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 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. 
 Boston and New York. 
 
CLARENCE 
 
 BY 
 
 BRET HARTE 
 
 1^ -^ 
 
 
 ^i^-'"^"i 
 
 
 ^^^1 
 
 i 
 
 ^BiOPr!$tiif]^rr!$i 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 189s 
 
Copyright, 1895, 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., V. S.A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Co. 
 
OLAREJv^OE. 
 
 PART I. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 As Clarence Brant, President of the Ro- 
 bles Land Company, and husband of the 
 rich widow of John Peyton, of the Robles 
 Ranehe, mingled with the outgoing audience 
 of the Cosmopolitan Theatre, at San Fran- 
 cisco, he elicited the usual smiling nods and 
 recognition due to his good looks and good 
 fortune. But as he hurriedly slipped 
 through the still lingering winter's rain into 
 the smart coupe that was awaitmg him, and 
 gave the order " Home," the word struck 
 him with a peculiarly ironical significance. 
 His home was a handsome one, and lacked 
 nothing in appointment and comfort, but he 
 had gone to the theatre to evade its hollow 
 loneliness. Nor was it because his wife was 
 not there, for he had a miserable conscious- 
 ness that her temporary absence had nothing 
 
 602948 
 
2 CLARENCE. 
 
 to do with his homelessness. The distrac- 
 tion of the theatre over, that dull, vague, 
 but aching sense of loneliness which was 
 daily growing upon him returned with 
 greater vigor. 
 
 He leaned back in the coupe and gloomily 
 reflected. 
 
 He had been married scarcely a year, yet 
 even in the illusions of the honeymoon the 
 woman, older than himself, and the widow 
 of his old patron, had half unconsciously 
 reasserted herself, and slipped back into the 
 domination of her old position. It was at 
 first pleasant enough, — this half -maternal 
 protectorate which is apt to mingle even 
 with the affections of younger women, — and 
 Clarence, in his easy, half-feminine intui- 
 tion of the sex, yielded, as the strong are 
 apt to yield, through the very consciousness 
 of their own superiority. But this is a 
 quality the weaker are not apt to recognize, 
 and the woman who has once tasted equal 
 power with her husband not only does not 
 easily relegate it, but even makes its contin- 
 uance a test of the affections. The usual 
 triumphant feminine conclusion, "Then you 
 no longer love me," had in Clarence's brief 
 experience gone even further and reached 
 
CLARENCE. 3 
 
 its inscrutable climax, " Then I no longer 
 love you," although shown only in a momen- 
 tary hardening of the eye and voice. And 
 added to this was his sudden, but con- 
 fused remembrance that ' he had seen that 
 eye and heard that voice in marital alterca- 
 tion during Judge Peyton's life, and that 
 he himself, her boy partisan, had symjDa- 
 thized with her. Yet, strange to say, this 
 had given him more pain than her occa- 
 sional other reversions to the past — to her 
 old suspicions of him when he was a youth- 
 ful protege of her husband and a presumed 
 suitor of her adopted daughter Susy. High 
 natures are more apt to forgive wrong done 
 to themselves than any abstract injustice. 
 And her capricious tyranny over her depen- 
 dents and servants, or an unreasoning en- 
 mity to a neighbor or friend, outraged his 
 finer sense more than her own misconcep- 
 tion of himself. Nor did he dream that this 
 was a thing most women seldom understand, 
 or, understanding, ever forgive. 
 
 The coupe rattled over the stones or 
 swirled through the muddy pools of the main 
 thoroughfares. Newspaper and telegraphic 
 offices were still brilliantly lit, and crowds 
 were gathered among the bulletin boards. 
 
4 CLARENCE. 
 
 He knew tliat news had arrived from Wash- 
 ington that evening of the first active out- 
 breaks of secession, and that the city was 
 breathless with excitement. Had he not just 
 come from the theatre, where certain insig- 
 nificant allusions in the play had been sud- 
 denly caught up and cheered or hissed by 
 hitherto unknown partisans, to the dumb 
 astonishment of a majority of the audience 
 comfortably settled to money-getting and 
 their own affairs alone? Had he not ap- 
 plauded, albeit half-scornfully, the pretty 
 actress — his old playmate Susy — ■ who had 
 audaciously and all incongruously waved the 
 American flag in their faces ? Yes ! he had 
 known it; had lived for the last few weeks 
 in an atmosphere electrically surcharged 
 with it — and yet it had chiefly affected him 
 in his personal homelessness. For his wife 
 was a Southerner, a born slaveholder, and 
 a secessionist, whose noted prejudices to the 
 North had even outrun her late husband's 
 politics. At first the piquancy and reck- 
 lessness of her opinionative speech amused 
 him as part of her characteristic flavor, or 
 as a lingering youthfulness which the ma- 
 turer intellect always pardons. He had 
 never taken her politics seriously — why 
 
CLARENCE. 5 
 
 should he ? With her head on his shoulder 
 he had listened to her extravagant diatribes 
 against the North. He had forgiven her 
 outrageous indictment of his caste and his 
 associates for the sake of the imperious but 
 handsome lips that uttered it. But when 
 he was compelled to listen to her words 
 echoed and repeated by her friends and 
 family; when he found that with the clan- 
 nishness of her race she had drawn closer to 
 them in this controversy, — that she de- 
 pended upon them for her intelligence and 
 information rather than upon him, — he had 
 awakened to the reality of his situation. He 
 had borne the allusions of her brother, 
 whose old scorn for his dependent childhood 
 had been embittered by his sister's mar- 
 riage and was now scarcely concealed. Yet, 
 while he had never altered his own political 
 faith and social creed in this antagonistic 
 atmosphere, he had often wondered, with 
 his old conscientiousness and characteristic 
 self-abnegation, whether his own political 
 convictions were not merely a revulsion 
 from his domestic tyranny and alien sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 In the midst of this gloomy retrospect 
 the coupe stopped with a jerk before his 
 
6 CLARENCE. 
 
 own house. The door was quickly opened by 
 a servant, who appeared to be awaiting him. 
 
 " Some one to see you in the library, sir," 
 said the man, " and " — He hesitated and 
 looked towards the coupe. 
 
 " Well?" said Clarence impatiently. 
 
 " He said, sir, as how you were not to 
 send away the carriage." 
 
 " Indeed, and who is it? " demanded Clar- 
 ence sharply. 
 
 " Mr. Hooker. He said I was to say 
 Jim Hooker." 
 
 The momentary annoyance in Clarence's 
 face changed to a look of reflective curiosity. 
 
 " He said he knew you were at the thea- 
 tre, and he would wait until you came 
 home," continued the man, dubiously watch- 
 ing his master's face. "He don't know 
 you 've come in, sir, and — and I can easily 
 get rid of him." 
 
 " No matter now. I '11 see him, and," 
 added Clarence, with a faint smile, " let 
 the carriage wait." 
 
 Yet, as he turned towards the library he 
 was by no means certain that an interview 
 with the old associate of his boyhood under 
 Judge Peyton's guardianship would divert 
 his mind. Yet he let no trace of his doubts 
 
CLARENCE. 7 
 
 nor of his past gloom show in his face as he 
 entered the room. 
 
 Mr. Hooker was apparently examining 
 the elegant furniture and luxurious accom- 
 modation with his usual resentful envious- 
 ness. Clarence had got a "soft thing." 
 That it was more or less the result of his 
 "artfulness," and that he was unduly 
 "puffed up" by it, was, in Hooker's char- 
 acteristic reasoning, equally clear. As his 
 host smilingly advanced with outstretched 
 hand, Mr. Hooker's efforts to assume a 
 proper abstraction of manner and contemp- 
 tuous indifference to Clarence's surround- 
 ings which should wound his vanity ended 
 in his lolling back at full length in the chair 
 with his eyes on the ceiling. But, remem- 
 bering suddenly that he was really the 
 bearer of a message to Clarence, it struck 
 him that his supine position was, from a 
 theatrical view-point, infelicitous. In his 
 experiences of the stage he had never de- 
 livered a message in that way. He rose 
 awkwardly to his feet. 
 
 "It was so good of you to wait," said 
 Clarence courteously. 
 
 "Saw you in the theatre," said Hooker 
 brusquely. "Third row in parquet. Susy 
 
8 CLARENCE. 
 
 said it was you, and had suthin' to say to 
 you. Suthin' you ought to know," he con- 
 tinued, with a slight return of his old mys- 
 tery of manner which Clarence so well re- 
 membered. "You saw her — she fetched 
 the house with that flag business, eh? She 
 knows which way the cat is going to jump, 
 you bet. I tell you, for all the blowing of 
 these secessionists, the Union 's goin' to 
 pay ! Yes, sir ! " He stopped, glanced 
 round the handsome room, and added 
 darkly, "Mebbee better than this." 
 
 With the memory of Hooker's character- 
 istic fondness for mystery still in his mind, 
 Clarence overlooked the innuendo, and said 
 smilingly, — 
 
 "Why did n't you bring Mrs. Hooker 
 here? I should have been honored with 
 her company." 
 
 Mr. Hooker frowned slightly at this seem- 
 ing levity. 
 
 "Never goes out after a performance. 
 Nervous exhaustion. Left her at our rooms 
 in Market Street. We can drive there in 
 ten minutes. That 's why I asked to have 
 the carriage wait." 
 
 Clarence hesitated. Without caring in 
 the least to renew the acquaintance of his 
 
CLARENCE. 9 
 
 old playmate and sweetheart, a meeting that 
 night in some vague way suggested to him 
 a providential diversion. Nor was he de- 
 ceived by any gravity in the message. 
 With his remembrance of Susy's theatrical 
 tendencies, he was quite prepared for any 
 capricious futile extravagance. 
 
 "You are sure we will not disturb her? " 
 he said politely. 
 
 "No." 
 
 Clarence led the way to the carriage. If 
 Mr. Hooker expected him during the jour- 
 ney to try to divine the purport of Susy's 
 message he was disappointed. His compan- 
 ion did not allude to it. Possibly looking 
 upon it as a combined theatrical perform- 
 ance, Clarence preferred to wait for Susy as 
 the better actor. The carriage rolled rap- 
 idly through the now deserted streets, and 
 at last, under the directions of Mr. Hooker, 
 who was leaning half out of the window, it 
 drew up at a middle-class restaurant, above 
 whose still lit and steaming windows were 
 some ostentatiously public apartments, ac- 
 cessible from a side entrance. As they 
 ascended the staircase together, it became 
 evident that Mr. Hooker was scarcely more 
 at his ease in the character of host than he 
 
10 CLARENCE. 
 
 had been as guest. He stared gloomily at 
 a descending visitor, grunted audibly at a 
 waiter in the passage, and stopped before a 
 door, where a recently deposited tray dis- 
 played the half -eaten carcase of a fowl, an 
 empty champagne bottle, two half-filled 
 glasses, and a faded bouquet. The whole 
 passage was redolent with a singular blend- 
 ing of damp cooking, stale cigarette smoke, 
 and patchouli. 
 
 Putting the tray aside with his foot, Mr. 
 Hooker opened the door hesitatingly and 
 peered into the room, muttered a few indis- 
 tinct words, which were followed by a rapid 
 rustling of skirts, and then, with his hand 
 still on the door-knob, turning to Clarence, 
 who had discreetly halted on the threshold, 
 flung the door open theatrically and bade 
 him enter. 
 
 "She is somewhere in the suite," he 
 added, with a large wave of the hand to- 
 wards a door that was still oscillating-. "Be 
 here in a minit." 
 
 Clarence took in the apartment with a 
 quiet glance. Its furniture had the frayed 
 and discolored splendors of a public parlor 
 which had been privately used and mal- 
 treated; there were stains in the larsre 
 
CLARENCE. 11 
 
 medallioned carpet; the gilded veneer had 
 been chipped from a heavy centre table, 
 showing the rough, white deal beneath, 
 which gave it the appearance of a stage 
 "property;" the walls, paneled with gilt- 
 framed mirrors, reflected every domestic 
 detail or private relaxation with shameless 
 publicity. A damp waterproof, shawl, and 
 open newspaper were lying across the once 
 brilliant sofa; a powder-puff, a plate of 
 fruit, and a play-book were on the centre 
 table, and on the marble-topised sideboard 
 was Mr. Hooker's second-best hat, with a 
 soiled collar, evidently but lately exchanged 
 for the one he had on, peeping over its brim. 
 The whole apartment seemed to mingle the 
 furtive disclosures of the dressing - room 
 with the open ostentations of the stage, 
 with even a slight suggestion of the audito- 
 rium in a few scattered programmes on the 
 floor and chairs. 
 
 The inner door opened again with a 
 slight theatrical start, and Susy, in an elab- 
 orate dressing-gown, moved languidly into 
 the room. She apparently had not had time 
 to change her underskirt, for there was the 
 dust of the stage on its delicate lace edging, 
 as she threw herself into an armchair and 
 
12 CLARENCE. 
 
 crossed her pretty slippered feet before her. 
 Her face was pale, its pallor incautiously 
 increased by powder; and as Clarence 
 looked at its still youthful, charming out- 
 line, he was not perhaps sorry that the ex- 
 quisite pink and white skin beneath, which 
 he had once kissed, was hidden from that 
 awakened recollection. Yet there was little 
 trace of the girlish Susy in the pretty, but 
 prematurely jaded, actress before him, and 
 he felt momentarily relieved. It was her 
 youth and freshness appealing to his own 
 youth and imagination that he had loved — 
 not her. Yet as she greeted him with a 
 slight exaggeration of glance, voice, and 
 manner, he remembered that even as a girl 
 she was an actress. 
 
 Nothing of this, however, was in his voice 
 and manner as he gently thanked her for the 
 opportunity of meeting her again. And he 
 was frank, for the diversion he had expected 
 he had found; he even was conscious of 
 thinking more kindly of his wife who had 
 supplanted her. 
 
 "I told Jim he must fetch you if he had 
 to carry you," she said, striking the palm 
 of her hand with her fan, and glancing at 
 her husband. "I reckon he guessed why, 
 
CLARENCE. 13 
 
 thougli I did n't tell him — I don't tell Jim 
 everything J" ^ 
 
 Here Jim rose, and looking at his watch, 
 "onessed he 'd run over to the Lick House 
 and get some cigars." If he was acting 
 upon some hint from his wife, his simula- 
 tion was so badly done that Clarence felt his 
 first sense of uneasiness. But as Hooker 
 closed the door awkwardly and unostenta- 
 tiously behind him, Clarence smilingly said 
 he had waited to hear the message from her 
 own lips. 
 
 "Jim only knows what he's heard out- 
 side: the talk of men, you know, — and he 
 hears a good deal of that — more, perhaps, 
 than you do. It was that which put me up 
 to finding out the truth. And I didn't rest 
 till I did. I 'm not to be fooled, Clarence, 
 — you don't mind my calling you Clarence 
 now we 're both married and done for, — and 
 I 'm not the kind to be fooled by anybody 
 from the Cow counties — and that 's the Ro- 
 bles Ranche. I 'm a Southern woman myself 
 from Missouri, but I 'm for the Union first, 
 last, and all the time, and I call myself a 
 match for any lazy, dawdling, lash-swinging 
 slaveholder and slaveholderess — whether 
 they 're mixed blood, Heaven only knows, 
 
14 CLARENCE. 
 
 or what — or their friends or relations, or 
 the dirty half-Spanish grandees and their 
 mixed half - nigger peons who truckle to 
 them. You bet!" 
 
 His blood had stirred quickly at the men- 
 tion of the Robles Kanche, but the rest of 
 Susy's speech was too much in the vein of 
 her old extravagance to touch him seriously. 
 He found himself only considering how 
 strange it was that the old petulance and 
 impulsiveness of her girlhood were actually 
 bringing back with them her pink cheeks 
 and brilliant eyes. 
 
 "You surely didn't ask Jim to bring me 
 here," he said smilingly, "to tell me that 
 Mrs. Peyton" — he corrected himself has- 
 tily as a malicious sparkle came into Susy's 
 blue eyes — "that my wife was a Southern 
 woman, and probably sympathized with her 
 class? Well, I don't know that I should 
 blame her for that any more than she should 
 blame me for being a Northern man and a 
 Unionist." 
 
 "And she does n't blame you?" asked 
 Susy sneeringly. 
 
 The color came slightly to Clarence's 
 cheek, but before he could reply the actress 
 added, — 
 
CLARENCE. 15 
 
 "No, she prefers to use you! " 
 
 "I don't think I understand you," said 
 Clarence, rising coldly. 
 
 "No, you don't understand Aer/" re- 
 torted Susy sharply. "Look here, Clar- 
 ence Brant, you 're right; I didn't ask you 
 here to tell you — what you and everybody 
 knows — that your wife is a Southerner. I 
 didn't ask you here to tell you what every- 
 body suspects — that she turns you round 
 her little finger. But I did ask you here to 
 tell you what nobody, not even you, sus- 
 pects — but what / know ! — and that is that 
 she's a traitor — and more, a spy! — and 
 that I 've only got to say the word, or send 
 that man Jim to say the word, to have her 
 dragged out of her Copperhead den at Ro- 
 bles Ranche and shut up in Fort Alcatraz 
 this very night! " 
 
 Still with the pink glowing in her round- 
 ing cheek, and eyes snajjping like splintered 
 sapphires, she rose to her feet, with her 
 pretty shoulders lifted, her small hands and 
 white teeth both tightly clenched, and took 
 a step towards him. Even in her attitude 
 there was a reminiscence of her wilKul child- 
 hood, although still blended with the pro- 
 vincial actress whom he had seen on the 
 
16 CLARENCE. 
 
 stage only an hour ago. Thoroughly 
 alarmed at her threat, in his efforts to con- 
 ceal his feelings he was not above a weak 
 retaliation. Stepping back, he affected to 
 rea:ard her with a critical admiration that 
 was only half simulated, and said with a 
 smile, — 
 
 " Very well done — but you have forgot- 
 ten the flag." 
 
 She did not flinch. Rather accepting the 
 sarcasm as a tribute to her art, she went on 
 with increasing exaggeration: "No, it is 
 you who have forgotten the flag — forgotten 
 your country, your people, your manhood 
 — everything for that high-toned, double- 
 dyed old spy and traitress ! For while you 
 are standing here, your wife is gathering 
 under her roof at Robles a gang of spies and 
 traitors like herself — secession leaders and 
 their bloated, drunken 'chivalry ' ! Yes, 
 you may smile your superior smile, but I 
 tell you, Clarence Brant, that with all your 
 smartness and book learning you know no 
 more of what goes on around you than a 
 child. But others do ! This conspiracy is 
 known to the government, the Federal offi- 
 cers have been warned ; General Sumner has 
 been sent out here — and his first act was to 
 
CLARENCE. 17 
 
 change the command at Fort Alcatraz, and 
 send your wife's Southern friend — Captain 
 Pinckney — to the right about ! Yes — 
 everything is known but one thing, and that 
 is loJiere and lioiv this precious crew meet! 
 That I alone know, and that I 've told 
 you!" 
 
 "And I suppose," said Clarence, with an 
 unchanged smile, "that this valuable infor- 
 mation came from your husband — my old 
 friend, Jim Hooker?" 
 
 "No," she answered sharply, "it comes 
 from Cencho — one of your own peons — 
 who is more true to you and the old 
 Rancho than you have ever been. He saw 
 what was going on, and came to me, to 
 
 warn you 
 
 "But why not to me directly?" asked 
 Clarence, with affected incredulity. 
 
