re-creation of the Californian landscape 
 so familiar, yet always so young had 
 come to the Rancho. The league-long ter- 
 race that had yellowed, whitened, and wasted 
 for half a year beneath a staring, mono- 
 tonous sky, now under sailing clouds, flying 
 and broken shafts of light, and sharply de- 
 fined lines of rain, had taken a faint hue of 
 resurrection. The dust that had muffled the 
 roads and byways and choked the low oaks 
 that fringed the sunken Canada had long 
 since been laid. The warm, moist breath 
 of the South-west Trades had softened the 
 hard, dry lines of the landscape, and restored 
 its colour as of a picture over which a damp 
 sponge had been passed. The broad expanse 
 of plateau before the casa glistened and grew 
 dark. The hidden woods of the canada 
 cleared and strengthened in their solitude 
 dripped along the trails and hollows that 
 
SUSY 179 
 
 were now transformed into running streams. 
 The distinguishing madrono near the en- 
 trance to the Rancho had changed its crimson 
 summer suit and masqueraded in buff and 
 green. 
 
 Yet there were leaden days, when half 
 the prospect seemed to be seerr through pali- 
 sades of rain ; when the slight incline be- 
 tween the terraces became a tumultuous cas- 
 cade, and the surest hoofs slipped on trails 
 of unctuous mud ; when cattle were bogged 
 a few yards from the highway, and the cross- 
 ing of the turnpike-road was a dangerous 
 ford. There were days of gale and tempest, 
 when the shrivelled stalks of giant oats were 
 stricken like trees and lay across each other 
 in rigid angles, and a roar as of the sea came 
 up from the writhing tree tops in the sunken 
 valley. There were long weary nights of 
 steady downpour, hammering on the red tiles 
 of the casa, and drumming on the shingles of 
 the new verandah, which was more terrible 
 to be borne. Alone, but for the servants 
 and an occasional storm-stayed tenant from 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o SUSY 
 
 Fair View, Clarence might have, at such 
 times, questioned the effect of this seclusion 
 upon his impassioned nature. But he had 
 already been accustomed to monastic seclu- 
 sion in his boyish life at El Refiigio, and he 
 did not reflect that for that very reason its 
 indulgences might have been dangerous. 
 From time to time letters reached him from 
 the outer world of San Francisco a few 
 pleasant lines from Mrs. Peyton, in answer 
 to his own chronicle of his half stewardship, 
 giving the news of the family, and briefly 
 recounting their movements. She was afraid 
 that Susy's sensitive nature chafed under the 
 restriction of mourning in the gay city, but 
 she trusted to bring her back for a change 
 to Robles when the rains were over. This 
 was a poor substitute for those brief, happy 
 glimpses of the home circle which had so 
 charmed him, but he accepted it stoically. 
 He wandered over the old house, from which 
 the perfume of domesticity seemed to have 
 evaporated ; yet, notwithstanding Mrs. Pey- 
 ton's playful permission, he never intruded 
 
SUSY 181 
 
 upon the sanctity of the boudoir, and kept it 
 jealously locked. 
 
 He was sitting in Peyton's business 
 room one morning when Incarnacion en- 
 tered. Clarence had taken a fancy to this 
 Indian, half-steward, half-vacquero, who had 
 reciprocated it with a certain doglike fidelity, 
 but also a feline indirectness that was part of 
 his nature. He had been early prepossessed 
 with Clarence through a kinsman at El Re- 
 fugio, where the young American's gene- 
 rosity had left a romantic record among the 
 common people. He had been pleased to 
 approve of his follies before the knowledge 
 of his profitless and lordly land purchase had 
 commended itself to him as corroborative 
 testimony. ' Of true hidalgo blood, mark 
 you,' he had said oracularly. ' Wherefore 
 was his father sacrificed by mongrels ? As to 
 the others, believe me bah ? ' 
 
 He stood there sombrero in hand, murky 
 and confidential, steaming through his soaked 
 scrape, and exhaling a blended odour of 
 equine perspiration and cigarette smoke, 
 
iS2 SUSY 
 
 It was, perhaps, as the Master had 
 noticed, a brigand's own day ! Bullying, 
 treacherous, and wicked ! It blew you off 
 your horse if you so much as lifted your 
 arms, and let the wind get inside your serape ; 
 and as for the mud caramba ! in fifty varas 
 your forelegs were like bear's, and your hoofs 
 were earthen plasters ! 
 
 Clarence knew that Incarnacion had not 
 sought him with mere meteorological infor- 
 mation, and patiently awaited further de- 
 velopments. The vacquero went on : 
 
 But one of the things this beast of a 
 weather did was to wash down the stalks of 
 the grain and to clear out the trough and 
 hollows between, and to make level the fields 
 and, look you ! to uncover the stones and 
 rubbish and whatever the summer dust had 
 buried. Indeed, it was even as a miracle 
 that Jose Mendez one day, after the first 
 showers, came upon a silver button from his 
 calzas, which he had lost in the early sum- 
 mer. And it was only that morning that, 
 remembering how much and with what 
 
SUSY 183 
 
 fire Don Clarencio had sought the missing 
 boot from the foot of the Senior Peyton 
 when his body was found, he, Incarna- 
 cion, had thought he would look for it on 
 the falda of the second terrace. And be- 
 hold, Mother of God ! it was there. Soaked 
 with mud and rain, but the same as when the 
 Senor was alive. To the very spur ! 
 
 He drew the boot from beneath his 
 serape and laid it before Clarence. The 
 young man instantly recognised it, in spite 
 of its weather-beaten condition and its air 
 of grotesque and drunken inconsistency to 
 the usually trim and correct appearance of 
 Peyton when alive. ' It is the same,' he 
 said, in a low voice. 
 
 'Good!' said Incarnacion. ( Now, if 
 Don Clarencio will examine the American 
 spur, he will see what ? A few horse-hairs 
 twisted and caught in the sharp points of the 
 rowel. Good! Is it the hair of the horse 
 that Sefior rode ? Clearly not, and in truth 
 not. It is too long for the flanks and belly 
 of the horse ; it is not the same colour as the 
 
1 84 SC/SY 
 
 tail and the mane. How comes it there ? 
 It comes from the twisted horse-hair rope of 
 a riata, and not from the braided cow-hide 
 thongs of the regular lasso of a vacquero. 
 The lasso slips not much, but holds ; the 
 riata slips much and strangles.' 
 
 ' But Mr. Peyton was not strangled,' said 
 Clarence quickly. 
 
 ' No, for the noose of the riata was per- 
 haps large who knows ? It might have 
 slipped down * his arms, pinioned him, and 
 pulled him off. Truly, such has been 
 known before ! Then on the ground it 
 slipped again, or he perhaps worked it oft 
 to his feet where it caught on his spur, and 
 then he was dragged until the boot came off, 
 and behold he was dead.' 
 
 This had been Clarence's own theory of 
 the murder, but he had only half confided it 
 to Incarnacion. He silently examined the 
 spur with the accusing horse-hair, and placed 
 it in his desk. Incarnacion continued : 
 
 ' There is not a vacquero in the whole 
 Rancho who has a horse-hair riata. We use 
 
SUSY 185 
 
 the braided cow-hide ; it is heavier and 
 stronger ; it is for the bull and not the man. 
 The horse-hair riata comes from over the 
 range South.' 
 
 There was a dead silence, broken only 
 by the drumming of the rain upon the 
 roof of the verandah. Incarnacion slightly 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Don Clarencio does not know the 
 Southern county ? Francisco Robles, 
 cousin of the " Sisters " he they call 
 "Pancho" comes from the South. Surely 
 when Don Clarencio bought the title he 
 saw Francisco, for he was the steward ? ' 
 
 ( I dealt only with the actual owners and 
 through my bankers in San Francisco,' re- 
 turned Clarence abstractedly. 
 
 Incarnacion looked through the yellow 
 corners of his murky eyes at his master. 
 
 ' Pedro Morales, who was sent away by 
 Senior Peyton, is the foster-brother of Fran- 
 cisco. They were much together. Now 
 that Francisco is rich from the gold Don 
 Clarencio paid for the title they come not 
 
1 86 SUSY 
 
 much together. But Pedro is rich too. 
 Mother of God ! He gambles and is a fine 
 gentleman. He holds his head high even 
 over the Americanos he gambles with. 
 Truly, they say he can shoot with the best 
 of them. He boasts and swells himself, this 
 Pedro ! He says if all the old families were 
 like him they would drive those Western 
 swine back over the mountains again.' 
 
 Clarence raised his eyes, caught a subtle 
 yellow flash from Incarnacion's, gazed at him 
 suddenly, and rose. 
 
 ' I don't think I have ever seen him/ he 
 said quietly. ' Thank you for bringing me 
 the spur. But keep the knowledge of it to 
 yourself, good Nascio, for the present.' 
 
 Nascio nevertheless still lingered. Per- 
 ceiving which, Clarence handed him a cigar- 
 ette and proceeded to light one himself. 
 He knew that the vacquero would reroll his, 
 and that that always deliberate occupation 
 would cover and be an excuse for further 
 confidence. 
 
 ' The Senora Peyton does not perhaps 
 
SUSY 187 
 
 meet this Pedro in the society of San Fran- 
 cisco ? 
 
 1 Surely not. The Sefiora is in mourn- 
 ing and goes not out in society, nor would 
 she probably go anywhere where she would 
 meet a dismissed servant of her husband.' 
 
 Incarnacion slowly lit his cigarette, and 
 said between the puffs, ' And the Senorita 
 she would not meet him ? ' 
 
 ' Assuredly not.' 
 
 'And,' continued Incarnacion, throwing 
 down the match and putting his foot on it, 
 ' if this boaster, this turkey-cock, says she 
 did, you could put him out like that ? ' 
 
 1 Certainly,' said Clarence, with an easy 
 confidence he was, however, far from feeling, 
 ' if he really said it which I doubt.' 
 
 'Ah, truly,' said Incarnacion; 'who 
 knows ? It may be another Senorita 
 Silsbee.' 
 
 ' The Sefiora' s adopted daughter is called 
 Miss Peyton, friend Nascio. You forget 
 yourself,' said Clarence quietly. 
 
 'Ah, pardon!' said Incarnacion with 
 
1 88 SUSY 
 
 effusive apology ; * but she was born Silsbee. 
 Everybody knows it ; she herself has told it 
 to Pepita. The Senior Peyton bequeathed 
 his estate to the Senora Peyton. He named 
 not the Senorita ? Eh, what would you ? 
 It is the common cackle of the barnyard. 
 But / say " Mees Silsbee." For look you. 
 There is a Silsbee of Sacramento, the 
 daughter of her aunt, who writes letters to 
 her. Pepita has seen them ! And possibly 
 it is only that Mees of whom the brigand 
 Pedro boasts.' 
 
 ' Possibly/ said Clarence, ' but as far as 
 this Rancho is concerned, friend Nascio, thou 
 wilt understand and I look to thee to make 
 the others understand that there is no 
 Senorita Silsbee here, only the Senorita Pey- 
 ton, the respected daughter of the Senora, 
 thy mistress!' He spoke with the quaint 
 mingling of familiarity and paternal gravity 
 of the Spanish master a faculty he had 
 acquired at El Refugio in a like vicarious 
 position, and which never failed as a sign of 
 authority. ' And now,' he added gravely, 
 
SUSY 189 
 
 'get out of this, friend, with God's blessing, 
 and see that thou rememberest what I told 
 thee.' 
 
 The retainer, with equal gravity, stepped 
 backwards, saluted with his sombrero until 
 the stiff brim scraped the floor, and then 
 solemnly withdrew. 
 
 Left to himself, Clarence remained for an 
 instant silent and thoughtful, before the oven- 
 like hearth. So ! everybody knew Susy's real 
 relations to the Peytons, and everybody but 
 Mrs. Peyton, perhaps, knew that she was 
 secretly corresponding with some one of 
 her own family. In other circumstances he 
 might have found some excuse for this 
 assertion of her independence and love of 
 her kindred but in her attitude towards 
 Mrs. Peyton it seemed monstrous. It ap- 
 peared impossible that Mrs. Peyton should 
 not have heard of it, or suspected the young 
 girl's disaffection. Perhaps she had it was 
 another burden laid upon her shoulders but 
 the proud woman had kept it to herself. A 
 film of moisture came across his eyes. I fear 
 
190 SUSY 
 
 he thought less of the suggestion of Susy's 
 secret meeting with Pedro, or Incarnacion's 
 implied suspicions that Pedro was concerned 
 in Peyton's death, than of this sentimental 
 possibility. He knew that Pedro had been 
 hated by the others on account of his posi- 
 tion ; he knew the instinctive jealousies of 
 the race and their predisposition to extrava- 
 gant misconstruction. From what he had 
 gathered, and particularly from the voices he 
 had overheard on the Fair Plains road, it 
 seemed to him that Pedro was more capable 
 of mercenary intrigue than physical revenge. 
 He was not aware of the irrevocable affront 
 put upon Pedro by Peyton, and he had con- 
 sequently attached no importance to Peyton's 
 own half-scornful intimation of the only kind 
 of retaliation that Pedro would be likely to 
 take. The unsuccessful attempt upon him- 
 self he had always thought might have been 
 an accident, or if it was really a premeditated 
 assault, it might have been intended actually 
 for himself and not Peyton, as he had first 
 thought, and his old friend had suffered for 
 
SUSY 191 
 
 him, through some mistake of the assailant. 
 The purpose which alone seemed wanting 
 might have been to remove Clarence as 
 a possible witness who had overheard their 
 conspiracy how much of it they did not 
 know on the Fair Plains road that night. 
 The only clue he held to the murderer in the 
 spur locked in his desk merely led him be- 
 yond the confines of the Rancho, but definitely 
 nowhere else. It was, however, some relief 
 to know that the crime was not committed by 
 one of Peyton's retainers, nor the outcome of 
 domestic treachery. 
 
 After some consideration he resolved to 
 seek Jim Hooker, who might be possessed 
 of some information respecting Susy's re- 
 lations either from the young girl's own 
 confidences or from Jim's personal knowledge 
 of the old frontier families. From a sense 
 of loyalty to Susy and Mrs. Peyton, he had 
 never alluded to the subject before him, but 
 since the young girl's own indiscretion had 
 made it a matter of common report, however 
 distasteful it was to his own feelings, he felt 
 
192 SUSY 
 
 he could not plead the sense of delicacy for 
 her. He had great hopes in what he had 
 always believed was only her exaggeration 
 of fact as well as feeling. And he had an 
 instinctive reliance on her fellow poseiir s 
 ability to detect it. A few days later, when 
 he found he could safely leave the Rancho 
 alone, he rode to Fair Plains. 
 
 The floods were out along the turnpike- 
 road, and even seemed to have increased 
 since his last journey. The face of the land- 
 scape had changed again. One of the lower 
 terraces had become a wild mere of sedge 
 and reeds. The dry and dusty bed of a for- 
 gotten brook had reappeared a full-banked 
 river, crossing the turnpike and compelling a 
 long detour before the travellers could ford 
 it. But as he approached the Hopkins's farm 
 and the opposite clearing and cabin of Jim 
 Hooker, he was quite unprepared for a still 
 more remarkable transformation. The cabin 
 a three-roomed structure and its cattle- 
 shed had entirely disappeared ! Yet there 
 were no traces or signs of inundation. The 
 
SUSY 193 
 
 land lay on a gentle acclivity above the farm 
 and secure from the effects of the flood, and a 
 part of the ploughed and cleared land around 
 the site of the cabin showed no evidence of 
 overflow on its black, upturned soil. But the 
 house was gone ! Only a few timbers too 
 heavy to be removed, the blighting erasions 
 of a few months of occupation, and the dull, 
 blackened area of the site itself was to be 
 seen. The fence alone was intact. 
 
 Clarence halted before it, perplexed and 
 astonished. Scarcely two weeks had elapsed 
 since he had last visited it and sat beneath 
 its roof with Jim, and already its few ruins 
 had taken upon themselves the look of years 
 of abandonment and decay. The wild land 
 seemed to have thrown off its yoke of culti- 
 vation in a night, and Nature rioted again 
 with all its primal forces over the freed soil. 
 Wild oats and mustard were springing already 
 in the broken furrows, and lank vines were 
 slimily spreading over a few scattered but still 
 unseasoned and sappy shingles. Some bat- 
 tered tin cans and fragments of old clothing 
 
 o 
 
194 SUSY 
 
 looked as remote as if they had been relics of 
 the earliest immigration. 
 
 Clarence turned inquiringly towards the 
 Hopkins's farmhouse across the road. His 
 arrival, however, had already been noticed, 
 as the door of the kitchen opened in an an- 
 ticipatory fashion, and he could see the slight 
 figure of Phoebe Hopkins in the doorway, 
 backed by the overlooking heads and shoul- 
 ders of her parents. The face of the young 
 girl was pale and drawn with anxiety. At 
 which Clarence's simple astonishment took a 
 shade of concern. 
 
 ' I am looking for Mr. Hooker,' he said 
 uneasily. ' And I don't seem to be able to 
 find either him or his house.' 
 
 ' And you don't know what's gone of 
 him ? ' said the girl quickly. 
 
 ' No. I haven't seen him for two weeks.' 
 
 ' There, I told you so ! ' said the girl, 
 turning nervously to her parents. * I knew 
 it. He hasn't seen him for two weeks.' 
 Then, looking almost tearfully at Clarence's 
 face, she said, ' No more have we.' 
 
195 
 
 ' But,' said Clarence impatiently, ' some- 
 thing must have happened. Where is his 
 house ? ' 
 
 1 Taken away by them Jumpers' inter- 
 rupted the old farmer. * A lot of roughs that 
 pulled it down and carted it off in a jiffy 
 before our very eyes without answerin' a civil 
 question to me or her. But he wasn't there, 
 nor before, nor since.' 
 
 ' No,' added the old woman, with flashing 
 . eyes, ' or he'd let 'em have what ther was in 
 his six-shooters/ 
 
 ' No, he wouldn't, mother,' said the girl 
 impatiently, ' he'd changed, and was agin all 
 them ideas of force and riotin'. He was for 
 peace and law all the time. Why, the day 
 before we missed him he was tellin' me Cali- 
 fornia never would be decent until people 
 obeyed the laws and the titles were settled. 
 And for that reason because he wouldn't 
 fight agin the law or without the consent 
 of the law, they've killed him, or kidnapped 
 him away.' 
 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 The girl's lips quivered, and her small 
 brown hands twisted the edges of her blue 
 checked apron. Although this new picture 
 of Jim's peacefulness was as astounding and 
 unsatisfactory as his own disappearance, there 
 was no doubt of the sincerity of poor Phoebe's 
 impression. 
 
 In vain did Clarence point out to them 
 there must be some mistake ; that the tres- 
 passers the so-called ' Jumpers' really be- 
 longed to the same party as Hooker, and 
 would have no reason to dispossess him ; 
 that, in fact, they were all his Clarence's 
 tenants. In vain he assured them of 
 Hooker's perfect security in possession ; that 
 he could have driven the intruders away by 
 the simple exhibition of his lease, or that he 
 could have even called a constable from the 
 town of Fair Plains to protect him from mere 
 lawlessness. In vain did he assure them of 
 his intention to find his missing friend, and 
 reinstate him at any cost. The conviction 
 that the unfortunate young man had been 
 foully dealt with was fixed in the minds of 
 
SUSY 197 
 
 the two women. For a moment Clarence 
 himself was staggered by it. 
 
