“Of course ye don’t remember each other, and thar ain’t much that either of you knows about family matters, I reckon,” he said grimly; “and as your cousin calls himself Don Juan Robinson,” he added to Clarence, “it’s just as well that you let ‘Jackson Brant’ slide. I know him better than you, but you’ll get used to him, and he to you, soon enough. At least, you’d better,” he concluded, with his singular gravity.
As he turned as if to leave the room with Clarence’s embarrassed relative—much to that gentleman’s apparent relief—the boy looked up at the latter and said timidly—
“May I look at those books?”
His cousin stopped, and glanced at him with the first expression of interest he had shown.
“Ah, you read; you like books?”
“Yes,” said Clarence. As his cousin remained still looking at him thoughtfully, he added, “My hands are pretty clean, but I can wash them first, if you like.”
“You may look at them,” said Don Juan smilingly; “and as they are old books you can wash your hands afterwards.” And, turning to Flynn suddenly, with an air of relief, “I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll teach him Spanish!”
They left the room together, and Clarence turned eagerly to the shelves. They were old books, some indeed very old, queerly bound, and worm-eaten. Some were in foreign languages, but others in clear, bold English type, with quaint wood-cuts and illustrations. One seemed to be a chronicle of battles and sieges, with pictured representations of combatants spitted with arrows, cleanly lopped off in limb, or toppled over distinctly by visible cannon-shot. He was deep in its perusal when he heard the clatter of a horse’s hoofs in the court-yard and the voice of Flynn. He ran to the window, and was astonished to see his friend already on horseback, taking leave of his host.
For one instant Clarence felt one of those sudden revulsions of feeling common to his age, but which he had always timidly hidden under dogged demeanor. Flynn, his only friend! Flynn, his only boyish confidant! Flynn, his latest hero, was going away and forsaking him without a word of parting! It was true that he had only agreed to take him to his guardian, but still Flynn need not have left him without a word of hope or encouragement! With any one else Clarence would probably have taken refuge in his usual Indian stoicism, but the same feeling that had impelled him to offer Flynn his boyish confidences on their first meeting now overpowered him. He dropped his book, ran out into the corridor, and made his way to the court-yard, just as Flynn galloped out from the arch.
But the boy uttered a despairing shout that reached the rider. He drew rein, wheeled, halted, and sat facing Clarence impatiently. To add to Clarence’s embarrassment his cousin had lingered in the corridor, attracted by the interruption, and a peon, lounging in the archway, obsequiously approached Flynn’s bridle-rein. But the rider waved him off, and, turning sternly to Clarence, said:—