 "Ask him!" she said viciously. "Per- 
 haps he didn't want to wai'n the master 
 against the mistress. Pei-haps he thought 
 ?f?e are still friends. Perhaps" — she hesi- 
 tated with a lower voice and a forced smile 
 — "perhaps he used to see us together in 
 the old times." 
 
 "Very likely," said Clarence quietly. 
 "And for the sake of those old times, 
 
18 CLARENCE. 
 
 Susy," he went on, with a singular gentle- 
 ness that was quite distinct from his paling 
 face and set eyes, "I am going to forget 
 all that you have just said of me and mine, 
 in all the old willfulness and impatience that 
 I see you still keep — with all your old 
 prettiness." He took his hat from the table 
 and gravely held out his hand. 
 
 She was frightened for a moment with his 
 impassive abstraction. In the old days she 
 had known it — had believed it was his 
 dogged "obstinacy" — but she knew the 
 hopelessness of opposing it. Yet with fem- 
 inine persistency she again threw herself 
 against it, as against a wall. 
 
 "You don't believe me! Well, go and 
 see for yourself. They are at Robles now. 
 If you catch the early morning stage at 
 Santa Clara you will come upon them be- 
 fore they disperse. Dare you try it?" 
 
 "Whatever I do," he returned smil- 
 ingly, "I shall always be grateful to you 
 for giving me this opportunity of seeing you 
 again as you were. Make my excuses to 
 your husband. Good-night." 
 
 "Clarence!" 
 
 But he had already closed the door behind 
 him. His face did not relax its expression 
 
CLARENCE. 19 
 
 nor change as he looked again at the tray 
 with its broken viands before the door, the 
 worn, stained hall carpet, or the waiter who 
 shuffled past him. He was apparently as 
 critically conscious of them and of the close 
 odors of the hall, and the atmosphere of list- 
 less decay and faded extravagance around 
 him, as before the interview. But if the 
 woman he had just parted from had watched 
 him she would have supposed he still ut- 
 terly disbelieved her story. Yet he was 
 conscious that all that he saw was a part of 
 his degradation, for he had believed every 
 word she had uttered. Through all her ex- 
 travagance, envy, and revengefulness he saw 
 the central truth — that he had been de- 
 ceived — not by his wife, but by himself! 
 He had suspected all this before. This was 
 what had been really troubling him — this 
 was what he had put aside, rather than his 
 faith, not in her, but in his ideal. He re- 
 membered letters that had passed between 
 her and Captain Pinckney — letters that she 
 had openly sent to notorious Southern lead- 
 ers; her nervous anxiety to remain at the 
 Rancho; the innuendoes and significant 
 glances of friends which he had put aside — 
 as he had this woman's message! Susy had 
 
20 CLARENCE. 
 
 told him nothing new of his wife — but the 
 truth of himself'/ And the revelation came 
 from people who he was conscious were the, 
 inferiors of himself and his wife. To an 
 independent, proud, and self-made man it 
 was the culminating stroke. 
 
 In the same abstracted voice he told 
 the coachman to drive home. The return 
 seemed interminable — though he never 
 shifted his position. Yet when he drew up 
 at his own door and looked at his watch he 
 found he had been absent only half an hour. 
 Only half an hour! As he entered the 
 house he turned with the same abstraction 
 towards a mirror in the hall, as if he ex- 
 pected to see some outward and visible 
 change in himself in that time. Dismissing 
 his servants to bed, he went into his dress- 
 ing-room, completely changed his attire, put 
 on a pair of long riding-boots, and throw- 
 ing a serape over his shoulders, paused a 
 moment, took a pair of small "Derringer" 
 pistols from a box, put them in his pockets, 
 and then slijjped cautiously down the stair- 
 case. A lack of confidence in his own do- 
 mestics had invaded him for the first time. 
 The lights were out. He silently opened 
 the door and was in the street. 
 
CLARENCE. 21 
 
 He walked hastily a few squares to a 
 livery stable wliose proprietor he knew. 
 His first inquiry was for one "Redskin," a 
 particular horse ; the second for its proprie- 
 tor. Happily both were in. The proprie- 
 tor asked no question of a customer of Clar- 
 ence's condition. The horse, half Spanish, 
 powerful and irascible, was quickly saddled. 
 As Clarence mounted, the man in an im- 
 pulse of sociability said, — 
 
 "Saw you at the theatre to-night, sir." 
 
 "Ah," returned Clarence, quietly gather- 
 ing up the reins. 
 
 "Rather a smart trick of that woman 
 with the flag," he went on tentatively. 
 Then, with a possible doubt of his custom- 
 er's politics, he added with a forced smile, 
 "I reckon it 's all party fuss, though; there 
 ain't any real danger." 
 
 But fast as Clarence might ride the words 
 lingered in his ears. He saw through the 
 man's hesitation ; he, too, had probably 
 heard that Clarence Brant weakly sympa- 
 thized with his wife's sentiments, and dared 
 not speak fully. And he understood the 
 cowardly suggestion that there was "no 
 real danger." It had been Clarence's one 
 fallacy. He had believed the public ex- 
 
22 CLARENCE. 
 
 citement was only a temporary outbreak 
 of partisan feeling, soon to subside. Even 
 now he was conscious that he was less 
 doubtful of the integrity of the Union than 
 of his own household. It was not the devo- 
 tion of the patriot, but the indignation of 
 an outraged husband, that was spurring him 
 on. 
 
 He knew that if he reached Woodville by 
 five o'clock he could get ferried across the 
 bay at the Embarcadero, and catch the 
 down coach to Fair Plains, whence he could 
 ride to the Rancho. As the coach did not 
 connect directly with San Francisco, the 
 chance of his surprising them was greater. 
 Once clear of the city outskirts, he bullied 
 Redskin into irascible speed, and plunged 
 into the rainy darkness of the highroad. 
 The way was familiar. For a while he was 
 content to feel the buffeting, caused by his 
 rapid pace, of wind and rain against his de- 
 pressed head and shoulders in a sheer brutal 
 sense of opposition and power, or to relieve 
 his pent-up excitement by dashing through 
 overflowed gullies in the road or across the 
 quaggy, sodden edges of meadowland, until 
 he had controlled Redskin's rebellious ex- 
 travagance into a long steady stride. Then 
 
CLARENCE. 23 
 
 he raised his head and straightened himself 
 on the saddle, to think. But to no purpose. 
 He had no plan; everything would dejjend 
 upon the situation; the thought of forestall- 
 ing any action of the conspirators, by warn- 
 ing or calling in the aid of the authorities, 
 for an instant crossed his mind, but was as 
 instantly dismissed. He had but an instinct 
 — to see with his own eyes what his rea- 
 son told him was true. Day was break- 
 ing through drifting scud and pewter-col- 
 ored clouds as he reached Woodville ferry, 
 checkered with splashes of the soil and the 
 spume of his horse, from whose neck and 
 flanks the sweat rolled like lather. Yet he 
 was not conscious how intent had been his 
 l^urpose until he felt a sudden instinctive 
 shock on seeing that the . ferryboat was 
 gone. For an instant his wonderful self- 
 possession abandoned him; he could only 
 gaze vacantly at the leaden-colored bay, 
 without a thought or expedient. But in 
 another moment he saw that the boat was 
 returning from the distance. Had he lost 
 his only chance? He glanced hurriedly at 
 his watch; he had come more quickly than 
 he imagined; there would still be time. He 
 beckoned impatiently to the ferryman; the 
 
24 CLARENCE. 
 
 boat — a ship's pinnace, with two men in 
 it — crept in with exasperating slowness. 
 At last the two rowers suddenly leajied 
 ashore. 
 
 "Ye might have come before, with the 
 other passenger. We don't reckon to run 
 lightnin' trips on this ferry." 
 
 But Clarence was himself again. " Twenty 
 dollars for two more oars in that boat," he 
 said quietly, "and fifty if you get me over 
 in time to catch the down stage." 
 
 The man glanced at Clarence's eyes. 
 "Run up and rouse out Jake and Sam," he 
 said to the other boatman; then more lei- 
 surely, gazing at his customer's travel- 
 stained equipment, he said, "There must 
 have been a heap o' passengers got left by 
 last night's boat. You 're the second man 
 that took this route in a hurry." 
 
 At any other time the coincidence might 
 have struck Clarence. But he only an- 
 swered curtly, "Unless we are under way 
 in ten minutes you will find I am not the 
 second man, and that our bargain 's off." 
 
 But here two men emerged from the 
 shanty beside the ferryhouse, and tumbled 
 sleepily into the boat. Clarence seized an 
 extra pair of sculls that were standing 
 
CLARENCE. 25 
 
 against the slied, and threw them into the 
 stern. "I don't mind taking- a hand my- 
 self for exercise," he said quietly. 
 
 The ferryman glanced again at Clarence's 
 travel-worn figure and determined eyes with 
 mingled approval and surprise. He lin- 
 gered a moment with his oars lifted, looking 
 at his passenger. "It ain't no business 
 o' mine, young man," he said deliberately, 
 "but I reckon you understand me when I 
 say that I 've just taken another man over 
 there." 
 
 "I do," said Clarence impatiently. 
 
 "And you still want to go? " 
 
 "Certainly," replied Clarence, with a cold 
 stare, taking up his oars. 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders, bent 
 himself for the stroke, and the boat sprung 
 forward. The others rowed strongly and 
 rapidly, the tough ashen blades springing 
 like steel from the water, the heavy boat 
 seeming to leap in successive bounds until 
 they were fairly beyond the curving inshore 
 current and clearing the placid, misty sur- 
 face of the bay, Clarence did not speak, 
 but bent abstractedly over his oar ; the ferry- 
 man and his crew rowed in equal panting 
 silence ; a few startled ducks whirred before 
 
26 CLARENCE. 
 
 tliem, but dropped again to rest. In lialf 
 an hour they were at the Embarcadero. 
 The time was fairly up. Clarence's eyes 
 were eagerly bent for the first appearance 
 of the stage-coach around the little promon- 
 tory; the ferryman was as eagei-ly scanning 
 the bare, empty street of the still sleeping 
 settlement. 
 
 "I don't see him anywhere," said the 
 ferryman with a glance, half of astonish- 
 ment and half of curiosity, at his solitary 
 passenger. 
 
 "See whom?" asked Clarence carelessly, 
 as he handed the man his promised fee. 
 
 "The other man I ferried over to catch 
 the stage. He must have gone on without 
 waiting. You 're in luck, young fellow! " 
 
 "I don't understand you," said Clar- 
 ence impatiently. " What has your previ- 
 ous passenger to do with me? " 
 
 "Well, I reckon you know best. He's 
 the kind of man, gin 'rally speaking, that 
 other men, in a pow'ful hurry, don't care 
 to meet — and, az a rule, don't /b/Zer arter. 
 It 's gin 'rally the other way." 
 
 "What do you mean? " inquired Clarence 
 sternly. "Of whom are you speaking? " 
 
 "The Chief of Police of San Francisco! " 
 
CHAPTEE II. 
 
 The laugh that instinctively broke from 
 Clarence's lips was so sincere and unaf- 
 fected that the man was disconcerted, and 
 at last joined in it, a little shamefacedly. 
 The grotesqvie blunder of being taken as 
 a fugitive from justice relieved Clarence's 
 mind from its acute tension, — he was mo- 
 mentarily diverted, — and it was not until 
 the boatman had departed, and he was again 
 alone, that it seemed to have any collateral 
 significance. Then an uneasy recollection 
 of Susy's threat that she had the power to 
 put his wife in Fort Alcatraz came across 
 him. Could she have already warned the 
 municipal authorities and this man? But 
 he quickly remembered that any action from 
 such a warning could only have been taken 
 by the United States Marshal, and not by a 
 civic official, and dismissed the idea. 
 
 Nevertheless, when the stage with its half- 
 spent lamps still burning dimly against the 
 morning light swept round the curve and 
 
28 CLARENCE. 
 
 rolled heavily up to the rude shanty which 
 served as coach-office, he became watchful. 
 A single yawning individual in its doorway 
 received a few letters and parcels, but 
 Clarence was evidently the only waiting 
 passenger. Any hope that he might have 
 entertained that his mysterious predecessor 
 would emerge from some seclusion at that 
 moment was disappointed. As he entered 
 the coach he made a rapid survey of his 
 fellow-travelers, but satisfied himself that 
 the stranger was not among them. They 
 were mainly small traders or farmers, a 
 miner or two, and apparently a Spanish- 
 American of better degree and jDcrsonality. 
 Possibly the circumstance that men of this 
 class usually preferred to travel on horse- 
 back and were rarely seen in public convey- 
 ances attracted his attention, and their eyes 
 met more than once in mutual curiosity. 
 Presently Clarence addressed a remark to 
 the stranger in Spanish; he replied fluently 
 and courteously, but at the next stopping- 
 place he asked a question of the expressman 
 in an unmistakable Missouri accent. Clar- 
 ence's curiosity was satisfied; he was evi- 
 dently one of those early American settlers 
 who had been so long domiciled in Southern 
 
CLARENCE. 29 
 
 California as to adopt the speech as well as 
 the habiliments of the Spaniard. 
 
 The conversation fell upon the political 
 news of the previous night, or rather seemed 
 to be lazily continued from some previous, 
 more excited discussion, in which one of the 
 contestants — a red-bearded miner — had 
 subsided into an occasional growl of surly 
 dissent. It struck Clarence that the Mis- 
 sourian had been an amused auditor and 
 even, judging from a twinkle in his eye, a 
 mischievous instigator of the controversy. 
 He was not surprised, therefore, when the 
 man turned to him with a certain courtesy 
 and said, — 
 
 "And what, sir, is the political feeling 
 in your district?" 
 
 But Clarence was in no mood to be drawn 
 out, and replied, almost curtly, that as he had 
 come only from San Francisco, they were 
 probably as well informed on that subject 
 as himself. A quick and searching glance 
 from the stranger's eye made him regret his 
 answer, but in the silence that ensued the 
 red-bearded miner, evidently still ranlding 
 at heart, saw his opportunity. Slapping his 
 huge hands on his knees, and leaning far 
 forward until he seemed to plunge his flam- 
 
so CLARENCE. 
 
 ing beard, like a firebrand, into the contro- 
 versy, lie said grimly, — 
 
 "Well, I kin tell you, gen'l'men, this. 
 It ain't goin' to be no matter wot 's the j)0- 
 litical feeling here or thar — it ain't goin' to 
 be no matter wot 's the State's rights and 
 wot 's Fed'ral rights — it ain't goin' to be 
 no question whether the gov'ment 's got the 
 right to relieve its own soldiers that those 
 Secesh is besieging in Fort Sumter or 
 whether they haven't — but the first gun 
 that 's fired at the flag blows the chains off 
 
 every d n nigger south of Mason and 
 
 Dixon's line! You hear me! I 'm shout- 
 in' ! And whether you call yourselves 'Se- 
 cesh ' or 'Union ' or 'Copperhead ' or 'Peace 
 men,' you 've got to face it! " 
 
 There was an angry start in one or two 
 of the seats ; one man caught at the swing- 
 ing side-strap and half rose, a husky voice 
 
 began, "It 's a d d " — and then all as 
 
 suddenly subsided. Every eye was turned 
 to an insignificant figure in the back seat. 
 It was a woman, holding a child on her 
 lap, and gazing out of the window with her 
 sex's profound unconcern in politics. Clar- 
 ence understood the rude chivalry of the 
 road well enough to comprehend that this 
 
CLARENCE. 31 
 
 unconscious but omnipotent figure had more 
 than once that day controlled the passions of 
 the disputants. They dropped back weakly 
 to their seats, and their mutterings rolled 
 off in the rattle of the wheels. Clarence 
 glanced at the Missourian ; he was regard- 
 ing the red-bearded miner with a singular 
 curiosity. 
 
 The rain had ceased, but the afternoon 
 shadows were deepening when they at last 
 reached Fair Plains, where Clarence ex- 
 pected to take horse to the Rancho. He 
 was astonished, however, to learn that all 
 the horses in the stable were engaged, but 
 remembering that some of his own stock 
 were in pasturage with a tenant at Fair 
 Plains, and that he should probably have a 
 better selection, he turned his steps thither. 
 Passing out of the stable-yard he recognized 
 the Missourian 's voice in whispered conver- 
 sation with the proprietor, but the two men 
 withdrew into the shadow as he approached. 
 An ill-defined uneasiness came over him ; he 
 knew the proprietor, who also seemed to 
 know the Missourian, and this evident avoid- 
 ance of him was significant. Perhaps his 
 reputation as a doubtful Unionist had pre- 
 ceded him, but this would not account for 
 
32 CLARENCE. 
 
 their conduct in a district so strongly South- 
 ern in sympathy as Fair Plains. More im- 
 pressed by the occurrence than he cared to 
 admit, when at last, after some delay, he 
 had secured his horse, and was once more in 
 the saddle, he kept a sharp lookout for his 
 quondam companion. But here another 
 circumstance added to his suspicions : there 
 was a main road leading to Santa Inez, the 
 next town, and the Rancho, and this Clar- 
 ence had purposely taken in order to watch 
 the Missourian; but there was also a cut- 
 off directly to the Rancho, known only to 
 the habitues of the Rancho. After a few 
 moments' rapid riding on a mustang much 
 superior to any in the hotel stables, he was 
 satisfied that the stranger must have taken 
 the cut-off. Putting spurs to his horse he 
 trusted still to precede him to the Rancho 
 — if that were his destination. 
 
 As he dashed along the familiar road, by 
 a strange perversity of fancy, instead of 
 thinking of his purpose, he found himself 
 recalling the first time he had ridden that 
 way in the flush of his youth and hopeful- 
 ness. The girl-sweetheart he was then go- 
 ing to rejoin was now the wife of another; 
 the woman who had been her guardian was 
 
CLARENCE. 33 
 
 now liis own wife. He had accepted with- 
 out a pang the young girl's dereliction, but 
 it was through her revelation that he was 
 now about to confront the dereliction of his 
 own wife. And this was the reward of his 
 youthful trust and loyalty ! A bitter laugh 
 broke from his lips. It was part of his still 
 youthful self-delusion that he believed him- 
 self wiser and stronger for it. 
 
 It was quite dark when he reached the 
 upper field or first terrace of the Rancho. 
 He could see the white walls of the casa 
 rising dimly out of the green sea of early 
 wild grasses, like a phantom island. It was 
 here that the cut-off joined the main road — 
 now the only one that led to the casa. He 
 was satisfied that no one could have pre- 
 ceded him from Fair Plains; but it was 
 true that he must take precautions against 
 his own discovery. Dismounting near a 
 clump of willows, he unsaddled and un- 
 bridled his horse, and with a cut of the riata 
 over its haunches sent it flying across the 
 field in the direction of a band of feeding 
 mustangs, which it presently joined. Then, 
 keeping well in the shadow of a belt of 
 shrub-oaks, he skirted the long lesser ter- 
 races of the casa, intending to approach the 
 
34 CLARENCE. 
 
 house by way of the old garden and corral. 
 A drizzling rain, occasionally driven by the 
 wind into long, misty, curtain-like waves, 
 obscured the prospect and favored his de- 
 sign. He reached the low adobe wall of the 
 corral in safety; looking over he could de- 
 tect, in spite of the darkness, that a number 
 of the horses were of alien brands, and even 
 recognized one or two from the Santa Inez 
 district. The vague outline of buggies and 
 carryalls filled the long shed beside the sta- 
 bles. There was company at the casa — so 
 far Susy was right ! 
 