 ' You see,' said the young girl, with a 
 kindling face, ' the day before he came back 
 from Robles ther' were some queer men 
 hangin' round his cabin, but as they were the 
 same kind that went off with him the day 
 the Sisters' title was confirmed, we thought 
 nothing of it. But when he came back from 
 you he seemed worried and anxious, and 
 wasn't a bit like himself. We thought per- 
 haps he'd got into some trouble there, or 
 been disappointed. He hadn't, had he, Mr. 
 Brant ? ' continued Phoebe, with an appealing 
 look. 
 
 ' By no means,' said Clarence warmly. 
 ' On the contrary, he was able to do his 
 friends good service there, and was success- 
 ful in what he attempted. Mrs. Peyton was 
 very grateful. Of course, he told you what 
 had happened, and what he did for us,' con- 
 tinued Clarence, with a smile. 
 
 He had already amused himself on the 
 way with a fanciful conception of the exagge- 
 
198 SUSY 
 
 rated account Jim had given of his exploits. 
 But the bewildered girl shook her head. 
 
 'No, he didn't tell us anything.' 
 
 Clarence was really alarmed. This un- 
 precedented abstention of Hooker's was 
 portentous. 
 
 * He didn't say anything but what I told 
 you about law and order,' she went on ; ' but 
 that same night we heard a good deal of 
 talking and shouting in the cabin and around 
 it. And the next day he was talking with 
 father, and wanting to know how he kept his 
 land without trouble from outsiders.' 
 
 'And I said,' broke in Hopkins, 'that I 
 guessed folks didn't bother a man with 
 woman folks around, and that I kalkilated 
 that / wasn't quite as notorious for fightin' 
 as he was.' 
 
 'And he said,' also interrupted Mrs. Hop- 
 kins, ' and quite in his nat'ral way, too 
 gloomy like, you remember, Cyrus,' appeal- 
 ingly to her husband ' that that was his 
 curse.' 
 
 The smile that flickered around Clarence's 
 
SUSY 199 
 
 mouth faded, however, as he caught sight of 
 Phoebe's pleading, interrogating eyes. It was 
 really too bad. Whatever change had come 
 over the rascal it was too evident that his 
 previous belligerent personality had had its 
 full effect upon the simple girl, and that, 
 hereafter, one pair of honest eyes would be 
 wistfully following him. 
 
 Perplexed and indignant, Clarence again 
 closely questioned her as to the personnel of 
 the trespassing party who had been seen 
 once or twice since passing over the field. 
 He had at last elicited enough information to 
 identify one of them as Gilroy, the leader of 
 the party that had invaded Robles Rancho. 
 His cheek flushed. Even if they had wished 
 to take a theatrical and momentary revenge 
 on Hooker for the passing treachery to them 
 which they had just discovered although 
 such retaliation was only transitory, and they 
 could not hold the land it was an insult to 
 Clarence himself, whose tenant Jim was, and 
 subversive of all their legally acquired rights. 
 He would confront this Gilroy at once ; his 
 
200 SUSY 
 
 half-wild encampment was only a few miles 
 away, just over the boundaries of the Robles 
 estate. Without stating his intention, he 
 took leave of the Hopkins family with the 
 cheerful assurance that he would probably 
 return with some news of Hooker, and rode 
 away. 
 
 The trail became more indistinct and 
 unfrequented as it diverged from the main 
 road, and presently lost itself in the slope 
 towards the east. The horizon grew larger, 
 there were faint bluish lines upon it which 
 he knew were distant mountains ; beyond 
 this a still fainter white line the Sierran 
 snows. Presently he intersected a trail 
 running south, and remarked that it crossed 
 the highway behind him, where he had once 
 met the two mysterious horsemen. They 
 had evidently reached the terrace through 
 the wild oats by that trail. A little further 
 on were a few groups of sheds and canvas 
 tents in a bare and open space, with scat- 
 tered cattle and horsemen exactly like an 
 encampment, or the gathering of a country 
 
SUSY 201 
 
 fair. As Clarence rode down towards them 
 he could see that his approach was instantly 
 observed, and that a simultaneous movement 
 was made as if to anticipate him. For the 
 first time he realised the possible conse- 
 quences of his visit, single-handed, but it 
 was too late to retrace his steps. With a 
 glance at his holster, he rode boldly forward 
 to the nearest shed. A dozen men hovered 
 near him, but something in his quiet, de- 
 termined manner held them aloof. Gilroy 
 was on the threshold in his shirt sleeves. 
 A single look showed him that Clarence 
 was alone, and with a careless gesture of 
 his hand he warned away his own followers. 
 
 4 You've got a sort of easy way of drop- 
 pin' in whar you ain't invited, Brant/ he 
 said with a grim smile, which was not, 
 however, without a certain air of approval. 
 ' Got it from your father, didn't you ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, but I don't believe he 
 ever thought it necessary to warn twenty 
 men of the approach of one,' replied Clar- 
 ence, in the same tone. ' I had no time to 
 
202 SUSY 
 
 stand on ceremony, for I have just come 
 from Hooker's quarter section at Fair Plains.' 
 
 Gilroy smiled again, and gazed ab- 
 stractedly at the sky. 
 
 ' You know as well as I do,' said Clar- 
 ence, controlling his voice with an effort, 
 ' that what you have done there will have 
 to be undone, if you wish to hold even those 
 lawless men of yours together, or keep your- 
 self and them from being run into the brush 
 like highwaymen. I've no fear for that. 
 Neither do I care to know what was your 
 motive in doing it but I can only tell you 
 that if it was retaliation I alone was and 
 still am responsible for Hooker's action at 
 the Rancho. I came here to know just 
 what you have done with him, and, if neces- 
 sary, to take his place.' 
 
 ' You're just a little too previous in your 
 talk, I reckon, Brant,' returned Gilroy lazily, 
 ' and as to legality I reckon we stand on the 
 same level with yourself, just here. Begin- 
 nin' with what you came for. Ez we don't 
 know where your Jim Hooker is, and ez 
 
SUSY 203 
 
 we ain't done any thin' to him, we don't 
 exackly see what we could do with you in 
 his place. Ez to our motives well, we've 
 got a good deal to say about that. We 
 reckoned that he wasn't exackly the kind 
 of man we wanted for a neighbour. His 
 pow'ful fightin' style didn't suit us peace- 
 ful folks, and we thought it rather worked 
 agin this new " law and order " racket to 
 have such a man about, to say nuthin' of it 
 prejudicin' quiet settlers. He had too many 
 revolvers for one man to keep his eye on, 
 and was altogether too much steeped in 
 blood so to speak for ordinary washin' 
 and domestic purposes ! His hull get up 
 was too deathlike and clammy; so we per- 
 suaded him to leave. We just went there, 
 all of us, and exhorted him. We stayed 
 round there two days and nights, takin' 
 turns, talkin' with him nuthin' more only 
 selecting subjects in his own style to please 
 him, until he left ! And then, as we didn't 
 see any use for his house there, we took it 
 away. Them's the cold facts, Brant,' he 
 
204 SUSY 
 
 added, with a certain convincing indiffer- 
 ence that left no room for doubt, ' and you 
 can stand by 'em. Now, workin' back to 
 the first principle you laid down that we'll 
 have to undo what we've done we don't 
 agree with you, for we've taken a leaf outer 
 your own book. We've got it here in black 
 and white. We've got a bill o' sale of 
 Hooker's house and possession, and we're 
 on the land in place of him as yoiir ten- 
 ants' He re-entered the shanty, took a 
 piece of paper from a soap-box on the shelf, 
 and held it out to Clarence. ' Here it is. 
 It's a fair and square deal, Brant. We 
 gave him as it says here a hundred dol- 
 lars for it! No humbuggin' but the hard 
 cash by Jimminy! And he took the money' 
 
 The ring of truth in the man's voice was 
 as unmistakable as the signature in Jim's 
 own hand. Hooker had sold out ! Clarence 
 turned hastily away. 
 
 ' W T e don't know where he went,' con- 
 tinued Gilroy grimly, ' but I reckon you ain't 
 over anxious to see him now. And I kin 
 
205 
 
 tell ye something to ease your mind he 
 didn't require much " persuadin'." And I 
 kin tell ye another, if ye ain't above takin' 
 advice from folks that don't pertend to give 
 it,' he added, with the same curious look of 
 interest in his face. ' You've done well to 
 get shut of him, and if you got shut of a few 
 more of his kind that you trust to, you'd do 
 better.' 
 
 As if to avoid noticing any angry reply 
 from the young man, he re-entered the cabin 
 and shut the door behind him. Clarence felt 
 the uselessness of further parley, and rode 
 away. 
 
 But Gilroy's Parthian arrow rankled as 
 he rode. He was not greatly shocked at 
 Jim's defection, for he was always fully con- 
 scious of his vanity and weakness ; but he 
 was by no means certain that Jim's extrava- 
 gance and braggadocio, which he had found 
 only amusing and, perhaps, even pathetic, 
 might not be as provocative and prejudicial 
 to others as Gilroy had said. But, like all 
 sympathetic and unselfish natures, he sought 
 
206 stssv 
 
 to find some excuse for his old companion's 
 weakness in his own mistaken judgment. 
 He had no business to bring poor Jim on 
 the land, to subject his singular temperament 
 to the temptations of such a life and such 
 surroundings ; he should never have made 
 use of his services at the Rancho. He had 
 done him harm rather than good in his ill- 
 advised, and, perhaps, selfish attempts to 
 help him. I have said that Gilroy's parting 
 warning rankled in his breast but not 
 ignobly. It wounded the surface of his sen- 
 sitive nature, but could not taint nor corrupt 
 the pure, wholesome blood of the gentleman 
 beneath it. For in Gilroy's warning he saw 
 only his own shortcomings. A strange 
 fatality had marked his friendships. He had 
 been no help to Jim ; he had brought no 
 happiness to Susy or Mrs. Peyton, whose 
 disagreement his visit seemed to have ac- 
 cented. Thinking over the mysterious attack 
 upon himself, it now seemed to him possible 
 that, in some obscure way, his presence at 
 the Rancho had precipitated the more serious 
 
207 
 
 attack on Peyton. If, as it had been said, 
 there was some curse upon his inheritance 
 from his father, he seemed to have made 
 others share it with him. He was riding 
 onward abstractedly, with his head sunk on 
 his breast and his eyes fixed upon some 
 vague point between his horse's sensitive 
 ears, when a sudden, intelligent, forward 
 pricking of them startled him, and an appa- 
 rition arose from the plain before him that 
 seemed to sweep all other sense away. 
 
 It was the figure of a handsome young 
 horseman as abstracted as himself, but evi- 
 dently on better terms with his own per- 
 sonality. He was dark haired, sallow cheeked, 
 and blue-eyed the type of the old Spanish 
 Californian. A burnt-out cigarette w r as in 
 his mouth, and he was riding a roan mustang 
 with the lazy grace of his race. But what 
 arrested Clarence's attention more than his 
 picturesque person, was the narrow, flexible, 
 long coil of grey horsehair riata which hung 
 from his saddle bow, but whose knotted and 
 silver-beaded terminating lash he was swirl- 
 
208 st/sy 
 
 ing idly in his narrow, brown hand. Clarence 
 knew and instantly recognised it as the 
 ordinary fanciful appendage of a gentleman 
 rider, used for tethering his horse on lonely 
 plains, and always made the object of the 
 most lavish expenditure of decoration and 
 artistic skill. But he was as suddenly filled 
 with a blind, unreasoning sense of repulsion 
 and fury, and lifted his eyes to the man as 
 he approached. What the stranger saw in 
 Clarence's blazing eyes no one but himself 
 knew, for his own became fixed and staring ; 
 his sallow cheeks grew lanker and livid ; his 
 careless, jaunty bearing stiffened into rigidity, 
 and swerving his horse to one side, he sud- 
 denly passed Clarence at a furious gallop. 
 The young American wheeled quickly, and 
 for an instant his knees convulsively gripped 
 the flanks of his horse to follow. But the 
 next moment he recalled himself, and with an 
 effort began to collect his thoughts. What 
 was he intending to do and for what reason ? 
 He had met hundreds of such horsemen 
 before and caparisoned and accoutred like 
 
209 
 
 this even to the riata. And he certainly 
 was not dressed like either of the mysterious 
 horsemen whom he had overheard that 
 moonlight evening. He looked back ; the 
 stranger had already slackened his pace, and 
 was slowly disappearing. Clarence turned 
 and rode on his way. 
 
210 SUSY 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 WITHOUT disclosing the full extent of Jim's 
 defection and desertion, Clarence was able 
 to truthfully assure the Hopkins family of 
 his .personal safety, and to promise that he 
 would continue his quest, and send them 
 further news of the absentee. He believed 
 it would be found that Jim had been called 
 away on some important business, but that, 
 not daring to leave his new shanty exposed 
 and temptingly unprotected, he had made a 
 virtue of necessity by selling it to his neigh- 
 bours, intending to build a better house 
 on its site after his return. Having com- 
 forted Phoebe, and impulsively conceived 
 further plans for restoring Jim to her 
 happily without any recurrence of his pre- 
 vious doubts as to his own efficacy as a 
 
SUSY 211 
 
 special Providence he returned to the 
 Rancho. If he thought again of Jim's defec- 
 tion and Gilroy's warning, it was only to 
 strengthen himself to a clearer perception of 
 his unselfish duty and singleness of purpose. 
 He would give up brooding, apply himself 
 more practically to the management of the 
 property, carry out his plans for the found- 
 ation of a Landlords' Protective League for 
 the Southern Counties, become a candidate 
 for the Legislature, and, in brief, try to fill 
 Peyton's place in the county as he had at the 
 Rancho. He would endeavour to become 
 better acquainted with the half-breed labour- 
 ers on the estate and avoid the friction 
 between them and the Americans ; he was 
 conscious that he had not made that use 
 of his early familiarity with their ways and 
 language which he might have done. If, 
 occasionally, the figure of the young Spaniard 
 whom he had met on the lonely road ob- 
 truded itself upon him, it was always with 
 the instinctive premonition that he would 
 meet him again, and the mystery of the 
 
 p 2 
 
212 SUSY 
 
 sudden repulsion be in some way explained ! 
 Thus Clarence ! But the momentary im- 
 pulse that had driven him to Fair Plains 
 the eagerness to set his mind at rest regard- 
 ing Susy and her relatives he had utterly 
 forgotten. 
 
 Howbeit some of the energy and enthu- 
 siasm that he breathed into these various 
 essays made their impression. He suc- 
 ceeded in forming the Landlords' League ; 
 under a Commission suggested by him the 
 straggling boundaries of Robles and the 
 adjacent claims were re-surveyed, defined, 
 and mutually protected ; even the lawless 
 Gilroy, from extending an amused toleration 
 to the young administrator, grew to recog- 
 nise and accept him ; the peons and vac- 
 queros began to have faith in a man who 
 acknowledged them sufficiently to rebuild 
 the ruined Mission Chapel on the estate, 
 and save them the long pilgrimage to Santa 
 Inez on Sundays and Saints' days ; the San 
 Francisco priest imported from Clarence's 
 old college at San Jose, and an habitual 
 
SUSY 213 
 
 guest at Clarence's hospitable board, was 
 grateful enough to fill his flock with loyalty 
 to the young padron. 
 
 He had returned from a long drive one 
 afternoon, and had just thrown himself into 
 an easy chair with the comfortable conscious- 
 ness of a rest fairly earned. The dull em- 
 bers of a fire occasionally glowed in the 
 oven-like hearth, although the open case- 
 ment of a window let in the soft breath of 
 the south-west Trades. The angelus had 
 just rung from the restored chapel, and, 
 mellowed by distance, seemed to Clarence to 
 lend that repose to the wind-swept landscape 
 that it had always lacked. 
 
 Suddenly his quick ear detected the 
 sound of wheels in the ruts of the carriage- 
 way. Usually his visitors to the casa came 
 on horseback, and carts and waggons used 
 only the lower road. As the sound ap- 
 proached nearer an odd fancy filled his heart 
 with unaccountable pleasure. Could it be 
 Mrs. Peyton making an unexpected visit to 
 the Rancho? He held his breath. The 
 
214 SUSY 
 
 vehicle was now rolling on into the patio. 
 The clatter of hoofs and a halt were followed 
 by the accents of women's voices. One 
 seemed familiar. He rose quickly, as light 
 footsteps ran along the corridor, and then 
 the door opened impetuously to the laughing 
 face of Susy ! 
 
 He came towards her hastily, yet with 
 only the simple impulse of astonishment. 
 He had no thought of kissing her, but as he 
 approached she threw her charming head 
 archly to one side, with a mischievous knit- 
 ting of her brows and a significant gesture 
 towards the passage, that indicated the prox- 
 imity of a stranger and the possibility of 
 interruption. 
 
 ' Hush ! Mrs. McClosky's here,' she 
 whispered. 
 
 'Mrs. McClosky ? ' repeated Clarence 
 vaguely. 
 
 ' Yes, of course,' impatiently, ' My Aunt 
 Jane. Silly! We just cut away down here 
 to surprise you. Aunty's never seen the 
 place, and here was a good chance.' 
 
SUSY 215 
 
 1 And your mother Mrs. Peyton ? Has 
 she does she ? 'stammered Clarence. 
 
 ' Has she does she ? ' mimicked Susy, 
 with increasing impatience. ' Why, of 
 course she doesrit know anything about it. 
 She thinks I'm visiting Mary Rogers at 
 Oakland. And I am afterwards? she 
 laughed. * I just wrote to Aunt Jane to 
 meet me at Alameda, and we took the stage 
 to Santa Inez and drove on here in a buggy. 
 Wasn't it real fun ? Tell me, Clarence ! 
 You don't say anything ! Tell me wasn't 
 it real fun ? ' 
 
 This was all so like her old, childlike, 
 charming, irresponsible self, that Clarence, 
 troubled and bewildered as he was, took her 
 hands and drew her like a child towards 
 him. 
 
 'Of course,' she went on, yet stopping to 
 smell a rosebud in his buttonhole, ' I have a 
 perfect right to come to my own house, 
 goodness knows ! and if I bring my own 
 aunt a married woman with me al- 
 though,' loftily, ' there may be a young un- 
 
216 SUSY 
 
 married gentleman alone there still I fail to 
 see any impropriety in it ! ' 
 
 He was still holding her ; but in that 
 instant her manner had completely changed 
 again ; the old Susy seemed to have slipped 
 away and evaded him, and he was retaining 
 only a conscious actress in his arms. 
 
 ' Release me, Mr. Brant, please,' she 
 said, with a languid affected glance behind 
 her ; ' we are not alone.' 
 
 Then, as the rustling of a skirt sounded 
 nearer in the passage, she seemed to change 
 back to her old self once more, and with a 
 lightning flash of significance whispered : 
 
 ' She knows everything ! ' 
 
 To add to Clarence's confusion, the 
 woman who entered cast a quick glance of 
 playful meaning on the separating youthful 
 pair. She was an ineffective blonde with a 
 certain beauty that seemed to be gradually 
 succumbing to the ravages of paint and 
 powder rather than years ; her dress ap- 
 peared to have suffered from an equally un- 
 wise excess of ornamentation and trimming, 
 
SUSY 217 
 
 and she gave the general impression of 
 having been intended for exhibition in 
 almost any other light than the one in which 
 she happened to be. There were two or 
 three mud stains on the laces of her sleeve 
 and underskirt that were obtrusively incon- 
 gruous. Her voice, which had, however, a 
 ring of honest intention in it, was somewhat 
 overstrained, and evidently had not yet ad- 
 justed itself to the low-ceilinged, conventual- 
 like building. 
 