 Nevertheless, lingering still by the wall 
 of the old garden for the deepening of 
 night, his nervoixs feverishness was again 
 invaded and benumbed by sullen memories. 
 There was the opening left by the old grille 
 in the wall, behind which Mrs. Peyton stood 
 on the morning when he thought he was 
 leaving the ranch forever; where he had 
 first clasped her in his arms, and stayed. 
 A turn of the head, a moment's indecision, 
 a single glance of a languorous eye, had 
 brought this culmination. And now he 
 stood again before that ruined grille, his 
 house and lands, even his name^ misused by 
 a mad, scheming enthusiast, and himself a 
 
CLARENCE. 35 
 
 creeping spy of his own dishonor! He 
 turned with\a bitter smile again to the gar- 
 den. A few dark red Castilian roses still 
 leaned forward and swayed in the wind with 
 dripping leaves. It was here that the first 
 morning of his arrival he had kissed Susy ; 
 the perfume and color of her pink skin came 
 back to him with a sudden shock as he stood 
 there; he caught at a flower, drew it to- 
 wards him, inhaled its odor in a long breath 
 that left him faint and leaning against the 
 wall. Then again he smiled, but this time 
 more wickedly — in what he believed his 
 cynicism had sprung up the first instinct of 
 revenge ! 
 
 It was now dark enough for him to ven- 
 tux'e across the carriage road and make his 
 way to the rear of the house. His first 
 characteristic instinct had been to enter 
 openly at his own front gate, but tlie terri- 
 ble temptation to overhear and watch the 
 conspiracy unobserved — that fascination 
 common to deceived humanity to witness its 
 own shame — had now grown upon him. 
 He knew that a word or gesture of explana- 
 tion, apology, appeal, or even terror from 
 his wife would check his rage and weaken 
 his purpose. His perfect knowledge of the 
 
36 CLARENCE. 
 
 house and the security of its inmates would 
 enable him from some obscure landing or 
 gallery to participate in any secret conclave 
 they might hold in the patio — the only 
 place suitable for so numerous a rendezvous. 
 The absence of light in the few external 
 windows pointed to this central gathering. 
 And he had already conceived his plan of 
 entrance. 
 
 Gaining the rear wall of the casa he be- 
 gan cautiously to skirt its brambly base 
 until he had reached a long, oven -like win- 
 dow half obliterated by a monstrous passion 
 vine. It was the window of what had once 
 been Mrs. Peyton's boudoir; the window by 
 which he had once forced an entrance to 
 the house when it was in the hands of squat- 
 ters, the window from which Susy had sig- 
 naled her Spanish lover, the window whose 
 grating had broken the neck of Judge Pey- 
 ton's presumed assassin. But these recol- 
 lections no longer delayed him; the moment 
 for action had arrived. He knew that since 
 the tragedy the boudoir had been disman- 
 tled and shunned; the servants believed it 
 to be haunted by the assassin's ghost. With 
 the aid of the passion vine the ingress was 
 easy; the interior window was open; the 
 
CLARENCE. 37 
 
 rustle of dead leaves on the bare floor as he 
 entered, and the whir of a frightened bird 
 by his ear, told the story of its desolation 
 and the source of the strange noises that 
 had been heard there. The door leading to 
 the corridor was lightly bolted, merely to 
 keep it from rattling in the wind. Slipping 
 the bolt with the blade of his pocket-knife 
 he peered into the dark passage. The light 
 streaming under a door to the left, and the 
 sound of voices, convinced him that his 
 conjecture was right, and the meeting was 
 gathered on the broad balconies around the 
 patio. He knew that a narrow gallery, 
 faced with Venetian blinds to exclude the 
 sun, looked down upon them. He managed 
 to gain it without discovery; luckily the 
 blinds were still down; between their slats, 
 himself invisible, he could hear -and see 
 everything that occurred. 
 
 Yet even at this supreme moment the first 
 thing that struck him was the almost ludi- 
 crous contrast between the appearance of the 
 meeting and its tremendous object. Whe- 
 ther he was influenced by any previous boy- 
 ish conception of a clouded and gloomy con- 
 spiracy he did not know, but he was for an 
 instant almost disconcerted by the apparent 
 
38 CLARENCE. 
 
 levity and festivity of the conclave. De- 
 canters and glasses stood on small tables 
 before them ; nearly all were drinking and 
 smoking. They comprised fifteen or twenty 
 men, some of whose faces were familiar to 
 Mm elsewhere as Southern politicians; a 
 few, he was shocked to see, were well-known 
 Northern Democrats. Occupying a charac- 
 teristically central position was the famous 
 Colonel Starbottle, of Virginia. Jaunty 
 and youthful - looking in his mask - like, 
 beardless face, expansive and dignified in his 
 middle - aged port and carriage, he alone 
 retained some of the importance — albeit 
 slightly theatrical and affected — of the oc- 
 casion. Clarence in his first hurried glance 
 had not observed his wife, and for a moment 
 had felt relieved; but as Colonel Starbot- 
 tle arose at that moment, and with a studi- 
 ously chivalrous and courtly manner turned 
 to his right, he saw that she was sitting at 
 the further end of the balcony, and that a 
 man whom he recognized as Captain Pinck- 
 ney was standing beside her. The blood 
 quickly tightened around his heart, but left 
 him cold and observant. 
 
 "It was seldom, indeed," remarked Col- 
 onel Starbottle, placing his fat fingers in 
 
CLARENCE. 39 
 
 tlie frill of his shirt front, "that a move- 
 ment like this was graced with the actual 
 presence of a lofty, mspiring, yet delicate 
 spirit — a Boadicea — indeed, he might say 
 a Joan of Arc — in the person of their 
 charming hostess, Mrs. Brant. Not only 
 were they favored by her social and hospi- 
 table ministration, but by her active and en- 
 thusiastic cooperation in the glorious work 
 they had in hand. It was through her cor- 
 respondence and earnest advocacy that they 
 were to be favored to-night with the aid 
 and counsel of one of the most distinguished 
 and powerful men in the Southern district 
 of California, Judge Beeswinger, of Los 
 Angeles. He had not the honor of that 
 gentleman's personal acquaintance; he be- 
 lieved he was not far wrong in saying that 
 this was also the misfortune of every' gentle- 
 man present; but the name itself was a 
 tower of strength. He would go further, 
 and say that Mrs. Brant herself was per- 
 sonally unacquainted with him, but it was 
 through the fervor, poetry, grace, and gen- 
 ius of her correspondence with that gentle- 
 man that they were to have the honor of his 
 presence that very evening. It was under- 
 stood that advices had been received of his 
 
40 CLARENCE. 
 
 departure, and that he might be expected at 
 Robles at any moment." 
 
 "But what proof have we of Judge Bees- 
 winger's soundness?" said a lazy Southern 
 voice at the conchision of Colonel Starbot- 
 tle's periods. "Nobody here seems to know 
 him by sight : is it not risky to admit a man 
 to our meeting whom we are unable to iden- 
 tify?" 
 
 " I reckon nobody but a fool or some pry- 
 ing mudsill of a Yankee would trust his skin 
 here, " returned another ; " and if he did we 'd 
 know what to do with him." 
 
 But Clarence's attention was riveted on 
 his wife, and the significant speech passed 
 him as unheeded as had the colonel's rhet- 
 oric. She was looking very handsome and 
 slightly flushed, with a proud light in her 
 eyes that he had never seen before. Ab- 
 sorbed in the discussion, she seemed to be 
 paying little attention to Captain Pinckney 
 as she rose suddenly to her feet. 
 
 "Judge Beeswinger will be attended here 
 by Mr. MacNiel, of the Fair Plains Hotel, 
 who will vouch for him and introduce him," 
 she said in a clear voice, which rang with 
 an imperiousness that Clarence well remem- 
 bered. "The judge was to arrive by the 
 
CLARENCE. 41 
 
 coach from Martinez to Fair Plains, and is 
 due now." 
 
 " Is there no gentleman to introduce him ? 
 Must we take him on the word of a common 
 trader — by Jove! a whiskey-seller?" con- 
 tinued the previous voice sneeringiy. 
 
 "On the word of a lady, Mr. Brooks," 
 said Captain Pinckney, with a slight ges- 
 ture towards Mrs. Brant — "who answers 
 for both." 
 
 Clarence had started slightly at his wife's 
 voice and the information it conveyed. His 
 fellow-passenger, and the confidant of Mac- 
 Niel, was the man they were expecting ! If 
 they had recognized him, Clarence, would 
 they not warn the company of his proxim- 
 ity? He held his breath as the sound of 
 voices came from the outer gate of the court- 
 yard. Mrs. Brant rose; at the same moment 
 the gate swung open, and a man entered. It 
 was the Missourian. 
 
 He turned with old-fashioned courtesy to 
 the single woman standing on the balcony. 
 
 " My fair corresjjondent, I believe ! I am 
 Judge Beeswinger. Your agent, MacNiel, 
 passed me through your guards at the gate, 
 but I did not deem it advisable to bring 
 him into this assembly of gentlemen with- 
 
42 CLARENCE. 
 
 out your further consideration. I trust I 
 was right." 
 
 The quiet dignity and self-possession, the 
 quaint, old-fashioned colonial precision of 
 speech, modified by a soft Virginian into- 
 nation, and, above all, some singular indi- 
 viduality of the man himself, produced a 
 profound sensation, and seemed to suddenly 
 give the gathering an impressiveness it had 
 lacked before. For an instant Clarence for- 
 got himself and his personal wrongs in the 
 shock of indignation he felt at this potent 
 addition to the ranks of his enemies. He 
 saw his wife's eyes sparkle with pride over 
 her acquisition, and noticed that Pinckney 
 cast a disturbed glance at the newcomer. 
 
 The stranger ascended the few steps to 
 the balcony and took Mrs. Brant's hand 
 with profound courtesy. "Introduce me to 
 my colleagues — distinctly and separately. 
 It behooves a man at such a moment to know 
 to whom he entrusts his life and honor, and 
 the life and honor of his cause." 
 
 It was evidently no mere formal courtesy 
 to the stranger. As he stepped forward 
 along the balcony, and under Mrs. Brant's 
 graceful guidance was introduced to each 
 of the members, he not only listened with 
 
CLARENCE. 43 
 
 scrupulous care and attention to the name 
 and profession of each man, but bent upon 
 him a clear, searching glance that seemed to 
 photograph him in his memory. With two 
 exceptions. He passed Colonel Starbottle's 
 expanding shirt frill with a bow of elaborate 
 precision, and said, "Colonel Starbottle's 
 fame requires neither introduction nor ex- 
 jDlanation." He stopped before Captain 
 Pinckney and paused. 
 
 "An officer of the United States army, I 
 believe, sir?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Educated at West Point, I think, by the 
 government, to whom you have taken the 
 oath of allegiance ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very good, sir," said the stranger, turn- 
 ing away. 
 
 "You have forgotten one other fact, sir," 
 said Pinckney, with a slightly supercilious 
 air. 
 
 "Indeed! What is it?" 
 
 "I am, first of all, a native of the State 
 of South Carolina! " 
 
 A murmur of applause and approval 
 ran round the balcony. Captain Pinckney 
 smiled and exchang-ed alances with Mrs. 
 
44 CLARENCE. 
 
 Brant, but the stranger quietly returned to 
 the central table beside Colonel Starbottle. 
 "I am not only an unexpected delegate to 
 this august assembly, gentlemen," he began 
 gravely, "but I am the bearer of perhaps 
 equally unexpected news. By my position 
 in the Southern district I am in possession 
 of dispatches received only this morning by 
 pony express. Fort Sumter has been be- 
 sieged. The United States flag, carrying 
 relief to the beleaguered garrison, has been 
 fired upon by the State of South Carolina." 
 A burst of almost hysteric applause and 
 enthusiasm broke from the assembly, and 
 made the dim, vault-like passages and cor- 
 ridors of the casa ring. Cheer after cheer 
 went up to the veiled gallery and the misty 
 sky beyond. Men mounted on the tables 
 and waved their hands frantically, and in 
 the midst of this bewildering turbulence of 
 sound and motion Clarence saw his wife 
 mounted on a chair, with burning cheeks 
 and flashing eyes, waving her handkerchief 
 like an inspired priestess. Only the stran- 
 ger, still standing beside Colonel Starbottle, 
 remained unmoved and impassive. Then, 
 with an imperative gesture, he demanded a 
 sudden silence. 
 
CLARENCE. 45 
 
 ** Convincing and unanimous as tliis 
 demonstration is, gentlemen," he began 
 quietly, "it is my duty, nevertheless, to ask 
 you if you have seriously considered the 
 meaning of the news I have brought. It is 
 my duty to tell you that it means civil war. 
 It means the clash of arms between two sec- 
 tions of a mighty country; it means the dis- 
 ruption of friends, the breaking of family 
 ties, the separation of fathers and sons, of 
 brothers and sisters — even, perhaps, to the 
 disseverment of husband and wife! " 
 
 "It means the sovereignty of the South 
 — and the breaking of a covenant with low- 
 born traders and abolitionists," said Cap- 
 tain Pinckney, 
 
 "If there are any gentlemen present," 
 continued the stranger, without heeding the 
 interruption, "who have pledged this State 
 to the support of the South in this emer- 
 gency, or to the establishment of a Pacific 
 republic in aid and sympathy with it, whose 
 names are on this paper " — he lifted a 
 sheet of paper lying before Colonel Star- 
 bottle — "but who now feel that the gravity 
 of the news demands a more serious consid- 
 eration of the purpose, they are at liberty 
 to withdraw from the meeting, giving their 
 
46 CLARENCE. 
 
 honor, as Southern gentlemen, to keep the 
 secret intact." 
 
 "Not if I know it," interrupted a stal- 
 wart Kentuckian, as he rose to his feet and 
 strode down the steps to the patio. "For," 
 he added, placing his back against the gate- 
 way, " I '11 shoot the first coward that backs 
 out now." 
 
 A roar of laughter and approval followed, 
 but was silenced again by the quiet, unim- 
 passioned voice of the stranger. "If, on 
 the other hand," he went on calmly, "you 
 all feel that this news is the fitting culmina- 
 tion and consecration of the hopes, wishes, 
 and plans of this meeting, you will assert it 
 again, over your own signatures, to Colonel 
 Starbottle at this table." 
 
 When the Kentuckian had risen, Clar- 
 ence had started from his concealment; 
 when he now saw the eager figures pressing 
 forward to the table he hesitated no longer. 
 Slipping along the passage, he reached the 
 staircase which led to the corridor in the 
 rear of the balcony. Descending this rap- 
 idly, he not only came upon the backs of 
 the excited crowd around the table, but even 
 elbowed one of the conspirators aside with- 
 out being noticed. His wife, who had risen 
 
CLARENCE. 47 
 
 from her chair at the end of the balcony, 
 was already moving towards the table. 
 With a quick movement he seized her wrist, 
 and threw her back in the chair again. A 
 cry broke from her lips as she recognized 
 him, but still holding her wrist, he stepped 
 quickly between her and the astonished 
 crowd. There was a moment of silence, 
 then the cry of "Spy! " and "Seize him! " 
 rose quickly, but above all the voice and 
 figure of the Missourian was heard com- 
 manding them to stand back. Turning to 
 Clarence, he said quietly, — 
 
 "I should know your face, sir. Who are 
 you?" 
 
 " The husband of this woman and the mas- 
 ter of this house," said Clarence as quietly, 
 but in a voice he hardly recognized as his 
 own. 
 
 " Stand aside from her, then — unless you 
 are hoping that her danger may protect 
 you ! " said the Kentuckian, significantly 
 drawing his revolver. 
 
 But Mrs. Brant sprang suddenly to her 
 feet beside Clarence. 
 
 "We are neither of us cowards, Mr. 
 Brooks — though he speaks the truth — and 
 — more shame to me" — she added, with a 
 
48 CLARENCE. 
 
 look of savage scorn at Clarence — "is my 
 husband ! " 
 
 "What is your purpose in coming here? " 
 continued Judge Beeswinger, with his eyes 
 fixed on Clarence. 
 
 "I have given you all the information," 
 said Clarence quietly, "that is necessary to 
 make you, as a gentleman, leave this house 
 at once — and that is my purpose. It is 
 all the information you will get from me 
 as long as you and your friends insult my 
 roof with your uninvited presence. What 
 I may have to say to you and each of you 
 hereafter — what I may choose to demand of 
 you, according to your own code of honor," 
 
 — he fixed his eyes on Captain Pinckney's, 
 
 — "is another question, and one not usually 
 discussed before a lady." 
 
 "Pardon me. A moment — a single mo- 
 ment." 
 
 It was the voice of Colonel Starbottle; it 
 was the frilled shirt front, the lightly but- 
 toned blue coat with its expanding lapels, 
 like bursting petals, and the smiling mask 
 of that gentleman rising above the table and 
 bowing to Clarence Brant and his wife with 
 infinite courtesy. " The — er — humiliating 
 situation in which we find ourselves, gentle- 
 
CLARENCE. 49 
 
 men, — the reluctant witnesses of — er — 
 what we trust is only a temporary disagree- 
 ment between our charming hostess and the 
 — er — gentleman whom she recognized un- 
 der the highest title to our consideration, — 
 is distressing to us all, and would seem to 
 amply justify that gentleman's claims to 
 a personal satisfaction, which I know we 
 would all delight to give. But that situa- 
 tion rests upon the supposition that our 
 gathering here was of a purely social or fes- 
 tive nature! It may be," continued the 
 colonel with a blandly reflective air, "that 
 the spectacle of these decanters and glasses, 
 and the nectar furnished us by our Hebe-like 
 hostess " (he lifted a glass of whiskey and 
 water to his lips while he bowed to Mrs. 
 Brant gracefully), "has led the gentleman 
 to such a deduction. But when I suggest to 
 him that our meeting was of a business, or 
 private nature, it strikes me that the ques- 
 tion of intrusion may be fairly divided be- 
 tween him and ourselves. We may be even 
 justified, in view of that privacy, in asking 
 him if his — ■ er — entrance to this house 
 was — er — coincident with his appearance 
 among us." 
 
 "With my front door in possession of 
 
50 CLARENCE. 
 
 strangers," said Clarence, more in reply to 
 a sudden contemptuous glance from his wife 
 than Starbottle's insinuation, "I entered 
 the house through the window." 
 
 "Of my boudoir, where another intruder 
 once broke his neck," interrupted his wife 
 with a mocking laugh. 
 
 "Where I once helped this lady to regain 
 possession of her house when it was held by 
 another party of illegal trespassers, who, 
 however, were content to call themselves 
 'jumpers,' and did not claim the privacy of 
 gentlemen." 
 
 "Do you mean to imply, sir," began 
 Colonel Starbottle haughtily, "that " — 
 
 "I mean to imply, sir," said Clarence 
 with quiet scorn, "that I have neither the 
 wish to know nor the slightest concern in 
 any purpose that brought you here, and that 
 when you quit the house you take your se- 
 crets and your privacy with you intact, with- 
 out let or hindrance from me." 
 
 "Do you mean to say, Mr. Brant," said 
 Judge Beeswinger, suppressing the angry 
 interruption of his fellows with a dominant 
 wave of his hand, as he fixed his eyes on 
 Clarence keenly, "that you have no sympa- 
 thy with your wife's political sentiments? " 
 
CLARENCE. . 51 
 
 "I have already given you the informa- 
 tion necessary to make you quit this house, 
 and that is all you have a right to know," 
 returned Clarence with folded arms. 
 