 ' There, children, don't mind me ! I know 
 I'm not on in this scene, but I got nervous 
 waiting there, in what you call the " sallon," 
 with only those Greaser servants staring 
 round me in a circle, like a regular chorus. 
 My ! but it's anteek here regular anteek 
 Spanish.' Then, with a glance at Clarence, 
 * So this is Clarence Brant your Clarence ? 
 Interduce me, Susy.' 
 
 In his confusion of indignation, pain, and 
 even a certain conception of the grim ludi- 
 crousness of the situation, Clarence gasped 
 despairingly at the single sentence of Susy's. 
 
218 SUSY 
 
 ' In my own home.' Surely, at least, it was 
 her own home, and as he was only the business 
 agent of her adopted mother, he had no right 
 to dictate to her under what circumstances 
 she should return to it, or whom she should 
 introduce there. In her independence and 
 caprice Susy might easily have gone else- 
 where with this astounding relative, and 
 would Mrs. Peyton like it better ? Clinging 
 to this idea, his instinct of hospitality asserted 
 itself. He welcomed Mrs. McClosky with 
 nervous effusion : 
 
 * I am only Mrs. Peyton's major domo 
 here, but any guest of her daughter s is wel- 
 come.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mrs. McClosky, with osten- 
 tatious archness, * I reckon Susy and I 
 understand your position here, and you've 
 got a good berth of it. But we won't trouble 
 you much on Mrs. Peyton's account, will we, 
 Susy ? And now she and me will just take a 
 look around the shanty it is real old Spanish 
 anteek, ain't it ? and sorter take stock of it, 
 and you young folks will have to tear your- 
 
SUSY 219 
 
 selves apart for a while, and play propriety 
 before me. You've got to be on your good 
 behaviour while I'm here, I can tell you ! 
 I'm a heavy old "doo-anna," ain't I, Susy? 
 School ma'ms and mother superiors ain't in 
 the game with me for discipline.' 
 
 She threw her arms around the young 
 girl's waist and drew her towards her affec- 
 tionately, an action that slightly precipi- 
 tated some powder upon the black dress of 
 her niece. Susy glanced mischievously at 
 Clarence, but withdrew her eyes presently to 
 let them rest with unmistakable appreciation 
 and admiration on her relative. A pang shot 
 through Clarence's breast. He had never 
 seen her look in that way at Mrs. Peyton. 
 Yet here was this stranger provincial, over- 
 dressed, and extravagant, whose vulgarity 
 was only made tolerable through her good 
 humour who had awakened that interest 
 which the refined Mrs. Peyton had never yet 
 been able to touch. As Mrs. McClosky 
 swept out of the room with Susy he turned 
 away with a sinking heart. 
 
220 
 
 Yet it was necessary that the Spanish 
 house-servants should not suspect this treason 
 to their mistress, and Clarence stopped their 
 childish curiosity about the stranger with a 
 careless and easy acceptance of Susy's sudden 
 visit in the light of an ordinary occurrence, 
 and with a familiarity towards Mrs. McClosky 
 which became the more distasteful to him in 
 proportion as he saw that it was evidently 
 agreeable to her. But, easily responsive, she 
 became speedily confidential. Without a 
 single question from himself, or a contributing 
 remark from Susy, in half an hour she had 
 told him her whole history. How, as Jane 
 Silsbee, an elder sister of Susy's mother, she 
 had early eloped from the paternal home in 
 Kansas with McClosky, a strolling actor. 
 How she had married him and gone on the 
 stage under his stage name, effectively pre- 
 venting any recognition by her family. How, 
 coming to California, where her husband had 
 become manager of the theatre at Sacramento, 
 she was indignant to find that her only 
 surviving relation a sister-in-law, living in 
 
SUSY 221 
 
 the same place had for a money considera- 
 tion given up all claim to the orphaned Susy, 
 and how she had resolved to find out ' if the 
 poor child was happy.' How she succeeded 
 in finding out that she was not happy. How 
 she wrote to her, and even met her secretly 
 at San Francisco and Oakland, and how she 
 had undertaken this journey partly for * a 
 lark ' and partly to see Clarence and the pro- 
 perty. There was no doubt of the speaker's 
 sincerity ; with this outrageous candour there 
 was an equal obliviousness of any indelicacy 
 in her conduct towards Mrs. Peyton that 
 seemed hopeless. Yet he must talk plainly 
 to her ; he must say to her what he could not 
 say to Susy ; upon her Mrs. Peyton's happi- 
 ness he believed he was thinking of Susy's 
 also depended. He must take the first 
 opportunity of speaking to her alone. 
 
 That opportunity came sooner than he 
 had expected. After dinner, Mrs. McClosky 
 turned to Susy, and playfully telling her that 
 she had ' to talk business ' with Mr. Brant, 
 bade her go to the saloon and await her. 
 
222 SUSY 
 
 When the young girl left the room, she looked 
 at Clarence, and with that assumption of 
 curtness with which coarse but kindly natures 
 believe they overcome the difficulty of delicate 
 subjects said abruptly : 
 
 1 Well, young man, now what's all this 
 between you and Susy ? I'm looking- after 
 her interests same as if she was my own 
 girl. If you've got anything to say, now's 
 your time. And don't you shilly-shally too 
 long over it either, for you might as well 
 know that a girl like that can have her pick 
 and choice, and be beholden to no one, and 
 when she don't care to choose there's me and 
 my husband ready to do for her all the same. 
 We mightn't be able to do the anteek Spanish 
 Squire, but we've got our own line of business, 
 and it's a comfortable one.' 
 
 To have this said to him under the roof 
 of Mrs. Peyton from whom, in his sensitive- 
 ness, he had thus far jealously guarded his 
 own secret was even more than Clarence's 
 gentleness could stand, and fixed his waver- 
 ing resolution. 
 
SUSY 223 
 
 ' I don't think we quite understand each 
 other, Mrs. McClosky,' he said coldy, but 
 with glittering eyes. ' I have certainly some- 
 thing to say to you ; if it is not on a subject 
 as pleasant as the one you propose, it is, 
 nevertheless, one that I think you and I are 
 more competent to discuss together.' 
 
 Then, with quiet but unrelenting direct- 
 ness, he pointed out to her that Susy was a 
 legally adopted daughter of Mrs. Peyton, and, 
 as a minor, utterly under her control ; that 
 Mrs. Peyton had no knowledge of any op- 
 posing relatives ; and that Susy had not only 
 concealed the fact from her, but that he was 
 satisfied that Mrs. Peyton did not even know 
 of Susy's discontent and alienation ; that she 
 had tenderly and carefully brought up the 
 helpless orphan as her own child, and even if 
 she had not gained her affection was at least 
 entitled to her obedience and respect ; that 
 while Susy's girlish caprice and inexperience 
 excused her conduct, Mrs. Peyton and her 
 friends would have a right to expect more con- 
 sideration from a person of Mrs. McClosky's 
 
224 SUSY 
 
 maturer judgment. That for these reasons, 
 and as the friend of Mrs. Peyton, whom he 
 could alone recognise as Susy's guardian and 
 the arbiter of her affections, he must decline 
 to discuss the young girl with any reference 
 to himself or his own intentions. 
 
 An unmistakable flush asserted itself under 
 the lady's powder. 
 
 ' Suit yourself, young man, suit yourself,' 
 she said, with equally direct resentment and 
 antagonism ; ' only mebbee you'll let me tell 
 you that Jim McClosky ain't no fool, and 
 mebbee knows what lawyers think of an 
 arrangement with a sister-in-law that leaves 
 a real sister out ! Mebbee that's a Sisters' 
 title you ain't thought of, Mr. Brant ! And 
 mebbee you'll find out that your chance 
 o' gettin' Mrs. Peyton's consent ain't as safe 
 to gamble on as you reckon it is. And 
 mebbee what's more to the purpose if you 
 did get it it might not be just the trump card 
 to fetch Susy with ! And to wind up, Mr. 
 Brant, when you do have to come down to 
 the bed-rock and me and Jim McClosky, you 
 
SUSY 225 
 
 may find out that him and me have discovered 
 a better match for Susy than the son of old 
 Ham Brant who is trying to play the 
 Spanish grandee off his father's money on a 
 couple of women. And we mayn't have to 
 go far to do it or to get the real thing, Mr. 
 Brant ! ' 
 
 Too heart-sick and disgusted to even 
 notice the slur upon himself, or the import of 
 her last words, Clarence only rose and bowed 
 as she jumped up from the table. But as she 
 reached the door he said, half appealingly : 
 
 'Whatever are your other intentions, Mrs. 
 McClosky, as we are both Susy's guests I 
 beg you will say nothing of this to her while 
 we are here, and particularly that you will not 
 allow her to think for a moment that I have 
 discussed my relations to her with anybody. 1 
 
 She flung herself out of the door without 
 a reply ; but on entering the dark low- 
 ceilinged drawing-room she was surprised to 
 find that Susy was not there. She was con- 
 sequently obliged to return to the verandah, 
 where Clarence had withdrawn, and to some- 
 
 o 
 
226 SCSY 
 
 what ostentatiously demand of the servants 
 that Susy should be sent to her room at once. 
 But the young girl was not in her own room, 
 and was apparently nowhere to be found. 
 Clarence, who had now fully determined as a 
 last resource to make a direct appeal to Susy 
 herself, listened to this fruitless search with 
 some concern. She could not have gone out 
 in the rain, which was again falling, She 
 might be hiding somewhere to avoid a recur- 
 rence of the scene she had perhaps partly 
 overheard. He turned into the corridor that 
 led to Mrs. Peyton's boudoir. As he knew 
 that it was locked, he was surprised to see 
 by the dim light of the hanging lamp that a 
 duplicate key to the one in his desk was in 
 the lock. It must be Susy's and the young 
 girl had probably taken refuge there. He 
 knocked gently. There was a rustle in the 
 room and the sound of a chair being moved, 
 but no reply. Impelled by a sudden instinct 
 he opened the door, and was met by a cool 
 current of air from some open window. At 
 the same moment the figure of Susy ap- 
 
SUSY 227 
 
 preached him from the semi-darkness of the 
 interior. 
 
 ' I did not know you were here,' said 
 Clarence, much relieved, he knew not why, 
 1 but I am glad, for I wanted to speak with 
 you alone for a few moments.' 
 
 She did not reply, but he drew a match 
 from his pocket and lit the two candles which 
 he knew stood on the table. The wick of 
 one was still warm as if it had been recently 
 extinguished. As the light slowly radiated 
 he could see that she was regarding him with 
 an air of affected unconcern, but a somewhat 
 heightened colour. It was like her, and not 
 inconsistent with his idea that she had come 
 there to avoid an after scene with Mrs. 
 McClosky or himself or perhaps both. The 
 room was not disarranged in any way. The 
 window that was opened was the casement 
 of the deep embrasured one in the rear wall, 
 and the light curtain before it still swayed 
 occasionally in the night wind. 
 
 ' I'm afraid I had a row with your aunt, 
 Susy,' he began lightly, in his old familiar 
 
 Q2 
 
228 SUSY 
 
 way, ' but I had to tell her I didn't think her 
 conduct to Mrs. Peyton was exactly the 
 square thing towards one who had been as 
 devoted to you as she has been.' 
 
 * Oh, for goodness sake, don't go over all 
 that again,' said Susy impatiently. * I've 
 had enough of it.' 
 
 Clarence flushed, but recovered himself. 
 
 1 Then you overheard what I said, and 
 know what I think,' he said calmly. 
 
 ' I knew it before', said the young girl, 
 with a slight supercilious toss of the head, 
 and yet a certain abstraction of manner as 
 she went to the window and closed it. 'Any- 
 body could see it ! I know you always 
 wanted me to stay here with Mrs. Peyton, 
 and be coddled and monitored and cate- 
 chised, and shut up away from anyone, until 
 you had been coddled and monitored and 
 catechised by somebody else sufficiently to 
 suit her ideas of your being a fit husband 
 for me. I told aunty it was no use our 
 coming here to to 
 
 ' To do what ? ' asked Clarence. 
 
SVS Y 229 
 
 ' To put some spirit into you,' said the 
 young girl, turning upon him sharply ; ' to 
 keep you from being tied to that woman's 
 apron-strings. To keep her from making a 
 slave of you as she would of me. But it 
 is of no use. Mary Rogers was right when 
 she said you had no wish to please anybody 
 but Mrs. Peyton, and no eyes for anybody 
 but her. And if it hadn't been too ridicu- 
 lous considering her age and yours she'd 
 say you were dead in love with her.' 
 
 For an instant Clarence felt the blood 
 rush to his face and then sink away, leaving 
 him pale and cold. The room which had 
 seemed to whirl around him, and then fade 
 away, returned with appalling distinctness 
 the distinctness of memory and a vision of 
 the first day that he had seen Mrs. Peyton 
 sitting there, as he seemed to see her now. 
 For the first time there flashed upon him the 
 conviction that the young girl had spoken 
 the truth, and had brusquely brushed the 
 veil from his foolish eyes. He was in love 
 with Mrs. Peyton ! That was what his 
 
230 SUSY 
 
 doubts and hesitation regarding Susy meant. 
 That alone was the source, secret, and limit 
 of his vague ambition. 
 
 But with the conviction came a singular 
 calm. In the last few moments he seemed 
 to have grown older to have loosed the 
 bonds of old companionship with Susy, and 
 the later impression she had given him of 
 her mature knowledge, and moved on far 
 beyond her years and experience. And it 
 was with an authority that was half paternal, 
 and in a voice he himself scarcely recognised, 
 that he said : 
 
 ' If I did not know you were prejudiced 
 by a foolish and indiscreet woman I should 
 believe that you were trying to insult me as 
 you have your adopted mother, and would 
 save you the pain of doing both in her house 
 by leaving it now and for ever. But because 
 I believe you are controlled against your 
 best instinct by that woman, I shall remain 
 here with you to frustrate her as best I can, 
 or until I am able to lay everything before 
 Mrs. Peyton, except the foolish speech you 
 have just made.' 
 
SUSY 231 
 
 The young girl laughed. ' Why not that 
 one too, while you're about it ? See what 
 she'll say.' 
 
 ' I shall tell her,' continued Clarence 
 calmly, ' only what you yourself have made 
 it necessary for me to tell her to save you 
 from folly and disgrace, and only enough to 
 spare her the mortification of hearing it first 
 from her own servants.' 
 
 ' Hearing what from her own servants ? 
 What clo you mean ? How dare you ? ' 
 demanded the young girl sharply. 
 
 She was quite real in her anxiety now, 
 although her attitude of virtuous indignation 
 struck him as being like all her emotional 
 expression, namely, acting. 
 
 ' I mean that the servants know of your 
 correspondence with Mrs. McClosky, and 
 that she claims to be your aunt,' returned 
 Clarence. ' They know that you confided 
 to Pepita. They believe that either Mrs. 
 McClosky or you have seen ' 
 
 He had stopped suddenly. He was about 
 to say that the servants (particularly I near- 
 
232 SUSY 
 
 nacion) knew that Pedro had boasted of 
 having met Susy, when for the first time 
 the tremendous significance of what he had 
 hitherto considered as merely an idle false- 
 hood flashed upon him. 
 
 ' Seen whom ? ' repeated Susy in a higher 
 voice, impatiently stamping her foot. 
 
 Clarence looked at her, and in her ex- 
 cited, questioning face saw a confirmation of 
 his still half-formed suspicions. In his own 
 abrupt pause and knitted eyebrows she must 
 have read his thoughts also. Their eyes 
 met. Her violet pupils dilated, trembled, 
 and then quickly shifted as she suddenly 
 stiffened into an attitude of scornful indif- 
 ference, almost grotesque in its unreality. 
 His eyes slowly turned to the window, the 
 door, the candle on the table, and the chair 
 before it, and then came back to her face 
 again. Then he drew a deep breath. 
 
 1 I give no heed to the idle gossip of 
 servants, Susy,' he said slowly. ' I have no 
 belief that you have ever contemplated any- 
 thing worse than an act of girlish folly or the 
 
SUSY 233 
 
 gratification of a passing caprice. Neither 
 
 do I want to appeal to you or frighten you, 
 
 but I must tell you now that I know certain 
 
 facts that might make such a simple act of 
 
 folly monstrous, inconceivable in you, and 
 
 almost accessory to a crime ! I can tell you 
 
 no more. But so satisfied am I of such a 
 
 possibility that I shall not scruple to take 
 
 any means the strongest to prevent even 
 
 the remotest chance of it. Your aunt has 
 
 been looking for you ; you had better go to 
 
 her now. I will close the room and lock the 
 
 door. Meantime I should advise you not to 
 
 sit so near an open window with a candle at 
 
 night in this locality. Even if it might not 
 
 be dangerous for you it might be fatal to the 
 
 foolish creatures it might attract.' 
 
 He took the key from the door as he 
 held it open for her to pass out. She uttered 
 a shrill little laugh, like a nervous, mis- 
 chievous child, and, slipping out of her pre- 
 vious artificial attitude as if it had been a 
 mantle, ran out of the room. 
 
234 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 As Susy's footsteps died away, Clarence 
 closed the door, walked to the window, and 
 examined it closely. The bars had been re- 
 stored since he had wrenched them off to 
 give ingress to the family on the day of 
 recapture. He glanced around the room ; 
 nothing seemed to have been disturbed. 
 Nevertheless he was uneasy. The suspi- 
 cions of a frank, trustful nature when once 
 aroused are apt to be more general and far- 
 reaching than the specific distrusts of the 
 disingenuous, for they imply the overthrow 
 of a whole principle and not a mere detail. 
 Clarence's conviction that Susy had seen 
 Pedro recently since his dismissal led him 
 into the wildest surmises of her motives. It 
 
SUSY 235 
 
 was possible that without her having reason 
 to suspect Pedro's greater crime, he might 
 have confided to her his intention of re- 
 claiming the property and installing her as 
 the mistress and chatelaine of the Rancho. 
 The idea was one that might have appealed 
 to Susy's theatrical imagination. He recalled 
 Mrs. McClosky's sneer at his own preten- 
 sions and her vague threats of a rival of more 
 lineal descent. The possible infidelity of 
 Susy to himself touched him lightly when the 
 first surprise was over indeed, it scarcely 
 could be called infidelity if she knew and 
 believed Mary Rogers's discovery and the 
 conviction that he and she had really never 
 loved each other now enabled him, as he 
 believed, to look at her conduct dispassion- 
 ately. Yet it was her treachery to Mrs. 
 Peyton, and not to himself, that impressed 
 him most, and perhaps made him equally 
 unjust, through his affections. 
 
 He extinguished the candles, partly from 
 some vague precautions he could not explain, 
 and partly to think over his fears in the 
 
236 SUSY 
 
 abstraction and obscurity of the semi-darkness. 
 The higher windows suffused a faint light on 
 the ceiling, and assisted by the dark lantern- 
 like glow cast on the opposite wall by the 
 tunnel of the embrasured window, the fa- 
 miliar outlines of the room and its furniture 
 came back to him. Somewhat in this fashion 
 also, in the obscurity and quiet, came back 
 to him the events he had overlooked and for- 
 gotten. He recalled now some gossip of 
 the servants, and vague hints dropped by 
 Susy of a violent quarrel between Peyton 
 and Pedro, which resulted in Pedro's dis- 
 missal, but which now seemed clearly attribu- 
 table to some graver cause than inattention 
 and insolence. He recalled Mary Rogers's 
 playful pleasantries with Susy about Pedro, 
 and Susy's mysterious air, which he had 
 hitherto regarded only as part of her exag- 
 geration. He remembered Mrs. Peyton's 
 unwarrantable uneasiness about Susy, which 
 he had either overlooked or referred entirely 
 to himself ; she must have suspected some- 
 thing. To his quickened imagination in this 
 
SUSY 237 
 
 ruin of his faith and trust, he believed that 
 Hooker's defection was either part of the 
 conspiracy, or that he had run away to avoid 
 being implicated with Susy in its discovery. 
 This, too, was the significance of Gilroy's 
 parting warning. He and Mrs. Peyton alone 
 had been blind and confiding in the midst of 
 this treachery and even he had been blind 
 to his own real affections. 
 
 The wind had risen again, and the faint 
 light on the opposite wall grew tremulous 
 and shifting with the movement of the foli- 
 age without. But presently the glow became 
 quite obliterated, as if by the intervention 
 of some opaque body outside the window. 
 He rose hurriedly and went to the casement. 
 But at the same moment he fancied he heard 
 the jamming of a ^door or window in quite 
 another direction, and his examination of the 
 casement before him showed him only the 
 silver light of the thinly-clouded sky falling 
 uninterruptedly through the bars and foliage 
 on the interior of the whitewashed embra- 
 sure. Then a conception of his mistake 
 
238 SUSY 
 
 flashed across him. The line of the casa 
 was long, straggling, and exposed elsewhere ; 
 why should the attempt to enter or commu- 
 nicate with anyone within be confined only 
 to this single point ? And why not satisfy 
 himself at once if any trespassers were loung- 
 ing around the walls, and then confront them 
 boldly in the open ? Their discovery and 
 identification was as important as the defeat 
 of their intentions. 
 
 He relit the candle, and placing it on a 
 small table by the wall beyond the visual 
 range of the t window, rearranged the curtain 
 so that while it permitted the light to pass 
 out, it left the room in shadow. He then 
 opened the door softly, locked it behind him, 
 and passed noiselessly into the hall. Susy's 
 and Mrs. McClosky's rooms were at the 
 further end of the passage, but between them 
 and the boudoir was the open patio, and the 
 low murmur of the voices of servants who 
 still lingered until he should dismiss them for 
 the night. Turning back, he moved silently 
 down the passage until he reached the nar- 
 
SUSY 239 
 
 row arched door to the garden. This he 
 unlocked and opened with the same stealthy 
 caution. The rain had recommenced. Not 
 daring to risk a return to his room, he took 
 from a peg in the recess an old waterproof 
 cloak and ' sou'-wester ' of Peyton's, which 
 still hung there, and passed out into the 
 night, locking the door behind him. To 
 keep the knowledge of his secret patrol from 
 the stablemen he did not attempt to take 
 out his own horse, but trusted to find some 
 vacquero's mustang in the corral. By good 
 luck an old ' Blue Grass ' hack of Peyton's, 
 nearest the stockade as he entered, allowed 
 itself to be quickly caught. Using its rope 
 headstall for a bridle, Clarence vaulted on 
 its bare back, and paced cautiously out into 
 the road. Here he kept the curve of the 
 long line of stockade until he reached the 
 outlying field where, half hidden in the 
 withered, sapless, but still standing stalks of 
 grain, he slowly began a circuit of the casa. 
 
 The misty grey dome above him, which 
 an invisible moon seemed to have quick- 
 
240 SUSY 
 
 silvered over, alternately lightened and 
 darkened with passing gusts of fine rain. 
 Nevertheless he could see the outline of the 
 broad quadrangle of the house quite dis- 
 tinctly, except on the west side, where a 
 fringe of writhing willows beat the brown 
 adobe walls with their imploring arms at 
 every gust. Elsewhere nothing moved ; the 
 view was uninterrupted to where the shining, 
 watery sky met the equally shining, watery 
 plain. He had already made a half circuit 
 of the house and was still noiselessly pick- 
 ing his way along the furrows muffled with 
 soaked and broken-down blades, and the vel- 
 vety upspringing of the ' volunteer ' growth, 
 when suddenly, not fifty yards before him, 
 without sound or warning, a figure rode out 
 of the grain upon the open cross-road and 
 deliberately halted with a listless, abstracted 
 waiting air. Clarence instantly recognised 
 one of his own vacqueros an undersized 
 half-breed but he as instantly divined that 
 he was only an outpost or confederate, sta- 
 tioned to give the alarm. The same precau- 
 
SUSY 241 
 
 tion had prevented each hearing the other, 
 and the lesser height of the vacquero had 
 rendered him indistinguishable as he pre- 
 ceded Clarence among the grain. As the 
 young man made no doubt that the real tres- 
 passer was nearer the casa, along the line of 
 willows, he wheeled to intercept him with 
 out alarming his sentry. Unfortunately his 
 horse answered the rope bridle clumsily, and 
 splashed in striking out. The watcher quickly 
 raised his head and Clarence knew that his 
 only chance was now to suppress him. De- 
 termined to do this at any hazard, with a 
 threatening gesture, he charged boldly down 
 upon him. 
 
 But he had not crossed half the distance 
 between them when the man uttered an 
 appalling cry so wild and despairing that 
 it seemed to chill even the hot blood 
 in Clarence's veins and dashed frenziedly 
 down the cross road into the interminable 
 plain. Before Clarence could determine if 
 that cry was a signal or an involuntary out- 
 burst, it was followed instantly by the sound 
 
 R 
 
242 SUSY 
 
 of frightened and struggling hoofs clattering 
 against the wall of the casa, and a swaying 
 of the shrubbery near the back gate of the 
 patio. Here was his real quarry ! Without 
 hesitation he dug his heels into the flanks of 
 his horse and rode furiously towards it. As 
 he approached, a long tremor seemed to pass 
 through the shrubbery, with the retreating 
 sound of horse-hoofs. The unseen trespasser 
 had evidently taken the alarm and was 
 fleeing, and Clarence dashed in pursuit. 
 Following the sound, for the shrubbery hid 
 the fugitive from view, he passed the last wall 
 of the casa ; but it soon became evident that 
 the unknown had the better horse. The 
 hoof-beats grew fainter and fainter, and at 
 times appeared even to cease until his own 
 approach started them again, eventually to 
 fade away in the distance. In vain Clarence 
 dug his heels into the flanks of his heavier 
 steed, and regretted his own mustang ; and 
 when at last he reached the edge of the 
 thicket he had lost both sight and sound of 
 the fugitive. The descent to the lower ter- 
 
SUSY 243 
 
 race lay before him empty and desolate. 
 The man had escaped. 
 
 He turned slowly back with baffled anger 
 and vindictiveness. However, he had pre- 
 vented something, although he knew not 
 what. The principal had got away, but he 
 had identified his confederate, and for the 
 first time held a clue to his mysterious 
 visitant. There was no use to alarm the 
 household, which did not seem to have been 
 disturbed. The trespassers were far away by 
 this time, and the attempt would hardly be 
 repeated that night. He made his way 
 quietly back to the corral, let loose his horse, 
 and regained the casa unobserved. He un- 
 locked the arched door in the wall, re-entered 
 the darkened passage, stopped a moment to 
 open the door of the boudoir, glanced at the 
 securely fastened casement, and extinguished 
 the still burning candle, and, relocking the 
 door securely, made his way to his own room. 
 
 But he could not sleep. The whole in- 
 cident over so quickly had nevertheless 
 impressed him deeply, and yet like a dream. 
 
 R 2 
 
244 SUSY 
 
 The strange yell of the vacquero still rang in 
 his ears, but with an unearthly and supersti- 
 tious significance that was even more dream- 
 like in its meaning. He awakened from a 
 fitful slumber to find the light of morning in 
 the room, and Incarnacion standing by his 
 bedside. 
 
 The yellow face of the steward was green- 
 ish with terror, and his lips were dry. 
 
 ' Get up, Seiior Clarencio ; get up at 
 once, my master. Strange things have 
 happened. Mother of God- protect us ! ' 
 
 Clarence rolled to his feet, with the 
 events of the past night struggling back 
 upon his consciousness. 
 
 ' What mean you, Nascio ? ' he said, 
 grasping the man's arm, which was still 
 mechanically making the sign of the cross, as 
 he muttered incoherently. * Speak ! I com- 
 mand you ! ' 
 
 ' It is Jose, the little vacquero, who is 
 even now at the padre's house, raving as 
 a lunatic, stricken as a madman with terror ! 
 He has seen him the dead alive ! Save us ! ' 
 
SUSY 245 
 
 ' Are you mad yourself, Nascio ? ' said 
 Clarence. * Whom has he seen ? ' 
 
 ' Whom ? God help us ! the old padron 
 Senior Peyton himself! He rushed to- 
 wards him here, in the patio, last night out 
 of the air, the sky, the ground, he knew not 
 his own self, wrapped in his old storm 
 cloak and hat, and riding his own horse 
 erect, terrible, and menacing, with an awful 
 hand upholding a rope so ! He saw him 
 with these eyes, as I see you. What he said 
 to him, God knows ! The priest, perhaps, 
 for he has made confession ! ' 
 
 In a flash of intelligence Clarence com- 
 prehended all. He rose grimly and began 
 to dress himself. 
 
 ' Not a word of this to the women to 
 anyone, Nascio dost thou understand ? ' he 
 said curtly. ' It may be that Jose has been 
 partaking too freely of aguardiente it is 
 possible. I will see the priest myself. But 
 what possesses thee ? Collect thyself, good 
 Nascio.' 
 
 But the man was still trembling, 
 
246 SUSY 
 
 ( It is not all Mother of God ! it is not 
 all, master ! ' he stammered, dropping to his 
 knees and still crossing himself. ' This 
 morning, beside the corral, they find the 
 horse of Pedro Valdez splashed and spat- 
 tered on saddle and bridle, and in the stirrup 
 dost thou hear ? the stirrup hanging 
 the torn-off boot of Valdez ! Ah, God ! 
 The same as his \ Now do you understand ? 
 It is his vengeance. No ! Jesu forgive me ! 
 it is the vengeance of God ! ' 
 
 Clarence was staggered. 
 
 * And you have not found Valdez ? You 
 have looked for him ? ' he said, hurriedly 
 throwing on his clothes. 
 
 ' Everywhere all over the plain. The 
 whole Rancho has been out since sunrise 
 here and there and everywhere. And there 
 is nothing ! Of course not. What would 
 you ? ' He pointed solemnly to the ground. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' said Clarence, buttoning 
 his coat and seizing his hat. ' Follow 
 me.' 
 
 He ran down the passage, followed by 
 
SUSY 247 
 
 Incarnacion, through the excited, gesticulat- 
 ing crowd of servants in the patio, and out of 
 the back gate. He turned first along the 
 wall of the casa towards the barred window 
 of the boudoir. Then a cry came from 
 Incarnacion. 
 
 They ran quickly forward. Hanging 
 from the grating of the window, like a mass 
 of limp and saturated clothes, was the body 
 of Pedro Valdez, with one unbooted foot 
 dangling within an inch of the ground. His 
 head was passed inside the grating and fixed 
 as at that moment when the first spring of 
 the frightened horse had broken his neck 
 between the bars as in a garrote, and the 
 second plunge of the terrified animal had 
 carried off his boot in the caught stirrup 
 when it escaped. 
 
248 SUSY 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE winter rains were over and gone, and 
 the whole long line of Californian coast was 
 dashed with colour. There were miles of 
 yellow and red poppies, leagues of lupines 
 that painted the gently rounded hills with 
 soft primary hues, and long continuous slopes 
 like low mountain systems of daisies and 
 dandelions. At Sacramento it was already 
 summer ; the yellow river was flashing and 
 intolerable ; the tule and marsh grasses were 
 lush and long ; the bloom of cottonwood 
 and sycamore whitened the outskirts of the 
 city, and as Cyrus Hopkins and his daughter 
 Phcebe looked from the verandah of the 
 Placer Hotel, accustomed as they were to 
 the cool trade winds of the coast valleys, 
 
SUSY 249 
 
 they felt homesick from the memory of 
 Eastern heats. 
 
 Later, when they were surveying the 
 long dinner tables at the table d'hote with 
 something of the uncomfortable and shame- 
 faced loneliness of the provincial, Phcebe 
 uttered a slight cry and clutched her father's 
 arm. Mr. Hopkins stayed the play of his 
 squared elbows, and glanced inquiringly at 
 his daughter's face. There was a pretty 
 animation in it as she pointed to a figure that 
 had just entered. It was that of a young 
 man attired in the extravagance, rather than 
 the taste, of the prevailing fashion, which did 
 not, however, in the least conceal a decided 
 rusticity of limb and movement. A long 
 moustache which looked unkempt, even in 
 its pomatumed stiffness, and lank, dark hair 
 that had bent, but never curled, under the 
 barber's iron, made him notable even in that 
 heterogeneous assembly. 
 
 ' That's he,' whispered Phcebe. 
 
 ' Who ? ' said her father. 
 
 Alas for the inconsistencies of love ! The 
 
250 SUSY 
 
 blush came with the name and not the 
 vision. 
 
 ' Mr. Hooker,' she stammered. 
 
 It was, indeed, Jim Hooker. But the 
 role of his exaggeration was no longer the 
 same ; the remorseful gloom in which he had 
 been habitually steeped had changed into a 
 fatigued, yet haughty, fastidiousness more in 
 keeping with his fashionable garments. He 
 was more peaceful, yet not entirely placable, 
 and, as he sat down at a side table and 
 pulled down his striped cuffs with his clasped 
 fingers, he cast a glance of critical disapproval 
 on the general company. Nevertheless he 
 seemed to be furtively watchful of his effect 
 upon them, and as one or two whispered and 
 looked towards him his consciousness became 
 darkly manifest. 
 
 All of which might have intimidated the 
 gentle Phcebe, but did not discompose her 
 father. He rose, and crossing over to 
 Hooker's table, clapped him heartily on 
 the back. 
 
 1 How do, Hooker ? I didn't recognise 
 
SUSY 251 
 
 you in them fine clothes, but Phoebe guessed 
 as how it was you.' 
 
 Flushed, disconcerted, irritated but al- 
 ways in wholesome awe of Mr. Hopkins 
 Jim returned his greeting awkwardly and 
 half hysterically. How he would have re- 
 ceived the more timid Phoebe is another 
 question. But Mr. Hopkins, without ap- 
 parently noticing these symptoms, went on : 
 
 1 We're only just down, Phoebe and me, 
 and as I guess we'll want to talk over old 
 times, we'll come alongside o' you. Hold on, 
 and I'll fetch her.' 
 
 The interval gave the unhappy Jim a 
 chance to recover himself, to regain his 
 vanished cuffs, display his heavy watch 
 chain, curl his moustache, and otherwise 
 reassume his air of blast fastidiousness. But 
 the transfer made, Phoebe, after shaking 
 hands, became speechless under these per- 
 fections. Not so her father. 
 
 1 If there's anything in looks, you seem 
 to be prospering,' he said grimly, ' un- 
 less you're in the tailorin' line, and you're 
 
252 SUSY 
 
 only showin' off stock. What mout ye be 
 doing ? ' 
 
 * Ye ain't bin long in Sacramento, I 
 reckon?' suggested Jim, with patronising 
 pity. 
 
 ' No, we only came this morning,' returned 
 Hopkins. 
 
 ' And you ain't bin to the theatre ? ' con- 
 tinued Jim. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 * Nor moved much in in gin'ral fash'na- 
 ble sassiety ? ' 
 
 ' Not yet,' interposed Phoebe, with an air 
 of faint apology. 
 
 ' Nor seen any of them large posters on 
 the fences of " The Prairie Flower ; or, Red- 
 handed Dick " three-act play with five 
 tableaux just the biggest sensation out 
 runnin' for forty nights money turned away 
 every night. Standin' room only ? ' con- 
 tinued Jim, with prolonged toleration. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Well, /play Red-handed Dick. Thought 
 you might have seen it and recognised me. 
 
253 
 
 All those people over there' darkly indi- 
 cating the long table ' know me. A fellow 
 can't stand it, you know, being stared at by 
 such a vulgar, low-bred lot. It's gettin' too 
 fresh here. I'll have to give the landlord 
 notice and cut the whole hotel. They don't 
 seem to have ever seen a gentleman and a 
 professional before.' 
 
 * Then you're a play actor now ? ' said the 
 farmer, in a tone which did not, however, ex- 
 hibit the exact degree of admiration which 
 shone in Phoebe's eyes. 
 
 ' For the present,' said Jim, with lofty 
 indifference. * You see I was in in partner- 
 ship with McClosky, the manager, and I 
 didn't like the style of the chump that was 
 doin' Red-handed Dick, so I offered to 
 take his place one night to show him how. 
 And by Jinks ! the audience, after that 
 night, wouldn't let anybody else play it 
 wouldn't stand even the biggest, highest 
 priced stars in it ! I reckon,' he added 
 gloomily, ' I'll have to run the darned thing 
 in all the big towns in Californy if I don't 
 
254 SUSY 
 
 have to go East with it after all, just for the 
 business. But it's an awful grind on a man 
 leaves him no time, along of the invita- 
 tions he gets, and what with being run after 
 in the streets and stared at in the hotels, he 
 don't get no privacy. There's men and 
 women, too over at that table that jist lie 
 in wait for me here till I come, and don't lift 
 their eyes off me. I wonder they don't 
 bring their opery glasses with them.' 
 
 Concerned, sympathising, and indignant, 
 poor Phcebe turned her brown head and 
 honest eyes in that direction. But because 
 they were honest they could not help ob- 
 serving that the other table did not 
 seem to be paying the slightest attention to 
 the distinguished impersonator of Recl- 
 handed Dick. Perhaps he had been over- 
 heard. 
 
 ' Then that was the reason ye didn't 
 come back to your location. I always 
 guessed it was because you'd got wind of 
 the smash up down there afore we did,' said 
 Hopkins grimly. 
 
SUSY 255 
 
 'What smash up?' asked Jim, with 
 slightly resentful quickness. 
 
 * Why, the smash up of the Sisters' title 
 didn't you hear that ? ' 
 
 There was a slight movement of relief 
 and a return of gloomy hauteur in Jim's 
 manner. 
 
 ' No, we don't know much of what goes 
 on in the cow counties, up here.' 
 
 ' Ye mout, considerin' it concerns some 
 o' your friends,' returned Hopkins drily. 
 'For the Sisters' title went smash as soon 
 as it was known that Pedro Valdez the 
 man as started it had his neck broken out- 
 side the walls o' Robles Rancho ; and they do 
 say as this yer Brant, your friend, had suthin' 
 to do with the breaking of it, though it was 
 laid to the ghost of old Peyton. Anyhow, 
 there was such a big skeer that one of the 
 Greaser gang, who thought he'd seen the 
 ghost, being a Papist, to save his everlasting 
 soul, went to the priest and confessed. But 
 the priest wouldn't give him absolution until 
 he'd blown the hull thing, and made it public. 
 