 "But / can answer for him," said Mrs. 
 Brant, rising, with a quivering voice and 
 curling lip. "There is no sympathy be- 
 tween us. We are as far apart as the poles. 
 We have nothing in common but this house 
 and his name." 
 
 "But you are husband and wife, bound 
 together by a sacred compact." 
 
 "A compact!" echoed Mrs. Brant, with 
 a bitter laugh. "Yes, the compact that 
 binds South Carolina to the nigger-worship- 
 ing Massachusetts. The compact that links 
 together white and black, the gentleman 
 and the trader, the planter and the poor 
 white — the compact of those United States. 
 Bah! that has been broken, and so can 
 this." 
 
 Clarence's face paled. But before he 
 could speak there was a rapid clattering at 
 the gate and a dismounted vaquero entered 
 excitedly. Turning to Mrs. Brant he said 
 hurriedly, "Mother of God! the casa is 
 surrounded by a rabble of mounted men, 
 and there is one amona' them even now who 
 
52 CLARENCE. 
 
 demands admittance in the name of the 
 Law." 
 
 "This is your work," said Brooks, facing 
 Clarence furiously. " You have brought 
 them with you, but, by God, they shall not 
 save you! " He would have clutched Clar- 
 ence, but the powerful arm of Judge Bees- 
 winger intervened. Nevertheless, he still 
 struggled to reach Clarence, appealing to 
 the others : " Are you fools to stand there 
 and let him triumph! Don't you see the 
 cowardly Yankee trick he 's played upon 
 us?" 
 
 "He has not," said Mrs. Brant haugh- 
 tily. "I have no reason to love him or his 
 friends; but I know he does not lie." 
 
 "Gentlemen ! — gentlemen ! " implored 
 Colonel Starbottle with beaming and unct- 
 uous persuasion, "may I — er — remark — 
 that all this is far from the question ? Are 
 we to be alarmed because an unknown rab- 
 ble, no matter whence they come, demand 
 entrance here in the name of the Law? I 
 am not aware of any law of the State of 
 California that we are infringing. By all 
 means admit them." 
 
 The gate was thrown open. A single 
 thick - set man, apparently unarmed and 
 
CLARENCE. 53 
 
 dressed like an ordinary traveler, followed 
 by half a dozen other equally unpretentious- 
 looking men, entered. The leader turned to 
 the balcony. 
 
 " I am the Chief of Police of San Fran- 
 cisco. I have warrants for the arrest 
 of Colonel Culpepper Starbottle, Joshua 
 Brooks, Captain Pinckney, Clarence Brant 
 and Alice his wife, and others charged with 
 inciting to riot and unlawful practice cal- 
 culated to disturb the peace of the State of 
 California and its relations with the Fed- 
 eral government," said the leader, in a dry 
 official voice. 
 
 Clarence started. In spite of its monoto- 
 nous utterance it was the voice of the red- 
 bearded controversialist of the stage-coach. 
 But where were his characteristic beard 
 and hair? Involuntarily Clarence glanced 
 at Judge Beeswinger; that gentleman was 
 quietly regarding the stranger with an im- 
 passive face that betrayed no recognition 
 whatever. 
 
 "But the city of San Francisco has no 
 jurisdiction here," said Colonel Starbottle, 
 turning a bland smile towards his fellow- 
 members. " I am — er — sorry to inform 
 you that you are simply trespassing, sir." 
 
54 CLARENCE. 
 
 "I am here also as deputy sheriff," re- 
 turned the stranger coolly. " We were un- 
 able to locate the precise place of this meet- 
 ing, although we knew of its existence, I 
 was sworn in this morning at Santa Inez by 
 the judge of this district, and these gentle- 
 men with me are my posse." 
 
 There was a quick movement of resistance 
 by the members, which was, however, again 
 waived blandly aside by Colonel Starbottle. 
 Leaning forward in a slightly forensic atti- 
 tude, with his fingers on the table and a 
 shirt frill that seemed to have become of it- 
 self erectile, he said, with pained but polite 
 precision, "I grieve to have to state, sir, 
 that even that position is utterly untenable 
 here. I am a lawyer myself, as my friend 
 here. Judge Bees winger — eh ? I beg your 
 pardon! " 
 
 The officer of the law had momentarily 
 started, with his eyes fixed on Judge Bees- 
 winger, who, however, seemed to be quietly 
 writing at the table. 
 
 "As Judge Beeswinger," continued Colo- 
 nel Starbottle, " will probably tell you ; and 
 as a jurist himself, he will also proba- 
 bly agree with me when I also inform you 
 that, as the United States government is 
 
CLARENCE. 55 
 
 an aggrieved party, it is a matter frr the 
 Federal courts to prosecute, and tliat the 
 only officer we can recognize is the United 
 States Marshal for the district. When I 
 add that the marshal, Colonel Cracken- 
 thorpe, is one of my oldest friends, and an 
 active sympathizer with the South in the 
 present struggle, you will understand that 
 any action from him in this matter is ex- 
 ceedingly improbable." 
 
 The general murmur of laughter, relief, 
 and approval was broken by the quiet voice 
 of Judge Beeswinger. 
 
 "Let me see your warrant, Mr. Deputy 
 Sheriff." 
 
 The officer approached him with a slightly 
 perplexed and constrained air, and exhibited 
 the paper. Judge Beeswinger handed it 
 back to him. "Colonel Starbottle is quite 
 right in his contention," he said quietly; 
 "the only officer that this assembly can rec- 
 ognize is the United States Marshal or his 
 legal deputy. But Colonel Starbottle is 
 wrong in his supposition that Colonel Crack- 
 enthorpe still retains the functions of that 
 office. He was removed by the President of 
 the United States, and his successor was ap- 
 pointed and sworn in by the Federal judge 
 
56 CLARENCE. 
 
 early this morning." He paused, and fold- 
 ing up the paper on which he had been writ- 
 ing, placed it in the hands of the deputy. 
 "And this," he continued in the same even 
 voice, "constitutes you his deputy, and will 
 enable you to carry out your duty in com- 
 ing here." 
 
 "What the devil does this mean, sir? 
 Who are you?" gasped Colonel Starbottle, 
 recoiling suddenly from the man at his side. 
 
 "I am the new United States Marshal 
 for the Southern District of California." 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Unsuspected and astounding as the rev- 
 elation was to Clarence, its strange recep- 
 tion by the conspirators seemed to him as 
 astounding. He had started forward, half 
 expecting that the complacent and self-con- 
 fessed spy would be immolated by his infu- 
 riated dupes. But to his surprise the shock 
 seemed to have changed their natures, and 
 given them the dignity they liad lacked. 
 The excitability, irritation, and recklessness 
 which had previously characterized them had 
 disappeared. The deputy and his posse, 
 who had advanced to the assistance of their 
 revealed chief, met with no resistance. 
 They had evidently, as if with one accord, 
 drawn away from Judge Beeswinger, leav- 
 ing a cleared space around him, and re- 
 garded their captors with sullen contemptu- 
 ous silence. It was only broken by Colonel 
 Starbottle : — 
 
 "Your duty commands you, sir, to use 
 all possible diligence in bringing us before 
 
58 CLARENCE. 
 
 the Federal judge of this district — unless 
 your master in Washington has violated the 
 Constitution so far as to remove him, too! " 
 
 "I understand you perfectly," returned 
 Judge Beeswinger, with unchanged com- 
 posure ; " and as you know that Judge Wil- 
 son unfortunately cannot be removed except 
 through a regular course of impeachment, I 
 suppose you may still count upon his South- 
 ern sympathies to befriend you. With thaj; 
 I have nothing to do; my duty is complete 
 when my deputy has brought you before him 
 and I have stated the circumstances of the 
 arrest." 
 
 "I congratulate you, sir," said Captain 
 Pinckney, with an ironical salute, "on your 
 prompt reward for your treachery to the 
 South, and your equally prompt adoption 
 of the peculiar tactics of your friends in the 
 way in which you have entered this house." 
 
 "I am sorry I cannot congratulate you^ 
 sir," returned Judge Beeswinger gravely, 
 "on breaking your oath to the government 
 which has educated and supported you and 
 given you the epaulettes you disgrace. Nor 
 shall I discuss ' treachery ' with the man 
 who has not only violated the trust of 
 his country, but even the integrity of his 
 
CLARENCE. 59 
 
 friend's household. It is for that reason 
 that I withhold the action of this warrant 
 in so far as it affects the persons of the 
 master and mistress of this home. I am 
 satisfied that Mr. Brant has been as igno- 
 rant of what has been done here as I am 
 that his wife has been only the foolish dupe 
 of a double traitor! " 
 
 "Silence!" 
 
 The words broke simultaneously from the 
 lips of Clarence and Captain Pinckney. 
 They stood staring at each other — the one 
 pale, the other crimson — as Mrs. Brant, 
 apparently oblivious of the significance of 
 their united adjuration, turned to Judge 
 Beeswinger in the fury of her still stifled 
 rage and mortification. 
 
 "Keep your mercy for your fellow-spy," 
 she said, with a contemptuous gesture to- 
 wards her husband ; " / go with these gen- 
 tlemen!" 
 
 "You will not," said Clarence quietly, 
 "until I have said a word to you alone." 
 He laid his hand firmly upon her wrist. 
 
 The deputy and his prisoners filed slowly 
 out of the courtyard together, the latter 
 courteously saluting Mrs. Brant as they 
 passed, but turning from Judge Beeswinger 
 
60 CLARENCE. 
 
 in contemptuous silence. The judge fol- 
 lowed them to the gate, but there he j^aused. 
 Turning to Mrs. Brant, who was still half 
 struggling in the strong grij) of her hus- 
 band, he said, — 
 
 "Any compunction I may have had in 
 misleading you by accepting your invitation 
 here I dismissed after I had entered this 
 house. And I trust," he added, turning to 
 Clarence sternly, "I leave you the master 
 of it!" 
 
 As the gate closed behind him, Clarence 
 locked it. When his wife turned upon him 
 angrily, he said quietly, — 
 
 "I have no intention of restraining your 
 liberty a moment after our interview is over, 
 but until then I do not intend to be dis- 
 turbed." 
 
 She threw herself disdainfully back in 
 her chair, her hands clasped in her lap 
 in half -contemptuous resignation, with her 
 eyes upon her long slim arched feet crossed 
 before her. Even in her attitude there was 
 something of her old fascination which, how- 
 ever, now seemed to sting Clarence to the 
 quick. 
 
 "I have nothing to say to you in regard 
 to what has just passed in this house, except 
 
CLARENCE. 61 
 
 that as long as I remain even nominally its 
 master it shall not be repeated. Although 
 I shall no longer attempt to influence or 
 control your political sympathies, I shall 
 not allow you to indulge them where in any 
 way they seem to imply my sanction. But 
 so little do I oppose your liberty, that you 
 are free to rejoin your political companions 
 whenever you choose to do so on your own 
 responsibility. But I must first know from 
 your own lips whether your sympathies are 
 purely political — or a name for something 
 else?" 
 
 She had alternately flushed and paled, 
 although still keeping her scornful attitude 
 as he went on, but there was no mistaking 
 the genuineness of her vague wonderment at 
 his concluding words. 
 
 "I don't understand you," she said, lift- 
 ing her eyes to his in a moment of cold curi- 
 osity. "What do you mean? " 
 
 " What do I mean ? What did Judge Bees- 
 winger mean when he called Captain Pinck- 
 ney a double traitor? " he said roughly. 
 
 She sprang to her feet with flashing eyes. 
 "And you — you I dare to repeat the cow- 
 ardly lie of a confessed spy. This, then, is 
 what you wished to tell me — this the insult 
 
62 CLARENCE. 
 
 for whicli you have kept me here ; because 
 you are incapable of luiderstanding unselfish 
 patriotism or devotion — even to your own 
 cause — you dare to judge me by your own 
 base, Yankee-trading standards. Yes, it is 
 worthy of you ! " She walked rapidly up and 
 down, and then suddenly faced him. " I un- 
 derstand it all; I appreciate your magna- 
 nimity now. You are willing I should join 
 the company of these chivalrous gentlemen 
 in order to give color to your calumnies ! 
 Say at once that it was you who put up this 
 spy to correspond with me — to come here 
 
 — in order to entrap me. Yes ! entrap me 
 
 — I — who a moment ago stood up for you 
 before these gentlemen, and said you could 
 not lie. Bah!" 
 
 Struck only by the wild extravagance of 
 her speech and temper, Clarence did not 
 know that when women are most illogical 
 they are apt to be most sincere, and from 
 a man's standpoint her unreasoning deduc- 
 tions appeared to him only as an affectation 
 to gain time for thought, or a theatrical dis- 
 play, like Susy's. And he was turning half 
 contemptuously away, when she again faced 
 him with flashing eyes. 
 
 " Well, hear me ! I accept ; I leave here 
 
CLARENCE. 63 
 
 at once, to join my own people, my own 
 friends — those who understand me — put 
 what construction on it that you choose. 
 Do your worst ; you cannot do more to sepa- 
 rate us than you have done just now." 
 
 She left him, and ran up the steps with a 
 singular return of her old occasional nymph- 
 like nimbleness — the movement of a woman 
 who had never borne children — and a swish 
 of her long skirts that he remembered for 
 many a day after, as she disappeared in the 
 corridor. He remained looking after her 
 — indignant, outraged, and unconvinced. 
 There was a rattling at the gate. 
 
 He remembered he had locked it. He 
 opened it to the flushed pink cheeks and 
 dancing eyes of Susy. The rain was still 
 dripping from her wet cloak as she swung 
 it from her shoulders. 
 
 "I know it all! — all that's happened," 
 she burst out with half-girlish exuberance 
 and half the actress's declamation. "We 
 met them all in the road — posse and pris- 
 oners. Chief Thompson knew me and told 
 me all. And so you 've done it — and 
 you 're master in your old house again. 
 Clarence, old boy ! Jim said you would n't 
 do it — said you 'd weaken on account of 
 
64 CLARENCE. 
 
 her! But I said 'No.' I knew you better, 
 old Clarence, and I saw it in your face, for 
 all your stiffness! ha! But for all that I 
 was mighty nervous and uneasy, and I just 
 made Jim send an excuse to the theatre and 
 we rushed it down here! Lordy! but it 
 looks natural to see the old house again! 
 And she — you packed her off with the 
 others — didn't you? Tell me, Clarence," 
 in her old appealing voice, "you shook her, 
 too!" 
 
 Dazed and astounded, and yet experien- 
 cing a vague sense of relief with something 
 like his old tenderness towards the willful 
 woman before him, he had silently regarded 
 her until her allusion to his wife recalled 
 him to himself. 
 
 "Hush!" he said quickly, with a glance 
 towards the corridor. 
 
 "Ah! " said Susy, with a malicious smile, 
 "then that's why Captain Pinckney was 
 lingering in the rear with the deputy." 
 
 "Silence!" repeated Clarence sternly. 
 "Go in there," pointing to the garden 
 room below the balcony, "and wait there 
 with your husband." 
 
 He half led, half pushed her into the 
 room which had been his business office, and 
 
CLARENCE. 65 
 
 returned to the patio. A hesitating voice 
 from the balcony said, "Clarence! " 
 
 It was his wife's voice, but modified and 
 gentler — more like her voice as he had first 
 heard it, or as if it had been chastened by 
 some reminiscence of those days. It was 
 his wife's face, too, that looked down on 
 his — paler than he had seen it since he 
 entered the house. She was shawled and 
 hooded, carrying a traveling-bag in her 
 hand. 
 
 "I am going, Clarence," she said, paus- 
 ing before him, with gentle gravity, "but 
 not in anger. I even ask you to forgive 
 me for the foolish words that I think your 
 still more foolish accusation " — she smiled 
 faintly — "dragged from me. I am going 
 because I know that I have brought — and 
 that while I am here I shall always be 
 bringing — upon you the imputation and 
 even the responsibility of my own faith! 
 While I am proud to own it, — and if needs 
 be suffer for it, — I have no right to ruin 
 your prospects, or even make you the victim 
 of the slurs that others may cast upon me. 
 Let us part as friends — separated only by 
 our different political faiths, but keeping 
 all other faiths together — until God shall 
 
66 CLARENCE. 
 
 settle the right of this struggle. Perhaps 
 it may be soon — I sometimes think it may 
 be years of agony for all; but until then, 
 good-by." 
 
 She had slowly descended the steps to the 
 patio, looking handsomer than he had ever 
 seen her, and as if sustained and upheld by 
 the enthusiasm of her cause. Her hand was 
 outstretched towards his — his heart beat 
 violently — in another moment he might 
 have forgotten all and clasped her to his 
 breast. Suddenly she stopped, her out- 
 stretched arm stiffened, her finger pointed 
 to the chair on which Susy's cloak was 
 hanging. 
 
 "What 's that? " she said in a sharp, high, 
 metallic voice. "Who is here? Speak! " 
 
 "Susy," said Clarence. 
 
 She cast a scathing glance round the 
 patio, and then settled her piercing eyes on 
 Clarence with a bitter smile. 
 
 "Already!" 
 
 Clarence felt the blood rush to his face 
 as he stammered, " She knew what was hap- 
 pening here, and came to give you warn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Liar!" 
 
 " Stop ! " said Clarence, with a white face. 
 
CLARENCE. 67 
 
 " She came to tell me that Captain Pinckney 
 was still lingering for you in the road." 
 
 He threw open the gate to let her pass. 
 As she swept out she lifted her hand. As he 
 closed the gate there were the white marks 
 of her four fingers on his cheek. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 For once Susy had not exaggerated. 
 Captain Pinckney was lingering, with the 
 deputy who had charge of him, on the trail 
 near the casa. It had already been pretty 
 well understood by both captives and cap- 
 tors that the arrest was simply a legal de- 
 monstration ; that the sympathizing Federal 
 judge would undoubtedly order the dis- 
 charge of the prisoners on their own re- 
 cognizances, and it was probable that the 
 deputy saw no harm in granting Pinckney's 
 request — which was virtually only a delay 
 in his liberation. It was also possible that 
 Pinckney had worked upon the chivalrous 
 sympathies of the man by professing his dis- 
 inclination to leave their devoted colleague, 
 Mrs. Brant, at the mercy of her antagonis- 
 tic and cold-blooded husband at such a cri- 
 sis, and it is to be feared also that Clarence, 
 as a reputed lukewarm partisan, excited 
 no personal sympathy, even from his own 
 party. Howbeit, the deputy agreed to delay 
 
CLARENCE. 69 
 
 Pinckney's journey for a parting interview 
 with his fair hostess. 
 
 How far this expressed the real senti- 
 ments of Captain Pinckney was never 
 known. Whether his political association 
 with Mrs. Brant had developed into a 
 warmer solicitude, understood or ignored by 
 her, — what were his hopes and aspirations 
 regarding her future, — were by the course 
 of fate never disclosed. A man of easy 
 ethics, but rigid artificialities of honor, flat- 
 tered and pampered by class prejudice, a so- 
 called "man of the world," with no expe- 
 rience beyond his own limited circle, yet 
 brave and devoted to that, it were well per- 
 haps to leave this last act of his inefficient 
 life as it was accepted by the deputy. 
 