3s6 SUSY 
 
 And then it turned out that all the dockyments 
 for the title, and even the Custom House 
 paper, were forged by Pedro Valdez, and put 
 on the market by his confederates. And 
 that's just where your friend, Clarence Brant, 
 comes in, for he had bought up the whole 
 title from them fellers. Now, either as 
 some say he was in the fraud from the be- 
 ginnin', and never paid anything, or else he 
 was an all-fired fool, and had parted with his 
 money like one. Some allow that the reason 
 was that he was awfully sweet on Mrs. Pey- 
 ton's adopted daughter, and ez the parents 
 didn't approve of him, he did this so as to 
 get a holt over them by the property. But 
 he's a ruined man, anyway, now ; for they 
 say he's such a darned fool that he's goin' to 
 pay for all the improvements that the folks 
 who bought under him put into the land, 
 and that'll take his last cent. I thought I'd 
 tell you that, for I suppose youve lost a heap 
 in your improvements, and will put in your 
 claim ? ' 
 
 ' I reckon I put nearly as much into it as 
 
SUSY 257 
 
 Clar Brant did,' said Jim gloomily, ' but I 
 ain't goin' to take a cent from him, or go 
 back on him now.' 
 
 The rascal could not resist this last men- 
 dacious opportunity, although he was per- 
 fectly sincere in his renunciation, touched in 
 his sympathy, and there was even a film of 
 moisture in his shifting eyes. 
 
 Phcebe was thrilled with the generosity 
 of this noble being, who could be unselfish 
 even in his superior condition. She added 
 softly : 
 
 ' And they say that the girl did not care 
 for him at all, but was actually going to run 
 off with Pedro, when he stopped her and 
 sent for Mrs. Peyton.' 
 
 To her surprise, Jim's face flushed vio- 
 lently. 
 
 ' It's all a dod-blasted lie/ he said, in a 
 thick, stage whisper. ' It's only the hog- 
 wash them Greasers and Pike County galoots 
 ladle out to each other around the stove 
 in a county grocery. But/ recalling himself 
 loftily, and with a tolerant wave of his be- 
 
 s 
 
258 SUSY 
 
 diamonded hand, * wot kin you expect from 
 one of them cow counties ? They ain't 
 satisfied till they drive every gentleman out 
 of the darned gopher-holes they call their 
 11 kentry." ' 
 
 In her admiration of what she believed 
 to be a loyal outburst for his friend, Phcebe 
 overlooked the implied sneer at her pro- 
 vincial home. But her father went on 
 with a perfunctory, exasperating, dusty 
 aridity : 
 
 ' That mebbee ez mebbee, Mr. Hooker, 
 but the story down in our precinct goes that 
 she gave Mrs. Peyton the slip chucked up 
 her -situation as adopted darter, and went off 
 with a queer sort of a cirkiss woman one of 
 her own kin, and, I reckon, one of her own 
 kind: 
 
 To this Mr. Hooker offered no further 
 reply than a withering rebuke of the waiter, 
 a genteel abstraction, and a lofty change of 
 subject. He pressed upon them two tickets 
 for the performance, of which he seemed to 
 have a number neatly clasped in an india- 
 
SUSY 259 
 
 rubber band, and advised them to come 
 early. They would see him after the per- 
 formance and sup together. He must leave 
 them now, as he had to be punctual at the 
 theatre, and if he lingered he should be pes- 
 tered by interviewers. He withdrew under 
 a dazzling display of cuff and white hand- 
 kerchief, and with that inward swing of the 
 arm and slight bowiness of the leg, generally 
 recognised in his profession as the lounging 
 exit of high comedy. 
 
 The mingling of awe, and an uneasy 
 sense of changed relations which that meet- 
 ing with Jim had brought to Phcebe was not 
 lessened when she entered the theatre with 
 her father that evening, and even Mr. Hop- 
 kins seemed to share her feelings. The 
 theatre was large and brilliant in decoration, 
 the seats were well filled with the same 
 heterogeneous mingling she had seen in the 
 dining-room at the Placer Hotel, but in the 
 parquet were some fashionable costumes and 
 cultivated faces. Mr. Hopkins was not alto- 
 gether so sure that Jim had been 'only 
 
 S 2 
 
260 sc/sy 
 
 gassing.' But the gorgeous drop curtain 
 representing an allegory of Californian pros- 
 perity and abundance presently uprolled 
 upon a scene of Western life almost as 
 striking in its glaring unreality. From a 
 rose-clad English cottage in a sub-tropical 
 landscape skipped Rosalie, 1 the Prairie 
 Flower. The briefest of skirts, the most 
 unsullied of stockings, the tiniest of slippers, 
 and the few diamonds that glittered on her 
 fair neck and fingers, revealed at once the 
 simple and unpretending daughter of the 
 American backwoodsman. A tumult of de- 
 lighted greeting broke from the audience. 
 The bright colour came to the pink, girlish 
 cheeks, gratified vanity danced in her violet 
 eyes, and as she piquantly bowed her ac- 
 knowledgments, this great breath of praise 
 seemed to transfigure and possess her. A 
 very young actor, who represented the giddy 
 world in a straw hat and an effeminate man- 
 ner, was alternately petted and girded at by 
 her during the opening exposition of the plot, 
 until the statement that a ' Dark Destiny ' 
 
SUSY 261 
 
 obliged her to follow her uncle in an emi- 
 grant train across the plains closed the act, 
 apparently extinguished him, and left her 
 the central figure. So far, she evidently was 
 the favourite. A singular aversion to her 
 crept into the heart of Phoebe. 
 
 But the second act brought an Indian 
 attack upon the emigrant train, and here 
 Rosalie displayed the archest heroism and 
 the pinkest and most distracting self-posses- 
 sion, in marked contrast to the giddy world- 
 ling who, having accompanied her apparently 
 for comic purposes best known to himself, 
 cowered abjectly under waggons, and was 
 pulled ignominiously out of straw, until Red 
 Dick swept out of the wings with a chosen 
 band and a burst of revolvers and turned the 
 tide of victory. Attired as a picturesque 
 combination of the Neapolitan smuggler, 
 river-bar miner, and Mexican vacquero, 
 Jim Hooker instantly began to justify the 
 plaudits that greeted him and the most 
 sanguinary hopes of the audience. A 
 gloomy but fascinating cloud of gunpowder 
 
262 SUSY 
 
 and dark intrigue from that moment hung 
 about the stage. 
 
 Yet in this sombre obscuration Rosalie 
 had passed a happy six months, coming out 
 with her character and stockings equally un- 
 changed and unblemished, to be rewarded 
 with the hand of Red Dick and the dis- 
 covery of her father, the Governor of New 
 Mexico, as a white-haired but objectionable 
 vacquero, at the fall of the curtain. 
 
 Through this exciting performance Phcebe 
 sat with a vague and increasing sense of lone- 
 liness and distrust. She did not know that 
 Hooker had added to his ordinary inventive 
 exaggeration the form of dramatic composi- 
 tion. But she had early detected the singular 
 fact that such shadowy outlines of plot as the 
 piece possessed were evidently based on his 
 previous narrative of his oivn experiences, 
 and the saving of Susy Peyton by himself ! 
 There was the episode of their being lost on 
 the plains, as he had already related it to her 
 with the addition of a few years to Susy's 
 age and some vivid picturesqueness to him- 
 
SUSY 263 
 
 self as Red Dick. She was not, of course, 
 aware that the part of the giddy worldling 
 was Jim's own conception of the character of 
 Clarence. But what even to her provincial 
 taste seemed the extravagance of the piece, 
 she felt, in some way, reflected upon the 
 truthfulness of the story she had heard. It 
 seemed to be a parody on himself, and in the 
 laughter which some of the most thrilling 
 points produced in certain of the audience 
 she heard an echo of her own doubts. But 
 even this she could have borne if Jim's confi- 
 dence had not been given to the general 
 public ; it was no longer hers alone, she 
 shared it with them. And this strange, bold 
 girl, who acted with him the ' Blanche 
 Belville ' of the bills how often he must 
 have told her the story and yet how badly 
 she had learned it ! It was not her own idea 
 of it nor of him. In the last extravagant 
 scene she turned her weary and half-shamed 
 eyes from the stage and looked around the 
 theatre. Among a group of loungers by the 
 wall, a face that seemed familiar was turned 
 
264 SUSY 
 
 towards her own with a look of kindly and 
 sympathetic recognition. It was the face of 
 Clarence Brant. When the curtain fell, and 
 she and her father rose to go, he was at their 
 side. He seemed older and more superior- 
 looking than she had ever thought him be- 
 fore, and there was a gentle yet sad wisdom in 
 his eyes and voice that comforted her even 
 while it made her feel like crying. 
 
 ' You are satisfied that no harm has come 
 to our friend,' he said pleasantly. ' Of course 
 you recognised him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; we met him to-day,' said 
 Phoebe. Her provincial pride impelled her 
 to keep up a show of security and indif- 
 ference. * We are going to supper with 
 him.' 
 
 Clarence slightly lifted his brows. 
 
 ' You are more fortunate than I am,' he 
 said smilingly. ' I only arrived here at seven, 
 and I must leave at midnight.' 
 
 Phoebe hesitated a moment, then said 
 with affected carelessness : 
 
 'What do you think of the young girl 
 
SUSY 265 
 
 who plays with him ? Do you know her ? 
 Who is she?' 
 
 He looked at her quickly, and then said, 
 with some surprise : 
 
 ' Did he not tell you ? ' 
 
 4 NO; 
 
 ' She was the adopted daughter of 
 Mrs. Peyton Miss Susan Silsbee,' he said 
 gravely. 
 
 ' Then she did run away from home as 
 they said,' said Phoebe impulsively. 
 
 ' Not exactly as they said,' said Clarence 
 gently. * She elected to make her home with 
 her aunt, Mrs. McClosky, who is the wife of 
 the manager of this theatre, and she adopted 
 the profession a month ago. As it now ap- 
 pears that there was some informality in the 
 old articles of guardianship, Mrs. Peyton 
 would have been powerless to prevent her 
 from doing either even if she had wished 
 to.' 
 
 The infelicity of questioning Clarence 
 regarding Susy suddenly flashed upon the 
 forgetful Phoebe, and she coloured. Yet, 
 
266 SUSY 
 
 although sad, he did not look like a rejected 
 lover. 
 
 * Of course if she is here with her own 
 relatives that makes all the difference/ she 
 said gently. ' It is protection.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Clarence. 
 
 * And,' continued Phcebe hesitatingly, 
 * she is playing with with an old friend 
 Mr. Hooker ! ' 
 
 ' That is quite proper, too, considering 
 their relations,' said Clarence tolerantly. 
 
 * I don't understand,' stammered 
 Phcebe. 
 
 The slightly cynical smile on Clarence's 
 face changed as he looked into Phcebe's 
 eyes. 
 
 * I've just heard that they are married,' he 
 returned gently. 
 
SUSY 267 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 NOWHERE had the long season of flowers 
 brought such glory as to the broad plains 
 and slopes of Robles Rancho. By some for- 
 tuitous chance of soil or flood or drifting 
 pollen the three terraces had each taken a 
 distinct and separate blossom and tint of 
 colour. The straggling line of corral, the 
 crumbling wall of the old garden, the out- 
 lying chapel, and even the brown walls of the 
 casa itself were half-sunken in the tall racemes 
 of crowding lupines, until from the distance 
 they seemed to be slowly settling in the pro- 
 fundity of a dark-blue sea. The second ter- 
 race was a league-long flow of grey and gold 
 daisies, in which the cattle dazedly wandered 
 mid-leg deep. A perpetual sunshine of 
 
268 SUSY 
 
 yellow dandelions lay upon the third. The 
 gentle slope to the dark-green Canada was a 
 broad cataract of crimson poppies. Every- 
 where where water had stood, great patches 
 of colour had taken its place. It seemed as 
 if the rains had ceased only that the broken 
 heavens might drop flowers. 
 
 Never before had its beauty a beauty 
 that seemed built upon a cruel, youthful, 
 obliterating forgetfulness of the past struck 
 Clarence as keenly as when he had made up 
 his mind that he must leave the place for 
 ever. For the tale of his mischance and ill- 
 fortune, as told by Hopkins, was unfor- 
 tunately true. When he discovered that in 
 his desire to save Peyton's house by the 
 purchase of the Sisters' title, he himself had 
 been the victim of a gigantic fraud, he ac- 
 cepted the loss of the greater part of his 
 fortune with resignation, and was even satis- 
 fied by the thought that he had at least 
 effected the possession of the property for 
 Mrs. Peyton. But when he found that those 
 of his tenants who had bought under him 
 
SUSY 269 
 
 had acquired only a dubious possession of 
 their lands and no title, he had unhesitatingly 
 reimbursed them for their improvements 
 with the last of his capital. Only the lawless 
 Gilroy had good-humouredly declined. The 
 quiet acceptance of the others did not, unfor- 
 tunately, preclude their settled belief that 
 Clarence had participated in the fraud, and 
 that even now his restitution was making 
 a dangerous precedent, subversive of the 
 best interests of the state, and discouraging 
 to immigration. Some doubted his sanity. 
 Only one struck with the sincerity of his 
 motive hesitated to take his money, with a 
 look of commiseration on his face. 
 
 ' Are you not satisfied ? ' asked Clarence 
 smiling. 
 
 Yes, but ' 
 
 'But what?' 
 
 'Nothin'. Only I was thinkin' that a 
 man like you must feel awful lonesome in 
 Calforny ! ' 
 
 Lonely he was, indeed ; but his loneliness 
 was not the loss of fortune nor what it might 
 
2 ;o SUSY 
 
 bring. Perhaps he had never fully realised 
 his wealth ; it had been an accident rather 
 than a custom of his life, and when it had 
 failed in the only test he had made of its 
 power, it is to be feared that he only senti- 
 mentally regretted it. It was too early yet 
 for him to comprehend the veiled blessings 
 of the catastrophe in its merciful disruption 
 of habits and ways of life ; his loneliness was 
 still the hopeless solitude left by vanished 
 ideals and overthrown idols. He was satis- 
 fied that he had never cared for Susy, but he 
 still cared for the belief that he had. 
 
 After the discovery of Pedro's body that 
 fatal morning, a brief but emphatic interview 
 between himself and Mrs. McClosky had 
 followed. He had insisted upon her imme- 
 diately accompanying Susy and himself to 
 Mrs. Peyton in San Francisco. Horror- 
 stricken and terrified at the catastrophe, and 
 frightened by the strange looks of the excited 
 servants, they did not dare to disobey him. 
 He had left them with Mrs. Peyton in the 
 briefest preliminary interview, during which 
 
SUSY 271 
 
 he spoke only of the catastrophe, shielding 
 the woman from the presumption of having 
 provoked it, and urging only the importance 
 of settling the question of guardianship at 
 once. It was odd that Mrs. Peyton had 
 been less disturbed than he imagined she 
 would be at even his charitable version of 
 Susy's unfaithfulness to her ; it even seemed 
 to him that she had already suspected it. 
 But as he was about to withdraw to leave 
 her to meet them alone, she had stopped 
 him suddenly. 
 
 ' What would you advise me to do ? ' 
 
 It was his first interview with her since 
 the revelation of his own feelings. He 
 looked into the pleading, troubled eyes ol 
 the woman he now knew he had loved, and 
 stammered : 
 
 * You alone can judge. Only you must 
 remember that one cannot force an affection 
 any more than one can prevent it.' 
 
 He felt himself blushing, and, conscious 
 of the construction of his words, he even 
 fancied that she was displeased. 
 
272 SUSY 
 
 1 Then you have no preference,' she said, 
 a little impatiently. 
 
 ' None.' 
 
 She made a slight gesture with her hand- 
 some shoulders, but she only said, * I should 
 have liked to have pleased you in this,' and 
 turned coldly away. He had left without 
 knowing the result of the interview ; but a 
 few days later he received a letter from 
 her stating that she had allowed Susy to 
 return to her aunt, and that she had resigned 
 all claims to her guardianship. 
 
 4 It seemed to be a foregone conclusion,' 
 she wrote ; ' and although I cannot think 
 such a change will be for her permanent 
 welfare, it is her present wish and who 
 knows, indeed, if the change will be perma- 
 nent ? I have not allowed the legal question 
 to interfere with my judgment, although her 
 friends must know that she forfeits any claim 
 upon the estate by her action ; but at the 
 same time, in the event of her suitable 
 marriage, I should try to carry out what I 
 believe would have been Mr. Peyton's wishes.' 
 
SUSY 273 
 
 There were a few lines of postscript : ' It 
 seems to me that the change would leave 
 you more free to consult your own wishes in 
 regard to continuing your friendship with 
 Susy and upon such a footing as may 
 please you. I judge from Mrs. McClosky's 
 conversation that she believed you thought 
 you were only doing your duty in reporting 
 to me, and that the circumstances had not 
 altered the good terms in which you all three 
 formerly stood.' 
 
 Clarence had dropped the letter with a 
 burning indignation that seemed to sting his 
 eyes until a scalding moisture hid the words 
 before him. What might not Susy have 
 said ? What exaggeration of his affection 
 was she not capable of suggesting ? He re- 
 called Mrs. McClosky, and remembered her 
 easy acceptance of him as Susy's lover. 
 What had they told Mrs. Peyton what 
 must be her opinion of his deceit towards 
 herself? It was hard enough to bear this 
 before he knew he loved her. It was in- 
 tolerable now ! And this was what she meant 
 
274 SISSY 
 
 when she suggested that he should renew 
 his old terms with Susy ; it was for him that 
 this ill-disguised, scornful generosity in regard 
 to Susy's pecuniary expectations was in- 
 tended. What should he do ? He would 
 write to her, and indignantly deny any clan- 
 destine affection for Susy. But could he do 
 that in honour, in truthfulness ? Would it 
 not be better to write and confess all ? Yes 
 everything. 
 
 Fortunately for his still boyish impulsive- 
 ness, it was at this time that the discovery of 
 his own financial ruin came to him. The 
 inquest on the body of Pedro Valdez, and 
 the confession of his confidant had revealed 
 the facts of the fraudulent title and forged 
 testamentary documents. Although it was 
 correctly believed that Pedro had met his 
 death in an escapade of gallantry or intrigue, 
 the coroner's jury had returned a verdict of 
 ' Accidental Death,' and the lesser scandal 
 was lost in the wider, far-spreading disclosure 
 of fraud. When he had resolved to assume 
 all the liabilities of his purchase he was 
 
SUSY 275 
 
 obliged to write to Mrs. Peyton and confess 
 his ruin. But he was glad to remind her that 
 it did not alter her status or security ; he had 
 only given her the possession, and she would 
 revert to her original and now uncontested 
 title. But as there was now no reason for 
 his continuing the stewardship, and as he 
 must adopt some profession and seek his for- 
 tune elsewhere, he begged her to relieve him 
 of his duty. Albeit written with a throbbing 
 heart and suffused eyes, it was a plain, busi- 
 ness-like, and practical letter. Her reply 
 was equally cool and matter-of-fact. She 
 was sorry to hear of his losses, although she 
 could not agree with him that they could 
 logically sever his present connection with 
 the Rancho, or that placed upon another 
 and distinctly business footing the occupa- 
 tion would not be as remunerative to him as 
 any other. But, of course, if he had a pre- 
 ference for some more independent position, 
 that was another question, although he would 
 forgive her for using the privilege of her 
 years to remind him that his financial and 
 
 T 2 
 
2 ;6 SUSY 
 
 business success had not yet justified his in- 
 dependence. She would also advise him not 
 to decide hastily, or at least to wait until she 
 had again thoroughly gone over her hus- 
 band's papers with her lawyer in reference 
 to the old purchase of the Sisters' title, and 
 the conditions under which it was bought. 
 She knew that Mr. Brant would not refuse 
 this as a matter of business, nor would that 
 friendship which she valued so highly allow 
 him to imperil the possession of the Rancho 
 by leaving it at such a moment. As soon as 
 she had finished the examination of the 
 papers she would write again. Her letter 
 seemed to leave him no hope if, indeed, he 
 had ever indulged in any. It was the prac- 
 tical kindliness of a woman of business 
 nothing more. As to the examination of her 
 husband's papers, that was a natural precau- 
 tion. He alone knew that they would give 
 no record of a transaction which had never 
 occurred. He briefly replied that his inten- 
 tion to seek another situation was unchanged, 
 but that he would cheerfully await the arrival 
 
277 
 
 of his successor. Two weeks passed. Then 
 Mr. Sanderson Mrs. Peyton's lawyer 
 arrived, bringing an apologetic note from 
 Mrs. Peyton. She was so sorry her business 
 was still delayed, but as she had felt that she 
 had no right to detain him entirely at Robles, 
 she had sent to Mr. Sanderson to tempo- 
 rarily relieve him, that he might be free to 
 look around him or visit San Francisco in 
 reference to his own business, only extract- 
 ing a promise from him that he would return 
 to Robles to meet her at the end of the week 
 before settling upon anything. 
 
 The bitter smile with which Clarence had 
 read thus far suddenly changed. Some 
 mysterious touch of unbusiness-like but 
 womanly hesitation, that he had never no- 
 ticed in her previous letters, gave him a faint 
 sense of pleasure, as if her note had been 
 perfumed. He had availed himself of the 
 offer. It was on this visit to Sacramento 
 that he had accidentally discovered the mar- 
 riage of Susy and Hooker. 
 
 * It's a great deal better business for her 
 
278 SUSY 
 
 to have a husband in the profesh, if she's 
 agoin' to stick to it,' said his informant, Mrs. 
 McClosky, ' and she's nothing if she ain't 
 business and profesh, Mr. Brant. I never 
 see a girl that was born for the stage yes, 
 you might say jess cut out o' the boards of 
 the stage as that girl Susy is ! And that's 
 jest what's the matter ; and yo^t know it, and 
 / know it, and there you are ! ' 
 
 It was with these experiences that Cla- 
 rence was to-day re-entering the wooded and 
 rocky gateway of the Rancho from the high 
 road of the Canada ; but as he cantered up 
 the first slope, through the drift of scarlet 
 poppies that almost obliterated the track, and 
 the blue and yellow blooms of the terraces 
 again broke upon his view, he thought only 
 of Mrs. Peyton's pleasure in this changed 
 aspect of her old home. She had told him 
 of it once before, and of her delight in it ; 
 and he had once thought how happy he 
 should be to see it with her. 
 
 The servant who took his horse told him 
 that the Senora had arrived that morning 
 
SUSY 279 
 
 from Santa Inez, bringing with her the two 
 Senoritas Hernandez from the Rancho of Los 
 Canefos, and that other guests were expected. 
 And there was the Senor Sanderson and his 
 Reverence Padre Esteban. Truly an affair 
 of hospitality the first since the padron 
 died. Whatever dream Clarence might 
 have had of opportunities for confidential 
 interview was rudely dispelled. Yet Mrs. 
 Peyton had left orders to be informed at 
 once of Don Clarencio's arrival. 
 
 As he crossed \hepatio and stepped upon 
 the corridor, he fancied he already detected 
 in the internal arrangements the subtle in- 
 fluence of Mrs. Peyton's taste and the inde- 
 finable domination of the mistress. For an 
 instant he thought of anticipating the servant 
 and seeking her in the boudoir, but some 
 instinct withheld him, and he turned into the 
 study which he had used as an office. It 
 was empty ; a few embers glimmered on the 
 hearth. At the same moment there was a 
 light step behind him, and Mrs. Peyton en- 
 tered and closed the door behind her. She 
 
280 SUSY 
 
 was very beautiful. Although paler and 
 thinner, there was an odd sort of animation 
 about her, so unlike her usual repose that it 
 seemed almost feverish. 
 
 ' I thought we could talk together a few 
 moments before the guests arrive. The 
 house will be presently so full, and my duties 
 as hostess commence.' 
 
 * I was about to seek you in in the 
 boudoir,' hesitated Clarence. 
 
 She gave an impatient shiver. 
 
 * Good heavens, not there ! I shall never 
 go there again. I should fancy every time I 
 looked out of the window that I saw the head 
 of that man between the bars. No ! I am 
 only thankful that I wasn't here at the time, 
 and that I can keep my remembrance of the 
 dear old place unchanged.' She checked her- 
 self a little abruptly, and then added some- 
 what irrelevantly but cheerfully, 'Well, you 
 have been away ! What have you done ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Clarence. 
 ' Then you have kept your promise,' she 
 said, with the same nervous hilarity. 
 
SUSY 281 
 
 * I have returned here without making 
 any other engagement,' he said gravely ; ' but 
 I have not altered my determination.' 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders again, or, as 
 it seemed, the skin of her tightly-fitting black 
 dress above them, with the sensitive shiver 
 of a highly-groomed horse, and moved to 
 the hearth as if for warmth, put her slim 
 slippered foot upon the low fender, drawing 
 with a quick hand the whole width of her 
 skirt behind her until it clingingly accented 
 the long, graceful curve from her hip to her 
 feet. All this was so unlike her usual fasti- 
 diousness and repose that he was struck by 
 it. With her eyes on the glowing embers 
 of the hearth, and tentatively advancing her 
 toe to its warmth and drawing it away, she 
 said: 
 
 ' Of course you must please yourself. I 
 am afraid I have no right except that of 
 habit and custom to keep you here ; and you 
 know/ she added, with an only half-withheld 
 bitterness, ' that they are not always very 
 effective with young people who prefer to 
 
282 SUSY 
 
 have the ordering of their own lives. But 
 I have something still to tell you before you 
 finally decide. I have, as you know, been 
 looking over my over Mr. Peyton's papers 
 very carefully. Well, as a result I find, Mr. 
 Brant, that there is no record whatever of 
 his wonderfully providential purchase of the 
 Sisters' title from you ; that he never entered 
 into any written agreement with you, and 
 never paid you a cent ; and that, furthermore, 
 his papers show me that he never even con- 
 templated it ; nor, indeed, even knew of your 
 owning the title when he died. Yes, Mr. 
 Brant, it was all to your foresight and pru- 
 dence, and your generosity alone, that we owe 
 our present possession of the Rancho. When 
 you helped us into that awful window, it was 
 your house we were entering ; and if it had 
 been yoii, and not those wretches, who had 
 chosen to shut the doors on us after the 
 funeral, we could never have entered here 
 again. Don't deny it, Mr. Brant. I have 
 suspected it a long time, and when you spoke 
 of changing your position I determined to 
 
SUSY 283 
 
 find out if it wasn't / who had to leave the 
 house rather than you. One moment, please. 
 And I did find out and it was I. Don't 
 speak, please, yet. And now,' she said, with 
 a quick return to her previous nervous hila- 
 rity, ' knowing this, as you did, and knowing, 
 too, that I would know it when I examined 
 the papers don't speak, I'm not through 
 yet don't you think that it was just a little 
 cruel for you to try to hurry me, and - make 
 me come here instead of your coming to me 
 in San Francisco, when I gave you leave for 
 that purpose ? ' 
 
 ' But Mrs. Peyton ' gasped Clarence. 
 
 ' Please don't interrupt me,' said the lady, 
 with a touch of her old imperiousness, ' for 
 in a moment I must join my guests. When 
 I found you wouldn't tell me, and left it to 
 me to find out, I could only go away as I did, 
 and really leave you to control what I be- 
 lieved was your own property. And I 
 thought, too, that I understood your motives, 
 and, to be frank with you, that worried me ; 
 for I believed I knew the disposition and 
 
284 SUSY 
 
 feelings of a certain person better than your 
 self/ 
 
 * One moment,' broke out Clarence, ' you 
 must hear me now. Foolish and misguided 
 as that purchase may have been, I swear to 
 you I had only one motive in making it to 
 save the homestead for you and your hus- 
 band, who had been my first and earliest 
 benefactors. What the result of it you, as a 
 business woman, know ; your friends know ; 
 your lawyer will tell you the same. You 
 owe me nothing. I have given you nothing 
 but the repossession of this property, which 
 any other man could have done, and perhaps 
 less stupidly than I did. I would not have 
 forced you to come here to hear this if I had 
 dreamed of your suspicions, or even if I had 
 simply understood that you would see me in 
 San Francisco as I passed through.' 
 
 ' Passed through ? Where were you 
 going ? ' she said quickly. 
 
 ' To Sacramento.' 
 
 The abrupt change in her manner startled 
 him to a recollection of Susy, and he blushed. 
 
, SUSY 285 
 
 She bit her lips, and moved towards the 
 window. 
 
 'Then you saw her?' she said, turning 
 suddenly towards him. The inquiry of her 
 beautiful eyes was more imperative than her 
 speech. 
 
 Clarence recognised quickly what he 
 thought was his cruel blunder in touching 
 the half-healed wound of separation. But 
 he had gone too far to be other than per- 
 fectly truthful now. 
 
 1 Yes ; I saw her on the stage,' he said, 
 with a return of his boyish earnestness ; ' and 
 I learned something which I wanted you to 
 first hear from me. She is married and to 
 Mr. Hooker, who is in the same theatrical 
 company with her. But I want you to think, 
 as I honestly do, that it is the best for her. 
 She has married in her profession, which is 
 a great protection and a help to her success, 
 and she has married a man who can look 
 lightly upon certain qualities in her that 
 others might not be so lenient to. His worst 
 faults are on the surface, and will wear away 
 
286 SUSY 
 
 in contact with the world, and he looks up to 
 her as his superior. I gathered this from 
 her friend, for I did not speak with her my- 
 self ; I did not go there to see her. But as 
 I expected to be leaving you soon, I thought 
 it only right that as I was the humble means 
 of first bringing her into your life, I should 
 bring you this last news, which I suppose 
 takes her out of it for ever. Only I want 
 you to believe that you have nothing to 
 regret, and that she is neither lost nor un- 
 happy.' 
 
 The expression of suspicious inquiry on 
 her face when he began, changed gradually 
 to perplexity as he continued, and then re- 
 laxed into a faint peculiar smile. But there 
 was not the slightest trace of that pain, 
 w r ounded pride, indignation, or anger that he 
 had expected to see upon it. 
 
 * That means, I suppose, Mr. Brant, that 
 you no longer care for her ? ' 
 
 The smile had passed, yet she spoke now 
 with a half real, half affected archness that 
 was also unlike her. 
 
SUSY 287 
 
 ' It means,' said Clarence with a white 
 face, but a steady voice, ' that I care for her 
 now as much as I ever cared for her no 
 matter to what folly it once might have led 
 me. But it means also that there was no 
 time when I was not able to tell it to you as 
 frankly as I do now ' 
 
 ' One moment, please,' she interrupted, 
 and turned quickly towards the door. She 
 opened it and looked out. * I thought they 
 were calling me and I I must go now, 
 Mr. Brant. And without finishing my busi- 
 ness either or saying half I had intended to 
 say. But wait' she put her hand to her 
 head in a pretty perplexity ' it's a moonlight 
 night and I'll propose after dinner a stroll 
 in the gardens and you can manage to walk 
 a little with me.' She stopped again, re- 
 turned, said, * It was very kind of you to 
 think of me at Sacramento ' held out her 
 hand, allowed it to remain for an instant, 
 cool but acquiescent, in his warmer grasp, and 
 with the same odd youthfulness of movement 
 and gesture, slipped out of the door. 
 
288 SUSY 
 
 An hour later she was at the head of her 
 dinner-table, serene, beautiful, and calm, in 
 her elegant mourning, provokingly inacces- 
 sible in the sweet deliberation of her widowed 
 years ; Padre Esteban was at her side with a 
 local magnate who had known Peyton and 
 his wife, while Donna Rosita and a pair of 
 liquid-tongued, childlike senoritas were near 
 Clarence and Sanderson. To the priest Mrs. 
 Peyton spoke admiringly of the changes in 
 the Rancho and the restoration of the Mission 
 Chapel, and together they had commended 
 Clarence from the level of their superior 
 passionless reserve and years. Clarence felt 
 hopelessly young and hopelessly lonely ; the 
 naive prattle of the young girls beside him 
 appeared infantine. In his abstraction he 
 heard Mrs. Peyton allude to the beauty of 
 the night, and propose that after coffee and 
 chocolate the ladies should put on their wraps 
 and go with her to the old garden. Clarence 
 raised his eyes ; she was not looking at him, 
 but there was a slight consciousness in her 
 face that was not there before, and the faintest 
 
SUSY 289 
 
 colour in her cheek, still lingering, no doubt, 
 from the excitement of conversation. 
 
 It was a cool, tranquil, dewless night when 
 they at last straggled out, mere black and 
 white patches in the colourless moonlight. 
 The brilliancy of the flower-hued landscape 
 was subdued under its passive, pale austerity ; 
 even the grey and gold of the second terrace 
 seemed dulled and confused. At any other 
 time Clarence might have lingered over this 
 strange effect, but his eyes followed only a 
 tall figure in a long striped bournous that 
 moved gracefully beside the soutaned priest. 
 As he approached it turned towards him. 
 
 'Ah! here you are. I just told Father 
 Esteban that you talked of leaving to-morrow, 
 and that he would have to excuse me a few 
 moments while you showed me what you had 
 done to the old garden.' 
 
 She moved beside him, and, with a hesi- 
 tation that was not unlike a more youthful 
 timidity, slipped her hand through his arm. 
 It was for the first time, and, without think- 
 ing, he pressed it impulsively to his side. I 
 
 u 
 
2 go SUSY 
 
 have already intimated that Clarence's reserve 
 was at times qualified by singular directness. 
 
 A few steps carried them out of hearing : 
 a few more and they seemed alone in the 
 world. The long adobe wall glanced away 
 emptily beside them and was lost ; the black 
 shadows of the knotted pear trees were be- 
 neath their feet. They began to walk with 
 the slight affectation of treading the shadows 
 as if they were patterns on a carpet. Clar- 
 ence was voiceless, and yet he seemed to be 
 moving beside a spirit that must be first 
 addressed. 
 
 But it was flesh and blood nevertheless. 
 
 ' I interrupted you in something you 
 were saying when I left the office,' she said 
 quietly. 
 
 ' I was speaking of Susy/ returned Clar- 
 ence eagerly ; ' and ' 
 
 'Then you needn't go on,' interrupted 
 Mrs. Peyton quickly. ' I understand you 
 and believe you. I would rather talk of 
 something else. We have not yet arranged 
 how I can make restitution to you for the 
 
SUSY 291 
 
 capital you sank in saving this place. You 
 will be reasonable, Mr. Brant, and not leave 
 me with the shame and pain of knowing that 
 you ruined yourself for the sake of your old 
 friends. For it is no more a sentimental 
 idea of mine to feel in this way than it is a 
 fair and sensible one for you to imply that 
 a mere quibble of construction absolves me 
 from responsibility. Mr. Sanderson himself 
 admits that the repossession you gave us is 
 a fair and legal basis for any arrangement of 
 sharing or division of the property with you, 
 that might enable you to remain here and 
 continue the work you have so well begun. 
 Have you no suggestion, or must it come 
 from me, Mr. Brant ?' 
 
 ' Neither. Let us not talk of that now.' 
 She did not seem to notice the boyish 
 doggedness of his speech, except so far as it 
 might have increased her inconsequent and 
 nervously-pitched levity. 
 
 ' Then suppose we speak of the Misses 
 Hernandez, with whom you scarcely ex- 
 changed a word at dinner, and whom I in- 
 
 U 2 
 
292 SUSY 
 
 vited for you and your fluent Spanish ! They 
 are charming girls, even if they are a little 
 stupid. But what can I do ? If I am to live 
 here I must have a few young people around 
 me, if only to make the place cheerful for 
 others. Do you know I have taken a great 
 fancy to Miss Rogers, and have asked her to 
 visit me. I think she is a good friend of 
 yours, although perhaps she is a little shy. 
 What's the matter? You have nothing 
 against her, have you ? ' 
 
 Clarence had stopped short. They had 
 reached the end of the pear-tree shadows. 
 A few steps more would bring them to the 
 fallen south wall of the garden and the open 
 moonlight beyond, but to the right an olive 
 alley of deeper shadow diverged. 
 
 ' No,' he said, with slow deliberation ; ' I 
 have to thank Mary Rogers for having dis- 
 covered something in me that I have been 
 blindly, foolishly, and hopelessly struggling 
 with.' 
 
 ' And, pray, what was that ? ' said Mrs. 
 Peyton sharply. 
 
SUSY 293 
 
 1 That I love you ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Peyton was fairly startled. The 
 embarrassment of any truth is apt to be in 
 its eternal abruptness, which no deviousness 
 of tact or circumlocution of diplomacy has 
 ever yet surmounted. Whatever had been 
 in her heart or mind, she was unprepared for 
 this directness. The bolt had dropped from 
 the sky ; they were alone ; there was nothing 
 between the stars and the earth but herself 
 and this man and this truth ; it could not 
 be overlooked, surmounted, or escaped from. 
 A step or two more would take her out of 
 the garden into the moonlight, but always 
 into this awful frankness of blunt and out- 
 spoken nature. She hesitated, and turned 
 the corner into the olive shadows. It was, 
 perhaps, more dangerous, but less shame- 
 less, and less like truckling. And the ap- 
 pallingly direct Clarence instantly followed. 
 
 ' I know you will despise me hate me ; 
 and, perhaps, worst of all, disbelieve me 
 but I swear to you, now, that I have always 
 loved you yes, always \ When first I came 
 
294 SUSY 
 
 here it was not to see my old playmate, but 
 you, for I had kept the memory of you as I 
 first saw you when a boy, and you have 
 always been my ideal. I have thought of, 
 dreamed of, worshipped, and lived for no 
 other woman. Even when I found Susy 
 again, grown up here at your side ; even 
 when I thought that I might, with your con- 
 sent, marry her, it was that I might be with 
 you always ; that I might be a part of your 
 home, your family, and have a place with her 
 in your heart ; for it was you I loved, and 
 you only. Don't laugh at me, Mrs. Peyton, 
 it is the truth the whole truth I am telling 
 you. God help me ! ' 
 
 If she only could have laughed! Harshly, 
 ironically, or even mercifully and kindly. 
 But it would not come. And she burst out : 
 
 ' I am not laughing. Good heavens, 
 don't you see ? It is me you are making 
 ridiculous.' 
 