 Dismounting he approached the house 
 from the garden. He was already familiar 
 with the low arched doorway which led to 
 the business room, and from which he could 
 gain admittance to the patio, but it so 
 chanced that he entered the dark passage 
 at the moment that Clarence had thrust 
 Susy into the business room, and heard its 
 door shut sharply. For an instant he be- 
 lieved that Mrs. Brant had taken refuge 
 there, but as he cautiously moved forward 
 
^■' • ■ 
 
 70 CLARENCE. 
 
 he heard her voice in the patio beyond. Its 
 accents struck him as pleading; an intense 
 curiosity drew him further along the pas- 
 sage. Suddenly her voice seemed to change 
 to angry denunciation, and the word "Liar " 
 rang upon his ears. It was followed by his 
 own name uttered sardonically by Clarence, 
 the swift rustle of a skirt, the clash of the 
 gate, and then — forgetting everything, he 
 burst into the patio. 
 
 Clarence was just turning from the gate 
 with the marks of his wife's hand still red 
 on his white cheek. He saw Captain Pinck- 
 ney's eyes upon it, and the faint, half -ma- 
 licious, half -hysteric smile upon his lips. 
 But without a start or gesture of surprise he 
 locked the gate, and turning to him, said 
 with frigid significance, — 
 
 "I thank you for returning so promptly, 
 and for recognizing the only thing I now 
 require at your hand." 
 
 But Captain Pinckney had recovered his 
 supercilious ease with the significant demand. 
 
 "You seem to have had something already 
 from another's hand, sir, but I am at your 
 service," he said lightly. 
 
 "You will consider that I have accepted 
 it from you," said Clarence, drawing closer 
 
CLARENCE. 71 
 
 to lilm with a rigid face. "I suppose it will 
 not be necessary for me to return it — to 
 make you understand me." 
 
 "Go on," said Pinckney, flushing slightly. 
 "Make your terms; I am ready." 
 
 "But I 'm not," said the unexpected voice 
 of the deputy at the grille of the gateway. 
 "Excuse my interfering, gentlemen, but this 
 sort o' thing ain't down in my schedule. 
 I 've let this gentleman," pointing to Cap- 
 tain Pinckney, "off for a minit to say 
 ' good-by ' to a lady, who I reckon has just 
 ridden off in her buggy with her servant 
 without saying by your leave, but I did n't 
 calkelate to let him inter another business, 
 which, like as not, may prevent me from de- 
 livering his body safe and sound into court. 
 You hear me!" As Clarence opened the 
 gate he added, "I don't want ter spoil sport 
 between gents, but it 's got to come in af- 
 ter I 've done my duty." 
 
 "I'll meet you, sir, anywhere, and with 
 what weapons you choose," said Pinckney, 
 turning angrily upon Clarence, "as soon as 
 this farce — for which you and your friends 
 are responsible — is over." He was furi- 
 ous at the intimation that Mrs. Brant had 
 escaped him. 
 
72 CLARENCE. 
 
 A different thought was in the husband's 
 mind. "But what assurance have I that 
 you are going on with the deputy?" he said 
 with purposely insulting deliberation. 
 
 "My word, sir," said Captain Pinckney 
 sharply. 
 
 "And if that ain't enuft', there 's mine! " 
 said the deputy. "For if this gentleman 
 swerves to the right or left betwixt this and 
 Santa Inez, I '11 blow a hole through him 
 myself. And that," he added deprecatingly, 
 "is saying a good deal for a man who does 
 n't want to spoil sport, and for the matter 
 of that is willing to stand by and see fair 
 play done at Santa Inez any time to-morrow 
 before breakfast." 
 
 "Then I can count on you," said Clar- 
 ence, with a sudden impulse extending his 
 hand. 
 
 The man hesitated a moment and then 
 grasped it. 
 
 "Well, I wasn't expecting that," he said 
 slowly; "but you look as if you meant busi- 
 ness, and if you ain't got anybody else to 
 see you through, I 'm thar ! I suppose this 
 gentleman will have his friends." 
 
 "I shall be there at six with my seconds," 
 said Pinckney curtly. "Lead on." 
 
CLARENCE. 73 
 
 The gate closed behind them. Clarence 
 stood looking around the emj)ty patio and 
 the silent house, from which it was now 
 plain that the servants had been withdrawn 
 to insure the secrecy of the conspiracy. 
 Cool and collected as he knew he was, he 
 remained for a moment in hesitation. Then 
 the sound of voices came to his ear from the 
 garden room, the light frivolity of Susy's 
 laugh and Hooker's huskier accents. He 
 had forgotten they were there — he had for- 
 gotten their existence ! 
 
 Trusting still to his calmness, he called to 
 Hooker in his usual voice. That gentleman 
 appeared with a face which his attempts 
 to make unconcerned and impassive had, 
 however, only deepened into funereal grav- 
 ity. 
 
 "I have something to attend to," said 
 Clarence, with a faint smile, "and I must 
 ask you and Susy to excuse me for a lit- 
 tle while. She knows the house perfectly, 
 and will call the servants from the annex 
 to provide you both with refreshment until 
 I join you a little later." Satisfied from 
 Hooker's manner that they knew nothing of 
 his later interview with Piuckney, he turned 
 away and ascended to his own room. 
 
74 CLARENCE. 
 
 There he threw himself into an armchair 
 by the dim light of a single candle as if to 
 reflect. But he was conscious, even then, 
 of his own calmness and want of excite- 
 ment, and that no reflection was necessary. 
 What he had done and what he intended to 
 do was quite clear; there was no alterna- 
 tive suggested or to be even sought after. 
 He had that sense of relief which comes 
 with the climax of all great struggles, even 
 of defeat. 
 
 He had never known before how hopeless 
 and continuous had been that struggle until 
 now it was over. He had no fear of to- 
 morrow; he would meet it as he had to-day, 
 with the same singular consciousness of be- 
 ing equal to the occasion. There was even 
 no necessity of preparation for it; his will, 
 leaving his fortune to his wife, — which 
 seemed a slight thing now in this greater 
 separation, — was already in his safe in San 
 Francisco ; his pistols were in the next room. 
 He was even slightly disturbed by his own 
 insensibility, and passed into his wife's bed- 
 room partly in the hope of disturbing his 
 serenity by some memento of their past. 
 There was no disorder of flight — every- 
 thing was in its place, except the drawer of 
 
CLARENCE. 75 
 
 her desk, which was still open, as if she had 
 taken something from it as an afterthought. 
 There were letters and papers there, some 
 of his own and some in Captain Pinckney's 
 handwriting. It did not occur to him to 
 look at them — even to justify himself, or 
 excuse her. He knew that his hatred of 
 Captain Pinckney was not so much that he 
 believed him her lover, as his sudden con- 
 viction that she was like him ! He was the 
 male of her species — a being antagonistic 
 to himself, whom he could fight, and crush, 
 and revenge himself upon. But most of all 
 he loathed his past, not on account of her, 
 but of his own weakness that had made him 
 her dupe and a misunderstood man to his 
 friends. He had been derelict of duty in 
 his unselfish devotion to her; he had stifled 
 his ambition, and underrated his own pos- 
 sibilities. No wonder that others had ac- 
 cepted him at his own valuation. Clarence 
 Brant was a modest man, but the egotism of 
 modesty is more fatal than that of preten- 
 sion, for it has the haunting consciousness 
 of superior virtue. 
 
 He reentered his own room and again 
 threw himself into his chair. His cahn was 
 being succeeded by a physical weariness ; he 
 
76 CLARENCE. 
 
 remembered he had not slept the night be- 
 fore, and he ought to take some rest to be 
 fresh in the early morning. Yet he must 
 also show himself before his self-invited 
 guests, — Susy and her husband, — or their 
 suspicions would be aroused. He would try 
 to sleep for a little while in the chair be- 
 fore he went downstairs again. He closed 
 his eyes oddly enough on a dim dreamy re- 
 collection of Susy in the old days, in the 
 little madroixo hollow where she had once 
 given him a rendezvous. He forgot the ma- 
 turer and critical uneasiness with which he 
 had then received her coquettish and wilKul 
 advances, which he now knew was the effect 
 of the growing dominance of Mrs. Peyton 
 over him, and remembered only her bright, 
 youthful eyes, and the kisses he had pressed 
 upon her soft fragrant cheek. The faint- 
 ness he had felt when waiting in the old rose 
 garden, a few hours ago, seemed to steal on 
 him once more, and to lapse into a pleasant 
 drowsiness. He even seemed again to in- 
 hale the perfume of the roses. 
 
 "Clarence!" 
 
 He started. He had been sleeping, but 
 the voice sounded strangely real. 
 
 A light, girlish laugh followed. He sprang 
 
CLARENCE. 11 
 
 to liis feet. It was Susy standing beside 
 liim — and Susy even as she looked in the 
 old days! 
 
 For with a flash of her old audacity, aided 
 by her familiar knowledge of the house and 
 the bunch of household keys she had found, 
 which dangled from her girdle, as in the 
 old fashion, she had disinterred one of her 
 old frocks from a closet, slipped it on, and 
 unloosening her brown hair had let it fall 
 in rippling waves down her back. It was 
 Susy in her old girlishness, with the instinct 
 of the grown actress in the arrangement of 
 her short skirt over her pretty ankles and 
 the half -conscious pose she had taken. 
 
 "Poor dear old Clarence," she said, with 
 dancing eyes; "I might have won a dozen 
 j^airs of gloves from you while you slept 
 there. But you 're tired, dear old boy, and 
 you *ve had a hard time of it. No matter; 
 you 've shown yourself a man at last, and 
 I 'm proud of you." 
 
 Half ashamed of the pleasure he felt even 
 in his embarrassment, Clarence stammered, 
 *'But this change — this dress." 
 
 Susy clapped her hands like a child. "I 
 knew it would surprise you! It 's an old 
 frock I wore the year I went away with 
 
78 CLARENCE. 
 
 auntie. I knew where it was hidden, and 
 fished it out again with these keys, Clar- 
 ence; it seemed so like old times. Lord! 
 when I was with the old servants again, and 
 you didn't come down, I just felt as if I 'd 
 never been away, and I just rampaged free. 
 It seemed to me, don't you know, not as if 
 I 'd just come, but as if I 'd always been 
 right here, and it was you who 'd just come. 
 Don't you understand! Just as you came 
 when me and Mary Rogers were here; don't 
 you remember her, Clarence, and how she 
 used to do ' gooseberry ' for us ? Well, 
 just like that. So I said to Jim, ' I don't 
 know you any more — get ! ' and I just 
 slipped on this frock and ordered Manuela 
 around as I used to do — and she in fits of 
 laughter; I reckon, Clarence, she has n't 
 laughed as much since I left. And then I 
 thought of you — perhaps worried and flus- 
 tered as yet over things, and the change, and 
 I just slipped into the kitchen and I told old 
 fat Conchita to make some of these tortillas 
 you know, — with sugar and cinnamon 
 sprinkled on top, — and I tied on an apron 
 and brought 'em up to you on a tray with a 
 glass of that old Catalan wine you used to 
 like. Then I sorter felt frightened when I 
 
CLARENCE. 79 
 
 got here, and I did n't hear any noise, and 
 I put the tray down in the hall and peeped 
 in and found you asleep. Sit still, I '11 fetch 
 'em." 
 
 She tripped out into the passage, return- 
 ing with the tray, which she put on the table 
 beside Clarence, and then standing back a 
 little and with her hands tucked soubrette 
 fashion in the tiny pockets of her apron, 
 gazed at him with a mischievous smile. 
 
 It was impossible not to smile back as he 
 nibbled the crisp Mexican cake and drank 
 the old mission wine. And Susy's tongue 
 trilled an accompaniment to his thanks. 
 
 " Lord ! it seems so nice to be here — just 
 you and me, Clarence — like in the old days 
 — with nobody naggin' and swoopin' round 
 after you. Don't be greedy, Clarence, but 
 give me a cake." She took one and finished 
 the dregs of his glass. 
 
 Then sitting on the arm of his chair, she 
 darted a violet ray of half reproach and half 
 mischievousness into his amused and retro- 
 spective eyes. "There used to be room for 
 two in that chair, Klarns." 
 
 The use of the old childish diminutive 
 for his name seemed to him natural as her 
 familiarity, and he moved a little sideways 
 
80 CLARENCE. 
 
 to make room for her with an instinct of 
 pleasure, but the same sense of irresponsi- 
 bility that had characterized his reflections. 
 Nevertheless, he looked critically into the 
 mischievous eyes, and said quietly, — 
 
 "Where is your husband? " 
 
 There was no trace of embarrassment, 
 apology, or even of consciousness in her 
 pretty face as she replied, passing her hand 
 lightly through his hair, — 
 
 "Oh, Jim? I 've packed him off! " 
 
 "Packed him off ! " echoed Clarence, 
 slightly astonished. 
 
 "Yes, to Fair Plains, full tilt after your 
 wife's buggy. You see, Clarence, after 
 the old cat — that 's your wife, please — left, 
 I wanted to make sure she had gone, and 
 was n't hangin' round to lead you off again 
 with your leg tied to her apron string like a 
 chicken's! No! I said to Jim, 'Just you 
 ride after her until you see she 's safe and 
 sound in the down coach from Fair Plains 
 without her knowin' it, and if she 's inclined 
 to hang back or wobble any, you post back 
 here and let me know ! ' I told him I would 
 stay and look after you to see you didn't 
 bolt too!" She laughed, and then added, 
 "But I didn't think I should fall into the 
 
CLARENCE. 81 
 
 old ways so soon, and have such a nice time. 
 Did you, Clarence?" 
 
 She looked so irresponsible, sitting there 
 with her face near his, and so childishly, or 
 perhaps thoughtlessly, happy, that he could 
 only admire her levity, and even the slight 
 shock that her flippant allusion to his wife 
 had given him seemed to him only a weak- 
 ness of his own. After all, was not hers 
 the true philosophy ? Why should not these 
 bright eyes see things more clearly than his 
 own? Nevertheless, with his eyes still fixed 
 upon them, he continued, — 
 
 "And Jim was wdlling: to aro?" 
 
 She stopped, with her fingers still lifting 
 a lock of his hair. "Why, yes, you silly 
 — why shouldn't he? I 'd like to see him 
 refuse. Why, Lord ! Jim will do anything 
 I ask him." She put down the lock of hair, 
 and suddenly looking full into his eyes, said, 
 "That's just the difference between him 
 and me, and you and — that woman! " 
 
 "Then you love him! " 
 
 "About as much as you love her," she 
 said, with an unaffected laugh; "only he 
 don't wind me around his finger." 
 
 No doubt she was right for all her thought- 
 lessness, and yet he was going to fight about 
 
82 CLARENCE. 
 
 that woman to-morrow ! No — lie forgot ; 
 he was gomg to fight Captain Pinckney be- 
 cause he was like her ! 
 
 Susy had put her finger on the crease be- 
 tween his brows which this supposition had 
 made, and tried to rub it out. 
 
 "You know it as well as I do, Clarence," 
 she said, with a pretty wrinkling of her 
 own brows, which was her nearest approach 
 to thoughtfulness. "You know you never 
 really liked her, only you thought her ways 
 were grander and more proper than mine, 
 and you know you were always a little bit 
 of a snob and a prig too — dear boy. And 
 Mrs. Peyton was — bless my soul ! — a Ben- 
 ham and a planter's daughter, and I — I 
 was only a picked - up orphan ! That 's 
 where Jim is better than you — now sit still, 
 goosey! — even if I don't like him as much. 
 Oh, I know what you 're always thinking, 
 you 're thinking we 're both exaggerated 
 and theatrical, ain't you? But don't you 
 think it 's a heap better to be exaggerated 
 and theatrical about things that are just sen- 
 timental and romantic than to be so awfully 
 possessed and overcome about things that 
 are only real? There, you needn't stare 
 at me so! It's true. You've had your 
 
CLARENCE. 83 
 
 fill of grandeur and propriety, and — here 
 you are. And," she added with a little 
 chuckle, as she tucked up her feet and 
 leaned a little closer to him, "here 's wie." 
 
 He did not speak, but his arm quite un- 
 consciously passed round her small waist. 
 
 "You see, Clarence," she went on with 
 equal unconsciousness of the act, "you ought 
 never to have let me go — never ! You 
 ought to have kept me here — or run away 
 with me. And you ought n't to have tried 
 to make me proper. And you ought n't to 
 have driven me to flirt with that horrid 
 S2:)aniard, and you ouglit n't to have been so 
 horribly cold and severe when I did. And 
 you oughtn't to have made me take up with 
 Jim, who was the only one who thought 
 me his equal. I might have been very silly 
 and capricious ; I might have been very vain, 
 but my vanity is n't a bit worse than your 
 pride; my love of praise and applause in 
 the theatre is n't a bit more horrid than your 
 fears of what people might think of you or 
 me. That's gospel truth, isn't it, Clar- 
 ence? Tell me! Don't look that way and 
 this — look at me! I ain't poisonous, Clar- 
 ence. Why, one of your cheeks is redder 
 than the other, Clarence; that's the one 
 
84 CLARENCE. 
 
 that 's turned from me. Come," she went 
 on, taking the laj)els of his coat between her 
 hands and half shaking him, half drawing 
 him nearer her bright face. "Tell me — 
 isn't it true? " 
 
 "I was thinking of you just now when I 
 fell asleep, Susy," he said. He did not 
 know why he said it; he had not intended 
 to tell her, he had only meant to avoid a 
 direct answer to her question ; yet even now 
 he went on. "And I thought of you when 
 I was out there in the rose garden waiting 
 to come in here." 
 
 "You did?" she said, drawing in her 
 breath. A wave of delicate pink color came 
 up to her very eyes, it seemed to him as 
 quickly and as innocently as when she was 
 a girl. "And what did you think, Klarns," 
 she half whispered — "tell me." 
 
 He did not speak, but answered her blue 
 eyes and then her lips, as her arms slipped 
 quite naturally around his neck. 
 
 The dawn was breaking as Clarence and 
 Jim Hooker emerged together from the gate 
 of the casa. Mr. Hooker looked sleepy. 
 He had found, after his return from Fair 
 Plains, that his host had an early engage- 
 
CLARENCE. 85 
 
 ment at Santa Inez, and he had insisted 
 upon rising- to see him off. It was with dif- 
 ficulty, indeed, that Clarence could prevent 
 his accompanying him. Clarence had not 
 revealed to Susy the night before the real 
 object of his journey, nor did Hooker evi- 
 dently suspect it, yet when the former had 
 mounted his horse, he hesitated for an in- 
 stant, extending his hand. 
 
 "If I should happen to be detained," he 
 began with a half smile. 
 
 But Jim was struggling with a yawn. 
 "That's all right — don't mind us," he 
 said, stretching his arms. Clarence's hesi- 
 tating hand dropped to his side, and with a 
 light reckless laugh and a half sense of pro- 
 vidential relief he galloped away. 
 