 ' You ridiculous ? ' he said in a momen- 
 tarily choked, half-stupefied voice. ' You a 
 beautiful woman, my superior in everything, 
 
SUSY 295 
 
 the mistress of these lands where I am only 
 steward made ridiculous, not by my pre- 
 sumption, but by my confession. Was the 
 saint you just now admired in Father Este- 
 ban's chapel ridiculous because of the peon 
 clowns who were kneeling before it ? ' 
 ' Hush ! This is wicked. Stop ! ' 
 She felt she was now on firm ground, 
 and made the most of it in voice and man- 
 ner. She must draw the line somewhere, 
 and she would draw it between passion and 
 impiety ! 
 
 ' Not until I have told you all, and I 
 must before I leave you. I loved you when 
 I came here even when your husband was 
 alive. Don't be angry, Mrs. Peyton ; he 
 would not, and need not, have been angry ; 
 he would have pitied the oolish boy who, 
 in the very innocence and ignorance of his 
 passion, might have revealed it to him as 
 he did to everybody but one. And yet I 
 sometimes think you might have guessed 
 it had you thought of me at all. It must 
 have been on my lips that day I sat with 
 
296 SUSY 
 
 you in the boudoir. I know that I was 
 filled with it ; with it and with you ; with 
 your presence, with your beauty, your grace 
 of heart and mind. Yes, Mrs. Peyton, even 
 with your own unrequited love for Susy. 
 Only, then, I knew not what it was.' 
 
 * But I think / can tell you what it was, 
 then, and now,' said Mrs. Peyton, recover- 
 ing her nervous little laugh, though it died 
 a moment after on her lips. ' I remember 
 it very well. You told me then that / re- 
 minded you of your mother. Well, I am 
 not old enough to be your mother, Mr. 
 Brant, but I am old enough to have been 
 and might have been the mother of your 
 wife. That was what you meant then ; 
 that is what you mean now. I was wrong 
 to accuse you of trying to make me ridicu- 
 lous. I ask your pardon. Let us leave it 
 as it was that day in the boudoir as it is 
 now. Let me still remind you of your 
 mother I know she must have been a 
 good woman to have had so good a son 
 and when you have found some sweet 
 
St/Sl- 297 
 
 young girl to make you happy, come to me 
 for a mother's blessing and we will laugh 
 at the recollection and misunderstanding of 
 this evening.' 
 
 Her voice did not, however, exhibit that 
 exquisite maternal tenderness which the 
 beatific vision ought to have called up, and 
 the persistent voice of Clarence could not 
 be evaded in the shadow. Bancroft Unas? 
 
 ' I said you reminded me of my mother/ 
 he went on at her side, ' because I knew 
 her and lost her only as a child. She never 
 was anything to me but a memory and 
 yet an ideal of all that was sweet and 
 lovable in woman. Perhaps it was a dream 
 of what she might have been when she was 
 as young in years as you. If it pleases you 
 still to misunderstand me, it may please you 
 also to know that there is a reminder of her 
 even in this. I have no remembrance of 
 a word of affection from her nor a caress ; 
 I have been as hopeless in my love for her 
 who was my mother, as of the woman I 
 would make my wife.' 
 
298 SUSY 
 
 ' But you have seen no one, you know 
 no one, you are young, you scarcely know 
 your own self! You will forget this you 
 will forget me. And if if I should listen 
 to you what would the world say what 
 would you yourself say a few years hence ? 
 Oh, be reasonable. Think of it it would be 
 so wild so mad! so so utterly ridiculous!' 
 
 In proof of its ludicrous quality, two 
 tears escaped her eyes in the darkness. 
 But Clarence caught the white flash of her 
 withdrawn handkerchief in the shadow, and 
 captured her returning hand. It was trem- 
 bling, but did not struggle, and presently 
 hushed itself to rest in his. 
 
 * I'm not only a fool, but a brute,' he 
 said in a lower voice. 'Forgive me. \ \ 
 have given you pain you for whom I 
 would have died/ 
 
 They had both stopped. He was still 
 holding her sleeping hand. His arm had 
 stolen around the bournous so softly that 
 it followed the curves of her figure as lightly 
 as a fold of the garment, and was presum- 
 
SUSY 299 
 
 ably unfelt. Grief has its privileges, and 
 suffering exonerates a questionable situa- 
 tion ; in another moment her fair head might 
 have dropped upon his shoulder. But an 
 approaching voice uprose in the adjoining 
 broad altte. It might have been the world 
 speaking through the voice of the lawyer 
 Sanderson. 
 
 * Yes, he is a good fellow, and an intel- 
 ligent fellow, too, but a perfect child in his 
 experience of mankind.' 
 
 They both started, but Mrs. Peyton's 
 hand suddenly woke up and grasped his 
 firmly. Then she said in a higher, but 
 perfectly level tone : 
 
 ' Yes, I think with you we had better 
 look at it again in the sunlight to-morrow. 
 But here come our friends ; they have pro- 
 bably been waiting for us to join them and 
 
 go in.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 The wholesome freshness of early morn- 
 ing was in the room when Clarence awoke, 
 cleared and strengthened. His resolution 
 
300 SUSY 
 
 had been made. He would leave the Rancho 
 that morning, to enter the world again and 
 seek his fortune elsewhere. This was only 
 right to her whose future it should never 
 be said he had imperilled by his folly and 
 inexperience and if in a year or two's 
 struggle he could prove his right to address 
 her again, he would return. He had not 
 spoken to her since they had parted in the 
 garden, with the grim truths of the lawyer 
 ringing in his ears, but he had written a few 
 lines of farewell to be given to her after he 
 had left. He was calm in his resolution, 
 albeit a little pale and hollow-eyed for it. 
 
 He crept downstairs in the grey twilight 
 of the scarce-awakened house and made his 
 way to the stables. Saddling his horse, and 
 mounting, he paced forth into the crisp 
 morning air. The sun, just risen, was 
 everywhere bringing out the fresh colour 
 of the flower-strewn terraces, as the last 
 night's shadows which had hidden them 
 were slowly beaten back. He cast a last 
 look at the brown adobe quadrangle of the 
 
SUSY 301 
 
 quiet house, just touched with the bronzing of 
 the sun, and then turned his face towards the 
 highway. As he passed the angle of the old 
 garden he hesitated, but, strong in his resolu- 
 tion, he put the recollection of last night behind 
 him, and rode by without raising his eyes. 
 
 * Clarence ! ' 
 
 It was her voice. He wheeled his horse. 
 She was standing behind the grille in the 
 old wall, as he had seen her standing on 
 the day he had ridden to his rendezvous 
 with Susy. A Spanish mania was thrown 
 over her head and shoulders as if she had 
 dressed hastily and had run out to intercept 
 him while he was still in the stable. Her 
 beautiful face was pale in its black-hooded 
 recess, and there were faint circles around 
 her lovely eyes. 
 
 ' You were going without saying " Good- 
 bye," ' she said softly. 
 
 She passed her slim white hand between 
 the grating. Clarence leaped to the ground, 
 caught it and pressed it to his lips. But 
 he did not let it go. 
 
302 SUSY 
 
 ' No ! no ! ' she said, struggling to with- 
 draw it. 'It is better as it is as as you 
 have decided it to be. Only I could not let 
 you go thus without a word. There, now 
 go, Clarence, go. Please. Don't you see 
 I am behind these bars ? Think of them as 
 the years that separate us, my poor, dear, 
 foolish boy. Think of them as standing be- 
 tween us growing closer, heavier, and more 
 cruel and hopeless as the years go on.' 
 
 Ah, well ! they had been good bars a 
 hundred and fifty years ago, when it was 
 thought as necessary to repress the inno- 
 cence that was behind them as the wicked- 
 ness that was without. They had done 
 duty in the convent at Santa Inez and the 
 monastery of Santa Barbara, and had been 
 brought hither in Governor Micheltorrenas' 
 time to keep the daughters of Robles from 
 the insidious contact of the outer world 
 when they took the air in their cloistered 
 pleasaunce. Guitars had tinkled against 
 them in vain, and they had withstood the 
 stress and storm of love tokens. But, like 
 
SUSY 303 
 
 many other things which have had their 
 day and time, they had retained their sem- 
 blance of power even while rattling loosely 
 in their sockets, only because no one had 
 ever thought of putting them to the test, 
 and, in the strong hand of Clarence, assisted, 
 perhaps, by the leaning figure of Mrs. 
 Peyton, I grieve to say that the whole grille 
 suddenly collapsed, became a frame of tink- 
 ling iron, and then clanked, bar by bar, into 
 the road. Mrs. Peyton uttered a little cry 
 and drew back, and Clarence, leaping the 
 ruins, caught her in his arms. 
 
 For a moment only, for she quickly 
 withdrew from them, and, although the 
 morning sunlight was quite rosy on her 
 cheeks, she said gravely, pointing to the 
 dismantled opening : 
 
 ' I suppose you miist stay now, for you 
 never could leave me here alone and 
 
 defenceless.' 
 
 # * # * * 
 
 He stayed. And with this fulfilment of 
 his youthful dreams the romance of his young 
 
304 SUSY 
 
 manhood seemed to be completed, and so 
 closed the second volume of this trilogy. 
 But what effect that fulfilment of youth had 
 upon his maturer years, or the fortunes of 
 those who were nearly concerned in it, may 
 be told in a later and final chronicle. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 WRTGHT (THOMAS), WORKS BY. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each. 
 CARICATURE HISTORY OF THE GEORGES. With 400 Caricatures, Squibs, &c. 
 HISTORY OF CARICATURE AND OF THE GROTESQUE IN ART, LITERA* 
 TURE, SCULPTURE, AND PAINTING. Illustrated by F. W. FAIRHOLT, F.S.A. 
 
 WYNMAN. MY FLIRTATIONS. By MARGARET WYNMAN. With 13 
 
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26 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 LISTS OF BOOKS CLASSIFIED IN SERIES. 
 
 \* For fuller cataloguing, see alphabetical arrangement, pp. 1-25. 
 
 THE MAYFAIR LIBRARY. 
 A Journey Round My Room. By XAVIER 
 
 DE MAISTRE. 
 
 Quips and Quiddities. By W. D. ADAMS. 
 The Agony Column of "The Times." 
 Melancholy Anatomised : Abridgment of 
 
 " Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy." 
 The Speeches of Charles Dickens. 
 Literary Frivolities, Fancies, Follies, 
 
 and Frolics. By W. T. DOBSON. 
 Poetical Ingenuities. By W. T. DOBSON. 
 The Cupboard Papers. By FIN-BEC, 
 W. S. Gilbert's Plays. FIRST SERIES. 
 W. S. Gilbert's Plays. SECOND SERIES. 
 Bongs of Irish Wit and Humour. 
 Animals and Masters. By Sir A. HELPS. 
 Social Pressure. By Sir A. HELPS. 
 Curiosities of Criticism. H. J. JENNINGS. 
 Holmes's Autocrat of Breakfast-Table. 
 Pencil and Palette. By R. KEMPT. 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. per Volume. 
 Little Essays: from LAMB'S Letters. 
 Forensic Anecdotes. By JACOB LARWOOD. 
 Theatrical Anecdotes. JACOB LARWOOD. 
 Jeux d'Esprit. Edited by HENRY S. LEIGH. 
 Witch Stories. By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Ourselves. By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Pasthnes & Players. By R. MACGREGOR. 
 New Paul and Virginia. W.H.MALLOCK. 
 New Republic. By W. H. MALLOCK. 
 Puck on Pegasus. By H. C. PENNELL. 
 Pegasus Re-Saddled. By H. C. PENNELL. 
 Muses of May fair. Ed. H. C. PENNELL. 
 Thoreau : His Life & Aims. By H. A. PAGE. 
 Puniana. By Hon. HUGH ROWLEY. 
 More Puniana. By Hon. HUGH ROWLEY, 
 The Philosophy of Handwriting. 
 By Stream and Sea. By WM. SENIOR. 
 Leaves from a Naturalist's note-Book* 
 By Dr. ANDREW WILSON. 
 
 THE GOLDEN LIBRARY. 
 Bayard Taylor's Diversions of the Echo 
 
 Club. 
 
 Bennett's Ballad History of England. 
 Bennett's Songs for Sailors. 
 Godwin's Lives of the Necromancers. 
 Pope's Poetical Works. 
 Holmes's Autocrat of Breakfast Table. 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. per Volume. 
 Holmes's Professor at Breakfast Table. 
 Jesse's Scenes of Country Life. 
 Leigh Hunt's Tala for a Chimney 
 
 Corner. 
 
 Mallory's Mort d'Arthur: Selections. 
 Pascal's Provincial Letters. 
 Rochefoucauld's Maxims & Reflections. 
 
 THE WANDERER'S LIBRARY. 
 Wanderings In Patagonia. By JULIUS 
 
 BEERBOHM. Illustrated. 
 Camp Notes. By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 Savage Life. By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 Merrie England in the Olden Time. By 
 
 G. DANIEL. Illustrated by CRUIKSHANK. 
 Circus Life. By THOMAS FROST. 
 Lives of the Conjurers. THOMAS FROST. 
 The Old Showmen and the Old London 
 
 Fairs. By THOMAS FROST. 
 Low-Life Deeps. By JAME^ GREENWOOD. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 Wilds of London. JAMES GREENWOOD. 
 Tunis. Chev. HESSE- WARTEGG. 22 Illusts. 
 Life and Adventures of a Cheap Jack. 
 World Behind the Scenes. P.FITZGERALD. 
 Ta,vern Anecdotes and Sayings. 
 The Genial Showman. ByE.P. HINGSTON, 
 Story of London Parks. JACOB LARWOOD. 
 London Characters. By HENRY MAY HEW. 
 Seven Generations of Executioners. 
 Summer Cruising In the South Seas. 
 
 By C. WARREN STODDARD. Illustrated. 
 
 POPULAR SHILLING BOOKS. 
 
 Harry Fludyer at Cambridge. 
 Jeff Briggs's Love Story. BRET HARTE. 
 Twins of Table Mountain. BRET HARTE. 
 Enow-bound at Eagle's. By BRET HARTE. 
 A Day's Tour. By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Esther's Glove. By R. E. FRANCILLON, 
 Sentenced! By SOMERVILLE GIBNEY. 
 The Professor's Wife. By L. GRAHAM. 
 Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. By 
 
 JULIAN HAWTHORNE L 
 Nfa 
 
 fagara Spray. By J. HOLLINGSHEAD. 
 A Romance of the Queen's Hounds. By 
 
 CHARLES JAMES. 
 Ihe Garden that Paid tho Rent. By 
 
 TOM JERROLD. 
 
 Cut by the Mess. By ARTHUR KEYSER. 
 Our Sensation Novel. J. H. MCCARTHY. 
 Doom! By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, M.P. 
 Dolly. By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, M.P. 
 
 Lily Lass. JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, M.P. 
 Was She Good or Bad? By W. MINTO. 
 Notes from the "News." ByjAs. PAYN. 
 Beyond the Gates. By E. S. PHELPS. 
 Old Maid's Paradise. By E. S. PHELPS. 
 Burglars in Paradise. By E. S. PHELPS. 
 Jack the Fisherman. By E. S. PHELPS. 
 Trooping with Crows. By C. L. PIRKIS. 
 Bible Characters. By CHARLES READE. 
 Rogues. By R. H. SHERARD. 
 The Dagonet Reciter. By G. R. SIMS. 
 How the Poor Live. By G. R. SIMS. 
 Case of Greorge Candlemas. G. R. SIMS. 
 Sandycroft Mystery. T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 Hoodwinked. By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 Father Damien. By R. L. STEVENSON. 
 A Double Bond. By LINDA VILLARI. 
 My Life with Stanley's Roar Guard. By 
 HERBERT WARD. 
 
 HANDY NOVELS. Fcap. 8vo, cloth boards, Is. 6d. each. 
 The Old Maid's Sweetheart. A.ST.AUBYN I Taken from the Enemy. H. NEWBOLT, 
 Modest Little Sara. ALAN ST. AUBYN. | A Lost Soul. By W. L. ALDEN. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 MY LIBRARY. 
 
 Choice Works, printed on laid paper, bound half-Roxburghe, Ss Od. each. 
 
 Pour Frenchwomen. By AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 Citation and Examination of William 
 
 Shakspeare. By W. S. LANDOR. 
 The Journal of Maurice de Guerin. 
 
 Christie Johnstone. By CHARLES READS, 
 
 With a Photogravure Frontispiece. 
 Peg Wofflngton. By CHARLES READE. 
 The Dramatic Essays of Charles Lamb. 
 
 THE POCKET LIBRARY. Post 8vo, 
 
 The Essays of Ella. By CHARLES LAMD. 
 Robinson Crusoe. Edited by JOHN MAJOR. 
 
 Witb 37lilusts. by GEORGE CRUIKSH^NK. 
 Whims and Oddities. By THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 With 85 Illustrations. 
 The Barber's Chair, and The Hedgehog 
 
 Letters. By DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
 Gastronomy as a Fine Art. By BRILLAT- 
 
 SAVARIN. Trans. R. E. ANDKRSOV, M.A. 
 
 printed on laid paper and hf.-bd., 2s. each. 
 The Epicurean, &c. By THOMAS MOORE, 
 Leigh Hunt's Essays. Ed. E. OLLIER. 
 White's Natural History of Selborne. 
 GulliYer's Travels, and The Tale of a 
 
 Tub. By Dean SWIFT. 
 The Rivals, School for Scandal, and other 
 
 Plavs by RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 Anecdotes of the Clergy. J. LARWOOD. 
 Thomson's So.asons. Ulnstra'ed. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. 
 
 LIBRARY EDITIONS OF NOVELS BY THE BEST AUTHORS, many Illustrated, 
 crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 By F. HI. ALLEN. 
 The Green Bird. 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 The Tents of Shorn. 
 For Maimie's Sake. 
 The Devil's Die. 
 This Mortal Coil. 
 The Great Taboo. 
 
 Philistia. 
 
 Babylon 
 
 Strange Stories. 
 
 Beckoning Hand. 
 
 In all Shades. 
 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. | Blood Royal 
 
 The Duchess of Powysland. 
 
 By EOWI1V L. ARNOLD. 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 
 By Iir. S. BAKING COULD. 
 Red Spider. I Eve. 
 
 By W. BESANT & J. RIC13. 
 My Little Girl. 
 Case of Mr.Lucraft. 
 ThisSonofYulcan. 
 
 Golden Butterfly. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 Monks of Thelcma. 
 
 The Seamy Side. 
 Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bav. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 By WALTER BESANT. 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 The Captains' Room. | Herr Paulus. 
 All in a Garden Fair 
 Tha W9rld Went Very Well Then. 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 
 Dorothy Forster. 
 Uncle Jack. 
 Children of Gibeon. 
 Ball of St. Paul's. 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 
 The Holy Rose. 
 Armorel of Lyon- 
 
 esse. 
 St. Katherine's by 
 
 the Tower. 
 
 SSy ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 Tha Shadow of the Sword. I Matt. 
 A Child of Nature. I Heir of Linna. 
 Th-j Martyrdom of Madeline. 
 God and the Man. I The New Abelard. 
 Lova Me for Ever. Foxglove Manor. 
 Annan Water. I Master of the Mine. 
 
 By MALL CA1NE. 
 Tha Shadow of a Crime. 
 A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster. 
 JHORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight, 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 Village Comedy. | You Play Me False. 
 
 By WILItlE 
 
 Armadale. 
 After Dark. 
 No Name. 
 Antonina. | Basil 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Miss or Mrs? 
 New Magdalen. 
 
 By BUTTON COOK. 
 
 Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By OTATT CRIM. 
 
 Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 Law and the Lady 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebal's Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 "I Say No." 
 Little Novels. 
 The Evil Genius. 
 The Legacy of Cain 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 By WILLIAM. 
 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 CYJPLES. 
 
 By ALPHONSIU DAUD13T. 
 
 The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 
 
 By ERASMUS DAWSON. 
 
 The Fountain of Youth. 
 
 By JAMES DE MILLE. 
 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By J. LEITH DERWENT. 
 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 
 By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 
 Archie Lovell. 
 
 By C. DANVILLE FENN. 
 The New Mistress. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 
 Queen Cophetua. I A Real Queen. 
 One by One. | King or Knave 
 
 Fret, by Sir B ARTLE FRE RE. 
 Pandurang Harl. 
 
 By ED WARD GAKRETT, 
 Tha Gapal Girls 
 
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Robin Gray. I The Golden Shaft. 
 
 Loving a Dream. | Of High Degree. 
 The Flower of the Forest. 
 
 By E. GLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. 
 The Fossicker. 
 
 By CECIL GRIFFITH. 
 Corinthia Marazion. 
 
 By THOMAS JflARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By BRET IIAIiTE. 
 A Waif of the Plains. 
 A Ward of the Golden Gate. 
 A Sappho of Green Springs. 
 Colonel Starbottle's Client. 
 By JULIAN HAWTS50RNE. 
 
 Garth. 
 
 Elliee Quentin. 
 
 Sebastian Strome. 
 
 Dust. 
 Fortune's Fool. 
 Beatrix Randolph. 
 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 By Sir A. HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 By ISAAC HENDERSON. 
 Agatha Page. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 The Leaden Casket. I Self-Condemned. 
 That other Person. 
 
 By JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 By R. ASHE KINO. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 "The Wearing of the Green." 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Patricia Kemball. lone. 
 Under which Lord? Paston Carew. 
 "My Love!" Sowing the Wind. 
 
 The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
 The World Well Lost. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY. 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. I Donna Quixote. 
 Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens. 
 Miss Misanthrope. I Camiola. 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 By AGNES MACI>ONELL. 
 
 Life's Atonement. I Yal Strange. 
 
 Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 
 
 Coals of Fire. | A Model Father. 
 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 
 First Person Singular. 
 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 
 The Way of the World. 
 
 By MURRAY & HERMAN. 
 The Bishops' Bible. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. 
 
 By HUME NISBET. 
 "Bail Up!" 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. 
 A Weird Gift. 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 White] adies. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 
 By OU10A. 
 
 Held In Bondage. Two Little Wooden 
 Strathmore. Shoes. 
 
 Chandos. In a Winter City. 
 
 Under Two Flags. Ariadne. 
 Idalia. Friendship. 
 
 CecilCastlemaine's Moths. | Ruffino. 
 
 Gage. Pipistrello. 
 
 Tricotrin. | Puck. AYillage Commune 
 Folle Farlne. Bimbi. | Wanda. 
 
 A Dog of Flanders. Frescoes.) Othraar. 
 Pascarel. I Signa. In Maremma. 
 Princess Naprax- Syrlin.) Guilderoy. 
 ine. Santa Barbara. 
 
 By MARGARET A. PAUL. 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 Lass Black than We're Painted. 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 In Peril and Privation. 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 Tha Canon's Ward. 
 V/alter's Word. Talk of the Town 
 By Proxy. Holiday Tasks. 
 
 High Spirits. The Burnt Million. 
 
 Under One Roof. The Word and tna 
 From Exile. Will. 
 
 Glow-worm Tales. Sunny Stories. 
 
 By E. C. PRICE. 
 Yalentina. | The Foreigners. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 
 By KIC:ilAE-.B> PRYCE. 
 Miss Maxwell's Affsctions. 
 
 By CHARLES RTEAI>E. 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Tha Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Lova Ma Long. 
 Tha Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love. 
 The Autobiography of a Thief. 
 Pat Yourslf in his Place. 
 A Terrible Temptation, 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 
 Hard Cash. I Wandering Heir. 
 
 PQi Wofflngton. I A Woman-Hater. 
 ChristieJohnstone. A Simpleton. 
 Griffith Gaunt. Readiana. 
 
 Foul Play. The Jilt. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 
 By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL. 
 The Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 Weird Stories. 
 
 By F. W. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 By W. CLARK. RUSSELL. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on a Wide Wide Sea. 
 
 By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
 Bound to the Wheel. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 by KATHARINE SAUNEK9. 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 Gideon's Rock. I Heart Salvage, 
 The High Mills. I Sebastian. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 20 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 
 By LUKE SHARP. 
 In a Steamer Chair. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 
 Without LOYO or Licence. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By BERTHA THOMAS. 
 
 Proud Maisio. | The Violin-player. 
 
 By FRANCES E. TROLLOPS. 
 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 Anne Furness. j Mabel's Progress. 
 By IVAN TURGENIKFF, &c. 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark. 
 Marion Fay. | Land-Leaguers. 
 
 The Way We Lire Now. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 
 By C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 The Bride's Pass. I Lady Beil. 
 Noblesse Oblige. | Buried Diamonds* 
 The Blackball Ghosts. 
 
 By MARK. TWAIIV. 
 The American Claimant. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 A Soldier's Children. 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 By ARTEMUS WARD. 
 
 Artemus Ward Complete. 
 
 By EDMOND ABOUT. 
 
 The Fellah. 
 
 By HAMILTON AIDE. 
 
 Oarr of Carrlyon. | Confidences. 
 By MARY ALBERT. 
 
 Brooke Finchley's Daughter. 
 
 By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 
 
 Maid, Wife, or Widow? | Valerie's Fate. 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 Strange Stories. I The Devil's Die. 
 Philistia. This Mortal Coil. 
 
 Babylon. I In all Shades. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand. 
 For Maimie's Sake. | Tents of Shem. 
 The Great Taboo. 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 By Rer. S. BARING GOULD. 
 Red Spider. | Eva. 
 
 By FRANK. BARRETT. 
 Fettered for Life. 
 Between Life and Death. 
 The Sin of Olga Zassoulich. 
 Folly Morrison. IHonest Davie. 
 Lieut. Barnabas.lA Prodigal's Progress. 
 Found Guilty. I A Recoiling Vengeance. 
 For Love and Honour. 
 John Ford ; and His Helpmate. 
 By W. BESANT & J. RICE. 
 
 The Shadow of the 
 Sword. 
 A Child of Nature. 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The Master of the 
 
 The Martyrdom of 
 Madeline. 
 Annan Water. 
 The New Abelard. 
 Matt. 
 The Heir of Linne. 
 Mine. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 Monks of Thelema. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 
 VOQKC" 
 
 Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 My Little Girl. 
 Case of Mr.Lucraft. 
 Golden Butterfly. 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 By WALTER BESANT. 
 Dorothy Forster. I Uncle Jack. 
 Children of Gibeon. | Herr Paulus. 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 The Captains' Room. 
 All In a Garden Fair. 
 The World Went Very Well Then* 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 The Bell of St. Paul's. 
 The Holy Rose. 
 
 By 8SIELSLE Y BEAUCHAMS*. 
 
 Grantley Grange. 
 
 By FREDERICK. BOYLE. 
 
 Camp Notes. | Savage Life. 
 
 Chronicles of No-man's Land. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 
 Flip, I Californian Stories. 
 
 Maruja. | Gabriel Conroy. 
 
 An Heiress of Red Dog. 
 The Luck of Roaring Camp. 
 A Phyllis of the Sierras. 
 
 By HAROLD BRYDGES. 
 
 Uncle Sam at Home. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 By HALL CAINE. 
 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 
 A Son of Hagar. j The Deemster. 
 
 By Commander CAMERON. 
 
 The Cruise of tha "Black Prince." 
 By Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 Deceivers Ever. | Juliet's Guardian. 
 
 By AUSTIN CLARE. 
 For the Love of a Lass. 
 
 By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
 By MACLAREN COBBAN. 
 The Cure of Souls. 
 
 By C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 
 The Bar Sinister. 
 
 MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Sweet Anne Page. J Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 A Fight with Fortune. 
 Sweet and Twenty. I Village Comedy. 
 Frances. I You Play me Falso. 
 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 
30- 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 By WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 My Miscellanies. 
 Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter 
 The Slack Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 "I Say No." 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novals. 
 Legacy of Gain. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 Armadale. 
 After Dark. 
 No Name. 
 Antonina. | Basil. 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 Miss or Mrs ? 
 New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 Law and the Lady. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 
 By ITI. J. COLQUMOUN. 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 By BUTTON COOK. 
 Leo. | Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By C. EGBERT CKAfi>OCK. 
 Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. 
 
 By B. JI. CBOiJU. 
 Pretty Miss Neville. 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 Diana Barrington. 
 Proper Pride. 
 
 By WEIL 1,1AM CYPLES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 By ALPMONSE DAUDBT. 
 The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 
 
 By JAMES DE B11LLE. 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By J. LEffTEI DESSWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Circa's Lovers. 
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS. 
 Sketches by Boz. I Oliver Twist. 
 Pickwick Papers. | Nicholas Hickleby. 
 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 The Man-Hunter. | Caught at Last! 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan? 
 The Man from Manchester. 
 A Detective's Triumphs. 
 In the Grip of the Law. 
 By Mr. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovcll. 
 By M. BETIIAM-EDWAUDS. 
 Felicia. I Kitty. 
 
 By EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
 Roxv. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Bella Donna. I Polly. 
 Never Forgotten. | Fatal Zero. 
 The Second Mrs. Tillotscn. 
 Seventy-five Brooke Street. 
 The Lady of Brantomc. 
 By PERCYS' FITZGERALD 
 
 and linns. 
 Strange Secrets. 
 
 ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE. 
 Filthy Lucre. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 Olympia. I Queen Cophetua. 
 
 One by One. King or Knave? 
 
 A Real Queen. Romancas of Law. 
 
 By HAROLD FREDERICK. 
 Bath's Brother's Wife. 
 The Lawton Girl. 
 
 Pref. by Sir BARTLE. FRERE. 
 Pandurang Hari, 
 
 Two- SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By IIAIN FRISWELL. 
 One of Two. 
 
 By EDWARD GARRETT. 
 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 
 Robin Gray,. 
 Fancy Free. 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 What will the 
 
 World Say? 
 In Love and War. 
 For the King. 
 In Pastures Green. 
 Queen of Meadow. 
 
 In Honour Bound* 
 Flower of Forest. 
 Braes of Yarrow. 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 Of High Degree. 
 Mead and Stream. 
 Loving a Dream. 
 A Hard Knot. 
 Heart's Delight. 
 Blood-Money. 
 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 By WILLIAM GILBERT. 
 Dr. Austin's Guest*. I James Duke. 
 The Wizard of the Mountain. 
 
 By ERNEST GLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. 
 
 By HENRY GREVILLE. 
 A Noble Woman. | Nikanor. 
 
 By JOHN HABBERTON. 
 Brueton's Bayou. | Country Luck. 
 
 By ANDREW UALLIDAY. 
 Every-Day Papers. 
 
 By Lady DUFFUS HARDY. 
 Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 By J. BERWICK. HARWOOD. 
 The Tenth Earl. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. Sebastian Strome. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. Dust. 
 Fortune's Fool. Beatrix Randolph* 
 Miss Cadogna. Love or a Name. 
 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 By Sir ARTHUR HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 By HENRY HERMAN. 
 A Leading Lady. 
 
 By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY. 
 The Lover's Creed. 
 By Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER. 
 The House of Raby. 
 
 By TIGI1E HOPKINS. 
 'Twixt Love and Duty. 
 
 By Mrs. I13JNGERFORD, 
 A Maiden all Forlorn. 
 In Durance Yile. I A Mental Struggle. 
 Marvel. | A Modern Circe. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 Thornicroft's Model. I Self Condemned. 
 That Other Person. | Leaden Casket. 
 
 By JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 By HARRIETT JAY 
 The Dark Colleen. 
 The Queen of Connaught. 
 
 By MARK KEKSIIAW. 
 Colonial Facts and Fictions. 
 
 By R. ASHE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. I Passion's Slave. 
 " The Wearing of the Green." 
 Bell Barry* 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By JOHN 1,13 YS. 
 The Lindsays. 
 
 By E. I,YNJV 1,INTON. 
 
 Patricia Kemball. Paston Carew. 
 
 World Well Lost. "My Love I" 
 
 Under which Lord? lone. 
 
 The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 
 The Rebel of the Family. 
 
 Sowing the Wind. 
 
 By HENRY W. 1.UCY. 
 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Linley Rochford. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 Maid of Athens. 
 Gamiola. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 By AGNES MACSJONEl,!,. 
 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 KATHARINE S. MACQUOIO. 
 
 The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 
 
 By W. H. MAI. LOCK. 
 The New Republic. 
 
 By FLORENCE MARRYAT. 
 
 Open! Sesame! | Fighting the Air. 
 A HarYest of Wild Oats. 
 Written in Fire. 
 
 By J. MASTERMAN. 
 Half a- dozen Daughters. 
 By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 A Secret of the Sea. 
 
 By LEONARD MEISRICK. 
 The Man who was Good. 
 
 By JEAN MII>I,EIttASS. 
 Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion. 
 
 By Mrs. MO1,ESWOITH. 
 Hathercourt Rectory. 
 f , By J. E. MUDUOCK. 
 Stories Weird and Wonderful. 
 The Dead Man's Secret. 
 By . CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 A Model Father. Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 
 
 Coals of Fire. Way of the World. 
 
 Yal Strange. Cynic Fortune. 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 
 By MURRAY ami HERMAN. 
 One Traveller Returns. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. 
 The Bishops' Bible. 
 
 By HENRY MURRAY. 
 A Game of Bluff. 
 
 By AJLICE O'HANI^ON. 
 The Unforeseen, | Chance? or Fate? 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By GEORGES OUNET. 
 Doctor Rameau. I A Last Love. 
 A Weird Gift. | 
 
 By Mrs. OMPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. | The Primrose Path 
 
 The Greatest Heiress in England. 
 By Mrs. ROBERT O'REI1,JLY. 
 Phoabe's Fortunes. 
 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 Held In Bondage. 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Idalia. 
 
 CecilCastlemaine's 
 
 Gage. 
 Tricotrin. 
 Puck. 
 
 Folle Farlne. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pascarel. 
 Signa. 
 Princess Naprax- 
 
 ine. 
 
 In a Winter City. 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Two Little Woodaa 
 Shoes. 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Moths. 
 
 Pipistrello. 
 
 A Village Com- 
 mune. 
 
 Bimbi. 
 
 Wanda. 
 
 Frescoes. 
 
 In Maremma. 
 
 Othmar. 
 
 Guilderoy. 
 
 Ruffino. 
 
 Syrlin. 
 
 Ouida's Wisdom, 
 Wit, and Pathos. 
 
 MARGARET AGNES PAUi,! 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 200 Reward. 
 Marine Residence. 
 Mirk Abbsy. 
 By Proxy. 
 Under One Roof. 
 High Spirits. 
 Carlyon's Year. 
 From Exile. 
 For Cash Only. 
 Kit. 
 
 The Canon's Ward 
 Talk of the Town. 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 
 Bentinck's Tutor. 
 
 Murphy's Master. 
 
 A County Family. 
 
 At Her Mercy. 
 
 Cecil's Tryst. 
 
 Clyffards of Clyffe. 
 
 Foster Brothers. 
 
 Found Dead. 
 
 Best of Husbands. 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 
 Halves. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 
 Humorous Stories. iiu 
 
 Lost Sir Massingbard. 
 
 A Perfect Treasure. 
 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 
 The Family Scapegrace. 
 
 What He Cost Her. 
 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. 
 
 Like Father, Like Son. 
 
 Married Beneath Him. 
 
 Not Wooed, but Won. 
 
 Less Black than We're Painted. 
 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 
 Some Private Views. 
 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 
 Glow-worm Tales. 
 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 
 The Burnt Million. 
 
 The Word and the Will. 
 
 A Prince of the Bleod. 
 
 By C. I,. PIRKIS. 
 Lady Lovelace. 
 
 By EDGAR A. POE. 
 The Mystery of Marie Roget. 
 
 By E. C. JPRI4JE. 
 Yalentina. I The Foreignars. 1 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 Gerald. 
 
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY CHATTO & WINDUS. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By CHARLES READJB. 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love. 
 Autobiography of a Thief. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 
 Hard Cash. A Simpleton. 
 
 Peg Woffington. Readiana. 
 Griffith Gaunt. A Woman-Hater. 
 Foul Play. Th Jilt. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 
 By Mrs. JT. H. RID DELL. 
 Weird Stories. | Fairy Water. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 The Mystery in Palace Gardens. 
 The Nun's Curse. | Idle Tales. 
 By F. W. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 By JAMES RUNCIMAN. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
 Schools and Scholars. 
 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 Round the Galley Fire. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 A Book for the Hammock. 
 The Mystery of the "Ocean Star." 
 The Romance of Jenny Harlowe. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 By JOHN 8AUNDERS. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 By KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 
 Joan Merryweather. Heart Salvage. 
 The High Mills. Sebastian. 
 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 
 By GEORGE R. SIMS. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 The Ring o' Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 Tales of To-day. | Dramas of Life. 
 Tinkletop's Crime. 
 Zeph: A Circus Story. 
 
 By ARTHUR SKETCHLEY. 
 A Match in the Dark. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 
 By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. I By Devious Ways. 
 Hoodwinked, &c. I Back to Life. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By R. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto. 
 BY BERTHA THOMAS. 
 Cressida. | Proud Maisie. 
 
 The Violin-player. 
 
 By WALTER TIIORNBURY. 
 Tales for the Marines. 
 Old Stories Re-told. 
 
 T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. 
 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE. 
 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress. 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark* 
 
 Marion Fay. | John Caldigate. 
 
 The Way We Live Now. 
 
 The American Senator. **& 
 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family, r 
 
 The Land-Leaguers. 
 
 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 
 
 By J. T. TROWBRIDGB* 
 
 FarnelPs Folly. 
 By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 By MARK. TWAIN. 
 
 A Pleasure Trip on the Continent* 
 
 The Gilded Age. 
 
 Mark Twain's Sketches. 
 
 Tom Sawyer. I A Tramp Abroad. 
 
 The Stolen White Elephant. 
 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 
 The Prince and the Pauper. 
 
 By C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 The Bride's Pass. I Noblesse Oblige. 
 Buried Diamonds. | Disappeared. 
 Saint Mungo'sCity. 1 Huguenot Family. 
 Lady Bell. | Blackball Ghosts. 
 
 What She Came Through. 
 Beauty and the Beast* 
 Citoyenne Jaqueline. 
 By Mrs. F. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 A Child Widow. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends 
 
 By H. F. WOOD. 
 The Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
 The Englishman of the Rue Cain. 
 
 By JLady WOOD. 
 Sabina. 
 
 CELIA PARKER WOOI.LEY. 
 Rachel Armstrong; or, Love & Theology. 
 
 By EDMUND YATES. 
 The Forlorn Hope. 1 Land at Last 
 Castaway. 
 
 OGDEN, SHALE AND CO., HHITED, PfUNTERS, GREAT. SAFFKOX HILL, LOXDOK, E C.