 What happened immediately thereafter 
 during his solitary ride to Santa Inez, look- 
 ing back upon it in after years, seemed but 
 a confused recollection, more like a dream. 
 The long stretches of vague distance, gradu- 
 ally opening clearer with the rising sun in 
 an unclouded sky; the meeting with a few 
 early or belated travelers and his uncon- 
 scious avoidance of them, as if they might 
 know of his object; the black shadows of 
 foreshortened cattle rising before him on the 
 
86 CLARENCE. 
 
 plain and arousing the same uneasy sensa- 
 tion of their being waylaying men ; the won- 
 derino- recognition of houses and landmarks 
 he had long been familiar with ; his purpose- 
 less attempts to recall the circumstances in 
 which he had known them — all these were 
 like a dream. So, too, were the recollec- 
 tions of the night before, the episode with 
 Susy, already mingled and blended with the 
 memory of their previous past; his futile 
 attempts to look forward to the future, 
 always, however, abandoned with relief at 
 the thought that the next few hours might 
 make them unnecessary. So also was the 
 sudden realization that Santa Inez was be- 
 fore him, when he had thought he was not 
 yet halfway there, and as he dismounted 
 before the Court House his singular feeling 
 
 — followed, however, by no fear or distress 
 
 — was that he had come so early to the ren- 
 dezvous that he was not yet quite prepared 
 for it. 
 
 This same sense of unreality pervaded his 
 meeting with the deputy sheriff, at the news 
 that the Federal judge had, as was expected, 
 dismissed the prisoners on their own recog- 
 nizances, and that Captain Pinckney was at 
 the hotel at breakfast. In the like ab- 
 
CLARENCE. 87 
 
 stracted manner he replied to the one or 
 two questions of the deputy, exhibited the 
 pistols he had brought with him, and finally 
 accompanied him to a little meadow hidden 
 by trees, below the hotel, where the other 
 principal and his seconds were awaiting 
 them. And here he awoke — clear-eyed, 
 keen, forceful, and intense! 
 
 So stimulated were his faculties that his 
 sense of hearing in its acuteness took in 
 every word of the conversation between the 
 seconds, a few paces distant. He heard his 
 adversary's seconds say carelessly to the 
 deputy sheriff, "I jjresume this is a case 
 where there will be no apology or media- 
 tion," and the deputy's reply, "I reckon my 
 man means business, but he seems a little 
 queer." He heard the other second laugh, 
 and say lightly, "They're apt to be so 
 when it 's their first time out," followed by 
 the more anxious aside of the other second 
 as the deputy turned away, — "Yes, but by 
 G — d I don't like his looks ! " His sense of 
 sight was also so acute that having lost the 
 choice of position, when the coin was tossed, 
 and being turned with his face to the sun, 
 even through the glare he saw, with unerr- 
 ing distmctness of outline, the black-coated 
 
88 CLARENCE. 
 
 figure of his opponent moved into range — 
 saw tlie perfect outline of his features, and 
 how the easy, supercilious smile, as he threw 
 away his cigar, appeared to drop out of his 
 face with a kind of vacant awe as he faced 
 him. He felt his nerves become as steel 
 as the counting began, and at the word 
 "three," knew he had fired by the recoil 
 of the pistol in his leveled hand, simultane- 
 ously with its utterance. And at the same 
 moment, still standing like a rock, he saw 
 his adversary miserably collapse, his legs 
 grotesquely curving inwards under him, — 
 without even the dignity of death in his 
 fall, — and so sink helplessly like a felled 
 bull to the ground. Still erect, and lower- 
 ing only the muzzle of his pistol, as a thin 
 feather of smoke curled up its shining side, 
 he saw the doctor and seconds run quickly 
 to the heap, try to lift its limp impotence 
 into shape, and let it drop again with the 
 words, "Right through the forehead, by 
 G— d!" 
 
 "You 've done for him," said the deputy, 
 turning to Clarence with a singular look of 
 curiosity, "and I reckon you had better get 
 out of this mighty quick. They did n't 
 expect it; they 're just ragin'; they may 
 
CLARENCE. 89 
 
 round on you — and " — he added, more 
 slowly, "they seem to have just found out 
 who you are." 
 
 Even while he was speaking, Clarence, 
 with his quickened ear, heard the words, 
 "One of Hamilton Brant's pups" "Just 
 like his father," from the group around the 
 dead man. He did not hesitate, but walked 
 coolly towards them. Yet a certain fierce 
 pride — which he had never known before — 
 stirred in his veins as their voices hushed 
 and they haK recoiled before him. 
 
 "Am I to understand from my second, 
 gentlemen," he said, looking round the 
 grouj5, "that you are not satisfied?" 
 
 "The fight was square enough," said 
 Pinckney's second in some embarrassment, 
 "but I reckon that he," pointing to the dead 
 man, "did not know who you were." 
 
 "Do you mean that he did not know that 
 I was the son of a man proficient in the use 
 of arms? " 
 
 "I reckon that 's about it," returned the 
 second, glancing at the others. 
 
 "I am glad to say, sir, that I have a bet- 
 ter opinion of his courage," said Clarence, 
 lifting his hat to the dead body as he turned 
 away. 
 
90 CLARENCE. 
 
 Yet he was conscious of no remorse, con- 
 cern, or even pity in his act. Perhaps this 
 was visible in his face, for the group ap- 
 peared awed by this perfection of the duel- 
 ist's coolness, and even returned his formal 
 parting salutation with a vague and timid 
 respect. He thanked the dej)uty, regained 
 the hotel, saddled his horse and galloped 
 away. 
 
 But not towards the Rancho. Now that 
 he could think of his future, that had no 
 place in his reflections; even the episode of 
 Susy was forgotten in the new and strange 
 conception of himself and his irresponsi- 
 bility which had come upon him with the 
 killing of Pinckney and the words of his 
 second. It was his dead father who had 
 stiffened his arm and directed the fatal 
 shot I It was hereditary influences — which 
 others had been so quick to recognize — 
 that had brouglrt about this completing cli- 
 max of his trouble. How else could he ac- 
 count for it that he — a conscientiovis, peace- 
 ful, sensitive man, tender and forgiving as 
 he had believed himself to be — could now 
 feel so little sorrow or compunction for his 
 culminating act? He had read of success- 
 ful duelists who were haunted by remorse 
 
CLARENCE. 91 
 
 for their first victim ; who retained a terrible 
 consciousness of the appearance of the dead 
 man; he had no such feeling; he had only 
 a grim contentment in the wiped-out ineffi- 
 cient life, and contempt for the limp and 
 helpless body. He suddenly recalled his 
 callousness as a boy when face to face with 
 the victims of the Indian massacre, his 
 sense of fastidious superciliousness in the 
 discovery of the body of Susy's mother ! — 
 surely it was the cold blood of his father in- 
 fluencino- him ever thus. What had he to 
 do with affection, with domestic happiness, 
 with the ordinary ambitions of man's life 
 — whose blood was frozen at its source! 
 Yet even with this very thought came once 
 more the old inconsistent tenderness he had 
 as a boy lavished upon the almost unknown 
 and fugitive father who had forsaken his 
 childish companionship, and remembered 
 him only by secret gifts. He remembered 
 how he had worshiped him even while the 
 pious padres at San Jose were endeavor- 
 ing to eliminate this terrible poison from his 
 blood and combat his hereditary instinct in 
 his conflicts with his school-fellows. And it 
 was a part of this inconsistency that, riding 
 away from the scene of his first bloodshed, 
 
92 CLARENCE. 
 
 his eyes were dimmed with moisture, not for 
 his victim, but for the one being who he 
 believed had impelled him to the act. 
 
 This and more was in his mind during 
 his long ride to Fair Plains, his journey 
 by coach to the Embarcadero, his midnight 
 passage across the dark waters of the bay, 
 and his reentrance to San Francisco, but 
 what should be his future was still un- 
 settled. 
 
 As he wound round the crest of Russian 
 Hill and looked down again upon the awak- 
 ened city, he was startled to see that it was 
 fluttering and streaming with bunting. 
 From every public building and hotel, from 
 the roofs of private houses, and even the 
 windows of lonely dwellings, flapped and 
 waved the striped and starry banner. The 
 steady breath of the sea carried it out from 
 masts and yards of ships at their wharves, 
 from the battlements of the forts Alcatraz 
 and Yerba Bueno. He remembered that 
 the ferryman had told him that the news 
 from Fort Sumter had swept the city with 
 a revulsion of patriotic sentiment, and that 
 there was no doubt that the State was saved 
 to the Union. He looked down upon it 
 
CLARENCE. 93 
 
 with haggard, bewildered eyes, and then a 
 strange gasp and fullness of the throat ! For 
 afar a solitary bugle had blown the "re- 
 veille " at Fort Alcatraz. 
 
PAET II. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 Night at last, and the stir and tumult of 
 a great fight over. Even the excitement 
 that had swept this portion of the battle- 
 field — only a small section of a vaster 
 area of struggle — into which a brigade had 
 marched, held its own, been beaten back, 
 recovered its ground, and pursuing, had 
 passed out of it forever, leaving only its 
 dead behind, and knowing nothing more 
 of that struggle than its own impact and 
 momentum — even this wild excitement had 
 long since evaporated with the stinging 
 smoke of gunpowder, the acrid smell of 
 burning rags from the clothing of a dead 
 soldier fired by a bursting shell, or the 
 heated reek of sweat and leather. A cool 
 breath that seemed to bring back once more 
 the odor of the upturned earthworks along 
 the now dumb line of battle began to move 
 from the suggestive darkness beyond. 
 
 But into that awful penetralia of death 
 
CLARENCE. 95 
 
 and silence there was no invasion — there 
 had been no retreat. A few of the wounded 
 had been brought out, vmder fire, but the 
 others had been left with the dead for 
 the morning light and succor. For it was 
 known that in that horrible obscurity, rider- 
 less horses, frantic with the smell of blood, 
 galloped wildly here and there, or, mad- 
 dened by wounds, plunged furiously at the 
 intruder ; that the wounded soldier, still 
 armed, could not always distinguish friend 
 from foe or from the ghouls of camp follow- 
 ers who stripped the dead in the darkness 
 and struggled with the dying. A shot or two 
 heard somewhere in that obscurity counted 
 as nothing with the long fusillade that had 
 swept it in the daytime; the passing of a 
 single life, more or less, amounted to little 
 in the long roll-call of the day's slaughter. 
 
 But with the first beams of the morning 
 sun — and the slowly moving "relief detail " 
 from the camp — came a weird half ^resur- 
 rection of that ghastly field. Then it was 
 that the long rays of sunlight, streaming 
 away a mile beyond the battle line, pointed 
 out the first harvest of the dead where the 
 reserves had been posted. There they lay 
 in heaps and piles, killed by solid shot or 
 
96 CLARENCE. 
 
 bursting shells that had leaped the battle 
 line to i^lunge into the waiting ranks be- 
 yond. As the sun lifted higher its beams 
 fell within the range of musketry fire, where 
 the dead lay thicker, — even as they had 
 fallen when killed outright, — with arms 
 extended and feet at all angles to the field. 
 As it touched these dead upturned faces, 
 strangely enough it brought out no expres- 
 sion of pain or anguish — but rather as if 
 death had arrested them only in surprise and 
 awe. It revealed on the lips of those who 
 had been mortally wounded and had turned 
 upon their side the relief which death had 
 brought their suffering, sometimes shown in 
 a faint smile. Mounting higher, it glanced 
 upon the actual battle line, curiously curv- 
 ing for the shelter of walls, fences, and 
 breastworks, and here the dead lay, even as 
 when they lay and fired, their faces prone 
 in the grass but their muskets still resting 
 across the breastworks. Exposed to grape 
 and canister from the battery on the ridge, 
 death had come to them mercifully also — 
 through the head and throat. And now the 
 whole field lay bare in the sunlight, broken 
 with grotesque shadows cast from sitting, 
 crouching, half -recumbent but always rigid 
 
CLARENCE. 97 
 
 figures, wliicli might have been effigies on 
 their own monuments. One half -kneeling 
 soldier, with head bowed between his stif- 
 fened hands, might have stood for a carven 
 figure of Grief at the feet of his dead com- 
 rade. A captain, shot through the brain in 
 the act of moimting a wall, lay sideways 
 half across it, his lips parted with a word of 
 command ; his sword still pointing over the 
 barrier the way that they should go. 
 
 But it was not until the sun had mounted 
 higher that it struck the central horror of 
 the field and seemed to linger there in daz- 
 zling persistence, now and then returning to 
 it in startling flashes that it might be seen 
 of men and those who brought succor. A 
 tiny brook had run obliquely near the bat- 
 tle line. It was here that, the night before 
 the battle, friend and foe had filled their 
 canteens side by side with soldierly reck- 
 lessness — or perhaps a higher instinct — 
 purposely ignoring each other's presence; it 
 was here that the wounded had afterwards 
 crept, crawled, and dragged themselves; 
 here they had pushed, wrangled, striven, 
 and fought for a draught of that precious 
 fluid which assuaged the thirst of their 
 wounds — or happily put them out of their 
 
98 CLARENCE. 
 
 misery forever; here overborne, crushed, 
 suffocated by numbers, pouring their own 
 blood into the flood, and tumbling after it 
 with their helpless bodies, they dammed the 
 stream, until recoiling, red and angry, it 
 had burst its banks and overflowed the cot- 
 ton-field in a broad pool that now sparkled 
 in the sunlight. But below this human dam 
 — a mile away — where the brook still crept 
 sluggishly, the ambulance horses sniffed and 
 started from it. 
 
 The detail moved on slowly, doing their 
 work expeditiously, and apparently cal- 
 lously, but really only with that mechanical 
 movement that saves emotion. Only once 
 they were moved to an outbreak of indigna- 
 tion, -^ the discovery of the body of an offi- 
 cer whose pockets were turned inside out, 
 but whose hand was still tightly grasped on 
 his buttoned waistcoat, as if resisting the 
 outrage that had been done while still in 
 life. As the men disengaged the stiffened 
 hand something slipped from the waistcoat 
 to the ground. The corporal picked it up 
 and handed it to his officer. It was a sealed 
 packet. The officer received it with the 
 carelessness which long experience of these 
 pathetic missives from the dying to their liv- 
 
CLARENCE. 99 
 
 ing relations had induced, and dropped it in 
 the pocket of his tunic, with the half-dozen 
 others that he had picked up that morning, 
 and moved on with the detail. A little fur- 
 ther on they halted, in the attitude of atten- 
 tion, as a mounted officer appeared, riding 
 slowly down the line. 
 
 There was something more than the habit- 
 ual respect of their superior in their faces 
 as he came forward. For it was the gen- 
 eral who had commanded the brig^ade the 
 day before, — the man who had leaped with 
 one bound into the foremost rank of mili- 
 tary leaders. It was his invincible spirit 
 that had led the advance, held back defeat 
 against overwhelming numbers, sustained 
 the rally, impressed his subordinate officers 
 with his own undeviating purpose, and even 
 infused them with an almost superstitious 
 belief in his destiny of success. It was this 
 man who had done what it was deemed im- 
 possible to do, — what even at the time it 
 was thought unwise and unstrategic to do, — 
 who had held a weak position, of aj)parently 
 no importance, under the mandate of an 
 incomprehensible order from his superior, 
 which at best asked only for a sacrifice and 
 was rewarded with a victory. He had de- 
 
100 CLARENCE. 
 
 cimated his brigade, but the wounded and 
 dying had cheered him as he passed, and 
 the survivors had pursued the enemy until 
 the bugle called them back. For such a 
 record he looked still too young and schol- 
 arly, albeit his handsome face was dark and 
 energetic, and his manner taciturn. 
 
 His quick eye had already caught sight 
 of the rifled body of the officer, and con- 
 tracted. As the captain of the detail sa- 
 luted him he said curtly, — 
 
 "I thought the orders were to fire upon 
 any one desecrating the dead?" 
 
 "They are, General; but the hyenas 
 don't give us a chance. That 's all yonder 
 poor fellow saved from their claws," replied 
 the officer, as he held up the sealed packet. 
 "It has no address." 
 
 The general took it, examined the envel- 
 ope, thrust it into his belt, and said, — 
 
 "I will take charge of it." 
 
 The sound of horses' hoofs came from 
 the rocky roadside beyond the brook. Both 
 men turned. A number of field officers were 
 approaching. 
 
 "The division staff," said the captain, 
 in a lower voice, falling back. 
 
 They came slowly forward, a central 
 
CLARENCE. 101 
 
 figure on a gray horse leading here — as 
 in history. A short, thick-set man with a 
 grizzled beard closely cropped around an in- 
 scrutable mouth, and the serious formality of 
 a respectable country deacon in his aspect, 
 which even the major-general's blazon on 
 the shoulder-strap of his loose tunic on his 
 soldierly seat in the saddle could not en- 
 tirely obliterate. He had evidently per- 
 ceived the general of brigade, and quick- 
 ened his horse as the latter drew up. The 
 staff followed more leisurely, but still with 
 some curiosity, to witness the meeting of the 
 first general of the army with the youngest. 
 The division general saluted, but almost in- 
 stantly withdrew his leathern gauntlet, and 
 offered his bared hand to the brigadier. 
 The words of heroes are scant. The drawn- 
 up detail, the waiting staff listened. This 
 was all they heard : — 
 
 "Halleck tells me you're from Califor- 
 nia?" 
 
 "Yes, General." 
 
 " Ah ! I lived there, too, in the early days. 
 Wonderful country. Developed greatly 
 since my time, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, General." 
 
 "Great resources; finest wheat-growing 
 
102 CLARENCE. 
 
 country in the world, sir. You don't hap- 
 pen to know what the actual crop was this 
 year?" 
 
 "Hardly, General! but something enor- 
 mous." 
 
 "Yes, I have always said it would be. 
 Have a cigar? " 
 
 He handed his cigar-case to the briga- 
 dier. Then he took one himself, lighted it 
 at the smouldering end of the one he had 
 taken from his mouth, was about to throw 
 the stump carelessly down, but, suddenly 
 recollecting himself, leaned over his horse, 
 and dropped it carefully a few inches away 
 from the face of a dead soldier. Then, 
 straightening himself in the saddle, he 
 shoved his horse against the brigadier, mov- 
 ing him a little further on, while a slight 
 movement of his hand kept the staff from 
 following. 
 
 "A heavy loss here! " 
 
 "I 'm afraid so. General." 
 
 "It couldn't be helped. We had to rush 
 in your brigade to gain time, and occupy 
 the enemy, until we could change front." 
 
 The young general looked at the shrewd, 
 cold eyes of his chief. 
 
 " Change front ?" he echoed. 
 
CLARENCE. 103 
 
 "Yes. Before a gun was fired, we dis- 
 covered that the enemy was in complete pos- 
 session of all our plans, and knew every de- 
 tail of our forward movement. All had to 
 be changed." 
 
 The younger man now instantly under- 
 stood the incomprehensible order of the day 
 before. 
 
 The general of division continued, with 
 his first touch of official formality, — 
 
 " You understand, therefore, General 
 Brant, that in the face of this extraordinary 
 treachery, the utmost vigilance is required, 
 and a complete surveillance of your camp 
 followers and civilians, to detect the actual 
 spy within our lines, or the traitor we are 
 harboring, who has become possessed of this 
 information. You will overhaul your bri- 
 gade, and weed out all suspects, and in the 
 position which you are to take to-morrow, 
 and the plantation you will occupy, you 
 will see that your private quarters, as well 
 as your lines, are cleared of all but those 
 you can vouch for." 
 
 He reined in his horse, again extended 
 his hand, saluted, and rejoined his staff. 
 
 Brigadier - General Clarence Brant re- 
 mained for a moment with his head bent in 
 
104 CLARENCE. 
 
 thoughtful contemplation of the coolness of 
 his veteran chief under this exciting disclo- 
 sure, and the strategy with which he had 
 frustrated the traitor's success. Then his 
 eye caught the sealed packet in his belt. 
 He mechanically drew it out, and broke the 
 seal. The envelope was filled with papers 
 and memorandums. But as he looked at 
 them his face darkened and his brow knit. 
 He glanced quickly around him. The staff 
 had trotted away; the captain and his de- 
 tail were continuing their work at a little 
 distance. He took a long breath, for he was 
 holding in his hand a tracing of their camp, 
 even of the position he was to occupy to- 
 morrow, and a detailed account of the move- 
 ments, plans, and force of the whole divi- 
 sion as had been arranged in council of war 
 the day before the battle! But there was 
 no indication of the writer or his inten- 
 tions. 
 
 He thrust the papers hurriedly back into 
 the envelope, but placed it, this time, in his 
 breast. He galloped towards the captain. 
 
 "Let me see again the officer from whom 
 you took that packet! " 
 
 The captain led him to where the body 
 lay, with others, extended more decently on 
 
CLARENCE. 105 
 
 the grass awaiting removal. General Brant 
 with difficulty repressed an ejaculation. 
 
 "Why, it's one of our own men," he 
 said quickly. 
 
 "Yes, General. They say it 's Lieutenant 
 Wainwright, a regular, of the paymaster- 
 general's department." 
 
 "Then what was he doing here?" asked 
 General Brant sternly. 
 
 "I can't make out, sir, unless he went into 
 the last advance as a volunteer. Wanted 
 to see the fight, I suppose. He was a dash- 
 ing fellow, a West Pointer, — and a South- 
 erner, too, — a Virginian." 
 
 "A Southerner! " echoed Brant quickly. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Search him again," said Brant quietly. 
 He had recovered his usual coolness, and as 
 the captain again examined the body, he 
 took out his tablets and wrote a few lines. 
 It was an order to search the quarters of 
 Lieutenant Wainwright and bring all pa- 
 pers, letters, and documents to him. He 
 then beckoned one of the detail towards 
 him. "Take that to the provost marshal at 
 once. Well, Captain," he added calmly, as 
 the officer again approached him, "what do 
 you find?" 
 
106 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Only this, sir," returned the captain, 
 with a half smile, producing a small photo- 
 graph. "I suppose it was overlooked, too." 
 
 He handed it to Brant. 
 
 There was a sudden fixing of his com- 
 manding officer's eyes, but his face did not 
 otherwise change. 
 
 "It's the usual find, General. Always 
 a photograph! But this time a handsome 
 woman! " 
 
 "Very," said Clarence Brant quietly. It 
 was the portrait of his own wife. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Neveetheless, so complete was his con- 
 trol of voice and manner that, as he rode on 
 to his quarters, no one would have dreamed 
 that General Brant had just looked upon 
 the likeness of the wife from whom he had 
 parted in anger four years ago. Still less 
 would they have suspected the strange fear 
 that came upon him that in some way she 
 was connected with the treachery he had 
 just discovered. He had heard from her 
 only once, and then through her late hus- 
 band's lawyer, in regard to her Calif ornian 
 property, and believed that she had gone to 
 her relations in Alabama, where she had 
 identified herself with the Southern cause, 
 even to the sacrifice of her private fortune. 
 He had heard her name mentioned in the 
 Southern press as a fascinating society 
 leader, and even coadjutrix of Southern 
 politicians, — but he had no reason to be- 
 lieve that she had taken so active or so des- 
 perate a part in the struggle. He tried to 
 
108 CLARENCE. 
 
 think that his uneasiness sprang from his 
 recollection of the previous treachery of Cap- 
 tain Pinckney, and the part that she had 
 played in the Californian conspiracy, al- 
 though he had long since acquitted her of 
 the betrayal of any nearer trust. But there 
 was a fateful similarity in the two cases. 
 There was no doubt that this Lieutenant 
 Wainwright was a traitor in the camp, — 
 that he had succumbed to the usual sophis- 
 try of his class in regard to his superior 
 allegiance to his native State. But was 
 there the inducement of another emotion, 
 or was the photograph only the souvenir of 
 a fascinating priestess of rebellion, whom 
 the dead man had met? There was per- 
 haps less of feeling than scorn in the first 
 suggestion, but he was nevertheless relieved 
 when the provost marshal found no other in- 
 criminating papers in Wainwright's effects. 
 Nor did he reveal to the division general the 
 finding of the photograph. It was sufficient 
 to disclose the work of the traitor without 
 adding what might be a clue to his wife's 
 participation in it, near or remote. There 
 was risk enough in the former course, — ■ 
 which his duty made imperative. He hardly 
 dared to think of the past day's slaughter, 
 
CLARENCE. 109 
 
 which — there was no doubt now — had 
 been due to the previous work of the spy, 
 and how his brigade had been selected — - by 
 the irony of Fate — to suffer for and yet 
 retrieve it. If she had had a hand in this 
 wicked plot, ought he to spare her? Or was 
 his destiny and hers to be thus monstrously 
 linked together? 
 
 Luckily, however, the expiation of the 
 chief offender and the timely discovery of 
 his papers enabled the division commander 
 to keep the affair discreetly silent, and to 
 enjoin equal secrecy on the part of Brant. 
 The latter, however, did not relax his vigi- 
 lance, and after the advance the next day 
 he made a minute inspection of the ground 
 he was to occupy, its approaches and con- 
 nections with the outlying country, and 
 the rebel lines; increased the stringency of 
 picket and sentry regulations, and exercised 
 a rigid surveillance of non-combatants and 
 civilians within the lines, even to the lowest 
 canteener or camp follower. Then he turned 
 his attention to the house he was to occupy 
 as his headquarters. 
 
 It was a fine specimen of the old colonial 
 planter's house, with its broad veranda, its 
 great detached offices and negro quarters, 
 
110 CLARENCE. 
 
 and had, thus far, escaped the ravages and 
 billeting of the war. It had been occupied 
 by its owner up to a few days before the 
 engagement, and so great had been the con- 
 fidence of the enemy in their success that it 
 had been used as the Confederate headquar- 
 ters on the morning of the decisive battle. 
 Jasmine and rose, unstained by the sulphur 
 of gunpowder, twined around its ruined col- 
 mnns and half hid the recessed windows ; the 
 careless flower garden was still in its unkempt 
 and unplucked luxuriance; the courtyard 
 before the stables alone showed marks of the 
 late military occupancy, and was pulverized 
 by the uneasy horse-hoofs of the waiting staff. 
 But the mingled impress of barbaric prodi- 
 gality with patriarchal simplicity was still 
 there in the domestic arrangements of a 
 race who lived on half equal familiarity 
 with strangers and their own servants. 
 
 The negro servants still remained, with a 
 certain cat-like fidelity to the place, and 
 adapted themselves to the Northern invaders 
 with a childlike enjoyment of the novelty of 
 change. Brant, nevertheless, looked them 
 over with an experienced eye, and satisfied 
 himself of their trustworthiness; there was 
 the usual number of "boys," gray -haired 
 
CLARENCE. Ill 
 
 and grizzled in body service, and the "mam- 
 mys " and "aunties " of the kitchen. There 
 were two or three rooms in the wing which 
 still contained private articles, pictures and 
 souvenirs of the family, and a " young 
 lady's " boudoir, which Brant, with charac- 
 teristic delicacy, kept carefully isolated and 
 intact from his military household, and ac- 
 cessible only to the family servants. The 
 room he had selected for himseK was near- 
 est it, — a small, plainly furnished apart- 
 ment, with an almost conventual simplicit}^ 
 in its cold, white walls and draperies, and 
 the narrow, nun-like bed. It struck him 
 that it might have belonged to some prim 
 elder daughter or maiden aunt, who had 
 acted as housekeeper, as it commanded the 
 wing and servants' offices, with easy access 
 to the central hall. 
 
 There followed a week of inactivity in 
 which Brant felt a singular resemblance in 
 this Southern mansion to the old casa at 
 Robles. The afternoon shadows of the deep 
 verandas recalled the old monastic gloom 
 of the Spanish house, which even the pres- 
 ence of a lounging officer or waiting orderly 
 could not entirely dissipate, and the scent 
 of the rose and jasmine from his windows 
 
112 CLARENCE. 
 
 overcame him with sad memories. He be- 
 gan to chafe under this inaction, and long 
 ao-ain for the excitement of the march and 
 bivouac, — in which, for the past four years, 
 he had buried his past. 
 
 He was sitting one afternoon alone before 
 his reports and dispatches, when this influ- 
 ence seemed so strong that he half impul- 
 sively laid them aside to indulge in a long 
 reverie. He was recalling his last day at 
 Eobles, the early morning duel with Pinck- 
 ney, the return to San Francisco, and the 
 sudden resolution which sent him that day 
 across the continent to offer his services to 
 the Government. He remembered his delay 
 in the Western town, where a volunteer regi- 
 ment was being recruited, his entrance into 
 it as a private, his rapid selection, through 
 the force of his sheer devotion and intelli- 
 gent concentration, to the captaincy of his 
 company ; his swift promotion on hard-fought 
 fields to the head of the regiment, and the 
 singular success that had followed his re- 
 sistless energy, which left him no time to 
 think of anything but his duty. The sud- 
 den intrusion of his wife upon his career 
 now, even in this accidental and perhaps in- 
 nocent way, had seriously unsettled him. 
 
CLARENCE. 113 
 
 The shadows were growing heavier and 
 deeper, it lacked only a few moments of the 
 simset bugle, when he was recalled to him- 
 self by that singular instinctive conscious- 
 ness, common to humanity, of being intently 
 looked at. He turned quickly, — the door 
 behind him closed softly. He rose and 
 slipped into the hall. The tall figure of a 
 woman was going down the passage. She 
 was erect and graceful; but, as she turned 
 towards the door leading to the offices, he 
 distinctly saw the gaudily turbaned head and 
 black silhouette of a negress. Nevertheless, 
 he halted a moment at the door of the next 
 room. 
 
 "See who that woman is who has just 
 passed, Mr. Martin. She does n't seem to 
 belong to the house." 
 
 The young officer rose, put on his cap, and 
 departed. In a few moments he returned. 
 
 " Was she tall, sir, of a good figure, and 
 very straight?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She is a servant of our neighbors, the 
 Manly s, who occasionally visits the servants 
 here. A mulatto, I think." 
 
 Brant reflected. Many of the mulattoes 
 and negresses were of good figure, and the 
 
114 CLARENCE. 
 
 habit of carrying burdens on their heads 
 gave them a singularly erect carriage. 
 
 The lieutenant looked at his chief. 
 
 "Have you any orders to give concerning 
 her, General?" 
 
 "No," said Brant, after a moment's pause, 
 and turned away. 
 
 The officer smiled. It seemed a good story 
 to tell at mess of this human weakness of 
 his handsome, reserved, and ascetic -looking 
 leader. 
 
 A few mornings afterwards Brant was 
 interrupted over his reports by the almost 
 abrupt entrance of the officer of the day. 
 His face was flushed, and it was evident 
 that only the presence of his superior re- 
 strained his excitement. He held a paper 
 in his hand. 
 
 " A lady presents this order and pass from 
 Washington, countersigned by the division 
 general." 
 
 "A lady?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, she is dressed as such. But she 
 has not only declined the most ordinary 
 civilities and courtesies we have offered her, 
 but she has insulted Mr. Martin and myself 
 grossly, and demands to be shown to you — 
 alone." 
 
CLARENCE. 115 
 
 Brant took the paper. It was a special 
 order from the President, passing Miss Ma- 
 tilda Faulkner through the Federal lines to 
 visit her uncle's home, known as "Gray 
 Oaks," now held and occupied as the head- 
 quarters of Brant's Brigade, in order to ar- 
 range for the preservation and disposal of 
 certain family effects and private property 
 that still remained there, or to take and 
 carry away such property ; and invoking all 
 necessary aid and assistance from the United 
 States forces in such occupancy. It was 
 countersigned by the division commander. 
 It was perfectly regular and of undoubted 
 authenticity. He had heard of passes of 
 this kind, — the terror of the army, — issued 
 in Washington under some strange control- 
 ling influence and against military protest ; 
 but he did not let his subordinate see the 
 uneasiness with which it filled him. 
 
 "Show her in," he said quietly. 
 
 But she had already entered, brushing 
 scornfully past the officer, and drawing her 
 skirt aside, as if contaminated : a very pretty 
 Southern girl, scornful and red-lipped, clad 
 in a gray riding-habit, and still carrying her 
 riding-whip clenched ominously in her slim, 
 gauntleted hand ! 
 
116 CLARENCE. 
 
 "You have my permit in your hand," she 
 said brusquely, hardly raising* her eyes to 
 Brant. "I suppose it 's all straight enough, 
 — and even if it isn't, I don't reckon to be 
 kept waiting with those hirelings." 
 
 " Your ' permit ' is ' straight ' enough, 
 Miss Faulkner," said Brant, slowly reading 
 her name from the docmnent before him. 
 " But, as it does not seem to include jjermis- 
 sion to insidt my officers, you will perhaps 
 allow them first to retire." 
 
 He made a sign to the officer, who passed 
 out of the door. 
 
 As it closed, he went on, in a gentle but 
 coldly unimpassioned voice, — 
 
 " I perceive you are a Southern lady, and 
 therefore I need not remind you that it is 
 not considered good form to treat even the 
 slaves of those one does not like uncivilly, 
 and I must, therefore, ask you to keep your 
 active animosity for myself." 
 
 The young girl lifted her eyes. She 
 had evidently not expected to meet a man 
 so young, so handsome, so refined, and so 
 coldly invincible in manner. Still less was 
 she prepared for that kind of antagonism. 
 In keeping up her preconcerted attitude 
 towards the " Northern hireling," she had 
 
CLARENCE. 117 
 
 been met with official brixsqueness, contemp- 
 tuous silence, or aggrieved indignation, — 
 but nothing so exasperating as this. She 
 even fancied that this elegant but sardonic- 
 looking soldier was mocking her. She bit 
 her red lip, but, with a scornful gesture of 
 her riding-whip, said, — 
 
 "I reckon that your knowledge of South- 
 ern ladies is, for certain reasons, not very 
 extensive." 
 
 "Pardon me; I have had the honor of 
 marrying one." 
 
 Apparently more exasperated than before, 
 she turned upon him abruptly. 
 
 "You say my pass is all right. Then I 
 presume I may attend to the business that 
 brought me here." 
 
 " Certainly ; but you will forgive me if I 
 imagined that an exjiression of contempt for 
 your hosts was a part of it." 
 
 He rang a bell on the table. It was re- 
 sponded to by an orderly. 
 
 "Send all the household servants here." 
 
 The room was presently filled with the 
 dusky faces of the negro retainers. Here 
 and there was the gleaming of white teeth, 
 but a majority of the assembly wore the true 
 negro serious acceptance of the importance 
 
118 CLARENCE. 
 
 of "an occasion." One or two even affected 
 an official and soldierly bearing. And, as 
 lie fully expected, there were several glances 
 of significant recognition of the stranger. 
 
 " Yon will give," said Brant sternly, 
 "every aid and attention to the wants of 
 this young lady, who is here to represent 
 the interests of your old master. As she 
 will be entirely dependent upon you in all 
 things connected with her visit here, see to 
 it that she does not have to complain to me 
 of any inattention, — or be obliged to ask 
 for other assistance." 
 
 As Miss Faulkner, albeit a trifle paler in 
 the cheek, but as scornful as ever, was about 
 to follow the servants from the room, Brant 
 stopped her, with a coldly courteous gesture. 
 
 "You will understand, therefore, Miss 
 Faulkner, that you have your wish, and that 
 you will not be exposed to any contact with 
 the members of my military family, nor they 
 with you." 
 
 " Am I then to be a prisoner in this house 
 — and under a free pass of your — Presi- 
 dent?" she said indignantly. 
 
 " By no means ! You are free to come 
 and go, and see whom you please. I have 
 no power to control your actions. But I 
 have the power to control theirs." 
 
CLARENCE. 119 
 
 She swept furiously from the room. 
 
 " That is quite enough to fill her with a 
 desire to flirt with every man here," said 
 Brant to himself, with a faint smile; " but 
 I fancy they have had a taste enough of her 
 quality." 
 
 Nevertheless he sat down and wrote a few 
 lines to the division commander, pointing 
 out that he had already placed the owner's 
 private property under strict surveillance, 
 that it was cared for and perfectly preserved 
 by the household servants, and that the pass 
 was evidently obtained as a subterfuge. 
 
 To this he received a formal reply, regret- 
 ting that the authorities at Washington still 
 found it necessary to put this kind of risk 
 and burden on the army in the field, but 
 that the order emanated from the highest 
 authority, and must be strictly obeyed. At 
 the bottom of the page was a characteristic 
 line in pencil in the general's own hand — 
 "Not the kind that is dangerous." 
 
 A flush mounted Brant's cheeks, as if it 
 contained not only a hidden, but a personal 
 significance. He had thought of his own 
 wife! 
 
 Singularly enough, a day or two later, at 
 dinner, the conversation turned upon the in- 
 
120 CLARENCE. 
 
 tense sectional feeling of Sontliern women, 
 probably induced by their late experiences. 
 Brant, at the head of the table, in his habit- 
 ual abstraction, was scarcely following the 
 somewhat excited diction of Colonel Strange- 
 ways, one of his staff. 
 
 "No, sir," reiterated that indignant war- 
 rior, "take my word for it! A Southern 
 woman isn't to be trusted on this point, 
 whether as a sister, sweetheart, or wife. 
 And when she is trusted, she 's bound to 
 get the better of the man in any of those 
 relations ! " 
 
 The dead silence that followed, the omi- 
 nous joggle of a glass at the speaker's 
 elbow, the quick, sympathetic glance that 
 Brant instinctively felt was directed at his 
 own face, and the abrupt change of subject, 
 could not but arrest his attention, even if 
 he had overlooked the speech. His face, 
 however, betrayed nothing. It had never, 
 however, occurred to him before that his 
 family affairs might be known — neither had 
 he ever thought of keeping them a secret. 
 It seemed so purely a personal and private 
 misfortune, that he had never dreamed of 
 its having any public interest. And even 
 now he was a little ashamed of what he be- 
 
CLARENCE. 121 
 
 lieved was his sensitiveness to mere conven- 
 tional criticism, which, with the instinct of 
 a proud man, he had despised. 
 
 He was not far wrong in his sardonic in- 
 tuition of the effect of his prohibition upon 
 Miss Faulkner's feelings. Certainly that 
 young lady, when not engaged in her mys- 
 terious occupation of arranging her uncle's 
 effects, occasionally was seen in the garden, 
 and in the woods beyond. Although her 
 presence was the signal for the "oblique" 
 of any lounging "shoulder strap," or the 
 vacant "front" of a posted sentry, she 
 seemed to regard their occasional jsroximity 
 with less active disfavor. Once, when she 
 had mounted the wall to gather a magnolia 
 blossom, the chair by which she had as- 
 cended rolled over, leaving her on the wall. 
 At a signal from the guard-room, two sap- 
 pers and miners appeared carrying a scaling- 
 ladder, which they placed silently against 
 the wall, and as silently withdrew. On 
 another occasion, the same spirited young 
 lady, wliom Brant was satisfied would have 
 probably imperiled her life under fire in 
 devotion to her cause, was brought igno- 
 miniously to bay in the field by that most 
 appalling of domestic animals, the wander- 
 
122 CLARENCE. 
 
 ing and untrammeled cow ! Brant could not 
 help smiling- as he heard the quick, harsh call 
 to "Turn out, guard/' saw the men march 
 stolidly with fixed bayonets to the vicinity 
 of the affrighted animal, who fled, leaving 
 the fair stranger to walk shamefacedly to 
 the house. He was surprised, however, that 
 she should have halted before his door, and 
 with tremulous indignation, said, — 
 
 " I thank you, sir, for your chivalrousness 
 in turning a defenseless woman into ridi- 
 cule." 
 
 "I regret, Miss Faulkner," began Brant 
 gravely, "that you should believe that I am 
 able to control the advances of farmyard 
 cattle as easily as" — But he stopped, as 
 he saw that the angry flash of her blue eyes, 
 as she darted past him, was set in tears. 
 A little remorseful on the following day, he 
 added a word to his ordinary cap-lifting 
 when she went by, but she retained a re- 
 proachful silence. Later in the day, he 
 received from her servant a respectful re- 
 quest for an interview, and was relieved to 
 find that she entered his j)resence with no 
 trace of her former aggression, but rather 
 with the resignation of a deeply injured, 
 yet not entirely unforgiving, woman. 
 
CLARENCE. 123 
 
 "I thought," she began eohlly; "that I 
 ought to inform you that I would probably 
 be able to conclude my business here by the 
 day after to-morrow, and that you would 
 then be relieved of my presence. I am 
 aware — indeed," she added, bitterly, "I 
 could scarcely help perceiving, that it has 
 been an exceedingly irksome one." 
 
 "I trust," began Brant coldly, "that no 
 gentleman of my command has " — 
 
 "No!" 
 
 She interrupted him quickly, with a re- 
 turn of her former manner, and a passionate 
 sweep of the hand. 
 
 "Do you suppose for a moment that I 
 am speaking — that I am even thinking — 
 of them? What are they to me ? " 
 
 "Thank you. I am glad to know that 
 they are nothing ; and that I may now trust 
 that you have consulted my wishes, and have 
 reserved your animosity solely for me," re- 
 turned Brant quietly. "That being so, I 
 see no reason for your hurrying your depart- 
 ure in the least." 
 
 She rose instantly. 
 
 "I have," she said slowly, controlling 
 herself with a slight effort, "found some one 
 who will take my duty off my hands. She 
 
124 CLARENCE. 
 
 is a servant of one of your neighbors, — 
 who is an old friend of my uncle's. The 
 woman is familiar with the house, and our 
 private property. I will give her full in- 
 structions to act for me, and even an autho- 
 rization in writing, if you prefer it. She 
 is already in the habit of coming here ; but 
 her visits will give you very little trouble. 
 And, as she is a slave, or, as you call it, I 
 believe, a chattel, she will be already quite 
 accustomed to the treatment which her class 
 are in the habit of receiving from Northern 
 hands." 
 
 Without waiting to perceive the effect of 
 her Parthian shot, she swept proudly out of 
 the room. 
 
 "I wonder what she means," mused Brant, 
 as her quick step died away in the passage. 
 " One thing is certain, — a woman like that 
 is altogether too impulsive for a spy." 
 
 Later, in the twilight, he saw her walk- 
 ing in the garden. There was a figure at 
 her side. A little curious, he examined it 
 more closely from his window. It was al- 
 ready familiar to him, — the erect, shapely 
 form of his neighbor's servant. A thought- 
 ful look passed over his face as he muttered, 
 — "So this is to be her deputy." 
 
CHAPTER IIL 
 
 Called to a general council of officers 
 at divisional headquarters the next day, 
 Brant had little time for further specu- 
 lation regarding his strange guest, but a 
 remark from the division commander, that 
 he preferred to commit the general plan of 
 a movement then under discussion to their 
 memories rather than to written orders in the 
 ordinary routine, seemed to show that his 
 chief still suspected the existence of a spy. 
 He, therefore, told him of his late interview 
 with Miss Faulkner, and her probable with- 
 drawal in favor of a mulatto neighbor. The 
 division commander received the informa- 
 tion with indifference. 
 
 "They're much too clever to employ a 
 hussy like that, who shows her hand at 
 every turn, either as a spy or a messenger 
 of spies, — and the mulattoes are too stupid, 
 to say nothing of their probable fidelity to 
 us. No, General, if we are watched, it is 
 by an eagle, and not a mocking-bird. Miss 
 
126 CLARENCE. 
 
 Faulkner has nothing worse about her than 
 her tongue; and there is n't the nigger blood 
 in the whole South that would risk a noose 
 for her, or for any of their masters or mis- 
 tresses ! " 
 
 It was, therefore, perhaps, with some 
 mitigation of his usual critical severity that 
 he saw her walking before him alone in the 
 lane as he rode home to quarters. She was 
 apparently lost in a half -impatient, half- 
 moody reverie, which even the trotting hoof- 
 beats of his own and his orderly's horse had 
 not disturbed. From time to time she struck 
 the myrtle hedge beside her with the head 
 of a large flower which hung by its stalk 
 from her listless hands, or held it to her 
 face as if to inhale its perfume. Dismissing 
 his orderly by a side path, he rode gently 
 forward, but, to his surprise, without turn- 
 ing, or seeming to be aware of his presence, 
 she quickened her pace, and even appeared 
 to look from side to side for some avenue of 
 escape. If only to mend matters, he was 
 obliged to ride quickly forward to her side, 
 where he threw himself from his horse, 
 flung the reins on his arm, and began to 
 walk beside her. She at first turned a 
 slightly flushed cheek away from him, and 
 
CLARENCE. 127 
 
 then looked up with a purely simulated start 
 of surprise. 
 
 " I am afraid," he said gently, "that I 
 am the first to break my own orders in re- 
 gard to any intrusion on your privacy. But 
 I wanted to ask you if I could give you any 
 aid whatever in the change you think of 
 making." 
 
 He was quite sincere, — had been touched 
 by her manifest disturbance, and, desjjite 
 his masculine relentlessness of criticism, he 
 had an intuition of feminine suffering that 
 was in itself feminine. 
 
 " Meaning, that you are m a hurry to get 
 rid of me," she said curtly, without raising 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Meaning that I only wish to expedite a 
 business which I think is unpleasant to you, 
 but which I believe you have undertaken 
 from unselfish devotion." 
 
 The scant expression of a reserved nature 
 is sometimes more attractive to women than 
 the most fluent vivacity. Possibly there 
 was also a melancholy grace in this sardonic 
 soldier's manner that affected her, for she 
 looked up, and said impulsively, — • 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 But he met her eager eyes with some sur- 
 prise. 
 
128 CLARENCE. 
 
 "I certainly do," lie replied more coldly. 
 " I can imagine your feelings on finding your 
 uncle's home in the possession of your ene- 
 mies, and your presence under the family 
 roof only a sufferance. I can hardly believe 
 it a pleasure to you, or a task you would 
 have accepted for yourself alone." 
 
 "But," she said, turning towards him 
 wickedly, "what if I did it only to excite 
 my revenge; what if I knew it would give 
 me courage to incite my people to carry war 
 into your own homes; to make you of the 
 North feel as I feel, and taste our bitter- 
 ness?" 
 
 "I could easily understand that, too," he 
 returned, with listless coldness, "although 
 I don't admit that revenge is an unmixed 
 pleasure, even to a woman." 
 
 "A woman!" she repeated indignantly. 
 "There is no sex in a war like this." 
 
 "You are spoiling your flower," he said 
 quietly. "It is very pretty, and a native 
 one, too; not an invader, or even trans- 
 planted. May I look at it? " 
 
 She hesitated, half recoiling for an in- 
 stant, and her hand trembled. Then, sud- 
 denly and abruj)tly she said, with a hysteric 
 little laugh, "Take it, then," and almost 
 thrust it in his hand. 
 
CLARENCE. 129 
 
 It certainly was a pretty flower, not un- 
 like a lily in appearance, with a bell-like 
 Clip and long" anthers covered with a fine 
 pollen, like red dust. As he lifted it to his 
 face, to inhale its perfume, she uttered a 
 slight cry, and snatched it from his hand. 
 
 "There!" she said, with the same ner- 
 vous laugh. "I knew you would; I ought 
 to have warned you. The pollen comes off 
 so easily, and leaves a stain. And you 've 
 got some on your cheek. Look! " she con- 
 tinued, taking her handkerchief from her 
 pocket and wiping his cheek; "see there! " 
 The delicate cambric showed a blood-red 
 streak. 
 
 "It grows in a swamp," she continued, 
 in the same excited strain; "we call it 
 dragon's teeth, — like the kind that was 
 sown in the story, you know. We children 
 used to find it, and then paint our faces and 
 lips with it. We called it our rouge. I 
 was almost tempted to try it again when I 
 found it just now. It took me back so to 
 the old times." 
 
 Following her odd manner rather than 
 her words, as she turned her face towards 
 him suddenly. Brant was inclined to think 
 that she had tried it already, so scarlet was 
 
130 CLARENCE. 
 
 her clieek. But it presently paled again un- 
 der his cold scrutiny. 
 
 "You must miss the old times," he said 
 calmly. "I am afraid you found very little 
 of them left, except in these flowers." 
 
 "And hardly these," she said bitterly. 
 "Your troops had found a way through the 
 marsh, and had trampled down the bushes." 
 
 Brant's brow clouded. He remembered 
 that the brook, which had run red during 
 the fight, had lost itself in this marsh. It 
 did not increase his liking for this beautiful 
 but blindly vicious animal at his side, and 
 even his momentary pity for her was fading 
 fast. She was incorrigible. They walked 
 on for a few moments in silence. 
 
 "You said," she began at last, in a gen- 
 tler and even hesitating voice, "that your 
 wife was a Southern woman." 
 
 He checked an irritated start with diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 "I believe I did," he said coldly, as if he 
 regretted it. 
 
 "And of course you taught her your gos- 
 pel, — the gospel according to St. Lincoln. 
 Oh, I know," she went on hurriedly, as if 
 conscious of his irritation and seeking to 
 a.llay it. " She was a woman and loved you, 
 
CLARENCE. 131 
 
 and thought with your thoughts and saw- 
 only with your eyes. Yes, that 's the way 
 with us, — I suppose we all do it!" she 
 added bitterly. 
 
 "She had her own opinions," said Brant 
 briefly, as he recovered himself. 
 
 Nevertheless, his manner so decidedly 
 closed all further discussion that there was 
 nothing left for the young girl but silence. 
 But it was broken by her in a few moments 
 in her old contemptuous voice and manner. 
 
 "Pray don't trouble yourself to accom- 
 pany me any further. General Brant. Un- 
 less, of course, you are afraid I may come 
 across some of your — your soldiers. I 
 promise you I won't eat them." 
 
 "I am afraid you must suffer my com- 
 pany a little longer, Miss Faullmer, on 
 account of those same soldiers," returned 
 Brant gravely. "You may not know that 
 this road, in which I find you, takes you 
 through a cordon of pickets. If you were 
 alone you woidd be stopped, questioned, 
 and, failing to give the password, you 
 would be tletained, sent to the guard-house, 
 and" — he stopped, and fixed his eyes on 
 her keenly as he added, "and searched." 
 
 "You would not dare to search a wo- 
 
132 CLARENCE. 
 
 man!" she said indignantly, although her 
 flush gave way to a slight pallor. 
 
 "You said just now that there should be 
 no sex in a war like this," returned Brant 
 carelessly, but without abating his scruti- 
 nizing gaze. 
 
 "Then it is war? " she said quickly, with 
 a white, significant face. 
 
 His look of scrutiny turned to one of 
 puzzled wonder. But at the same moment 
 there was the flash of a bayonet in the 
 hedge, a voice called "Halt! " and a soldier 
 stepped into the road. 
 
 General Brant advanced, met the salute 
 of the picket with a few formal words, and 
 then turned towards his fair companion, as 
 another soldier and a sergeant joined the 
 group. 
 
 "Miss Faulkner is new to the camp, took 
 the wrong turning, and was unwittingly 
 leaving the lines when I joined her." He 
 fixed his eyes intently on her now colorless 
 face, but she did not return his look. " You 
 will show her the shortest way to quarters," 
 he continued, to the sergeant, "and should 
 she at any time again lose her way, you will 
 again conduct her home, — but without de- 
 taining or reporting her." 
 
CLARENCE. 133 
 
 He lifted his cap, remounted his horse, 
 and rode away, as the young- girl, with a 
 proud, indifferent step, moved down the 
 road with the sergeant. A mounted officer 
 passed him and saluted, — it was one of 
 his own staff. From some strange instinct, 
 he knew that he had witnessed the scene, 
 and from some equally strange intuition he 
 was annoyed by it. But he continued his 
 way, visiting one or two outposts, and re- 
 turned by a long detour to his quarters. As 
 he stepj)ed upon the veranda he saw Miss 
 Faulkner at the bottom of the garden talk- 
 ing with some one across the hedge. By 
 the aid of his glass he could recognize the 
 shapely figure of the mulatto woman which 
 he had seen before. But by its aid he also 
 discovered that she was carrying a flower 
 exactly like the one which Miss Faulkner 
 still held in her hand. Had she been with 
 Miss Faulkner in the lane, and if so, why 
 had she disappeared when he came up? 
 Impelled by something stronger than mere 
 curiosity, he walked quickly down the gar- 
 den, but she evidently had noticed him, for 
 she as quickly disappeared. Not caring to 
 meet Miss Faulkner again, he retraced his 
 steps, resolving that he would, on the first 
 
134 CLARENCE. 
 
 oijportunity, personally examine and inter- 
 rogate tliis new visitor. For if slie were to 
 take Miss Faulkner's place in a subordinate 
 capacity, this precaution was clearly within 
 his rights. 
 
 He reentered his room and seated himself 
 at his desk before the dispatches, orders, 
 and reports awaiting him. He found him- 
 self, however, working half mechanically, 
 and recurring to his late interview with 
 Miss Faulkner in the lane. If she had any 
 inclination to act the spy, or to use her po- 
 sition here as a means of communicating 
 with the enemy's lines, he thought he had 
 thoroughly frightened her. Nevertheless, 
 now, for the first time, he was inclined to 
 accept his chief's opinion of her. She was 
 not only too clumsy and inexperienced, but 
 she totally lacked the self-restraint of a 
 spy. Her nervous agitation in the lane was 
 due to something more disturbing than his 
 mere possible intrusion upon her confidences 
 with the mulatto. The significance of her 
 question, "Then it is war?" was at best 
 a threat, and that implied hesitation. He 
 recalled her strange allusion to his wife; 
 was it merely the outcome of his own foolish 
 confession on their first interview, or was it 
 
CLARENCE. 135 
 
 a concealed ironical taunt? Being satisfied, 
 however, that she was not likely to imperil 
 his public duty in any way, he was angry 
 with himself for speculating further. But, 
 although he still felt towards her the same 
 antagonism she had at first provoked, he was 
 conscious that she was beginning to exercise 
 a strange fascination over him. 
 
 Dismissing her at last with an effort, he 
 finished his work and then rose, and unlock- 
 ing a closet, took out a small dispatch-box, 
 to which he intended to intrust a few more 
 important orders and memoranda. As he 
 opened it with a key on his watch-chain, he 
 was struck with a faint pei-fume that seemed 
 to come from it, — a perfume that he re- 
 membered. Was it the smell of the flower 
 that Miss Faulkner carried, or the scent of 
 the handkerchief with which she had wiped 
 his cheek, or a mingling of both? Or was 
 he under some spell to think of that wretched 
 girl, and her witch-like flower? He leaned 
 over the box and suddenly started. Upon 
 the outer covering of a dispatch was a sin- 
 gular blood-red streak I He examined it 
 closely, — it was the powdery stain of the 
 lily pollen , — exactly as he had seen it on 
 her handkerchief. 
 
136 CLARENCE. 
 
 There could be no mistake. He passed 
 his finger over the stain ; he could still feel 
 the slippery, infinitesimal powder of the 
 pollen. It was not there when he had closed 
 the box that morning- ; it was impossible that 
 it should be there unless the box had been 
 opened in his absence. He reexamined the 
 contents of the box; the papers were all 
 there. More than that, they were papers 
 of no importance except to him personally ; 
 contained no plans nor key to any military 
 secret ; he had been far too wise to intrust 
 any to the accidents of this alien house. 
 The prying intruder, whoever it was, had 
 gained nothing! But there was unmistak- 
 ably the attempt ! And the existence of a 
 would-be spy within the purlieus of the 
 house was equally clear. 
 
 He called an officer from the next room. 
 
 "Has any one been here since my ab- 
 sence?" 
 
 "No, General." 
 
 "Has any one passed through the hall? " 
 
 He had fully anticipated the answer, as 
 the subaltern replied, "Only the women 
 servants." 
 
 He reentered the room. Closing the door, 
 he again carefully examined the box, his 
 
CLARENCE. 137 
 
 table, the papers upon it, tlie chair before 
 it, and even the Chinese matting on the 
 floor, for any further indication of the pol- 
 len. It hardly seemed possible that any one 
 could have entered the room with the flower 
 in their hand without scattering- some of the 
 tell-tale dust elsewhere ; it was too large a 
 flower to be worn on the breast or in the 
 hair. Again, no one would have dared to 
 linger there long enough to have made an 
 examination of the box, with an officer in 
 the next room, and the sergeant passing. 
 The box had been removed, and the exami- 
 nation made elsewhere ! 
 
 An idea seized him. Miss Faulkner was 
 still absent, the mulatto had apparently 
 gone home. He quickly mounted the stair- 
 case, but instead of entering his room, 
 turned suddenly aside into the wing which 
 had been reserved. The first door yielded 
 as he turned its knob gently and entered a 
 room which he at once recognized as the 
 "young lady's boudoir." But the dusty 
 and draped furniture had been rearranged 
 and uncovered, and the apartment bore 
 every sign of present use. Yet, although 
 there was unmistakable evidence of its being 
 used by a person of taste and refinement, he 
 
138 . CLARENCE. 
 
 was surprised to see that the garments hang- 
 ing in an open press were such as were used 
 by negro servants, and that a gaudy hand- 
 kerchief such as housemaids used for tur- 
 bans was lying on the pretty silk coverlet. 
 He did not linger over these details, but 
 cast a rapid glance round the room. Then 
 his eyes became fixed on a fanciful writing- 
 desk, which stood by the window. For, in 
 a handsome vase placed on its level top, and 
 drooping on a portfolio below, hung a clus- 
 ter of the very flowers that Miss Faulkner 
 had carried! 
 
CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 It seemed plain to Brant tliat tlie dis- 
 patcli-box had been conveyed here and 
 opened for security on this desk, and in the 
 hurry of examining the papers the flower 
 had been jostled and the fallen grains of 
 pollen overlooked by the spy. There were 
 one or two freckles of red on the desk, which 
 made this accident appear the more proba- 
 ble. But he was equally struck by another 
 circumstance. The desk stood immediately 
 before the window. As he glanced mechani- 
 cally from it, he was surprised to see that 
 it commanded an extensive view of the slope 
 below the eminence on which the house 
 stood, even beyond his furthest line of pick- 
 ets. The vase of flowers, each of which 
 was nearly as large as a magnolia blossom, 
 and striking in color, occupied a central 
 position before it, and no doubt could be 
 quite distinctly seen from a distance. From 
 this circumstance he could not resist the 
 strong impression that this fateful and ex- 
 
140 CLARENCE. 
 
 traordinary blossom, carried by Miss Faulk- 
 ner and tlie mulatto, and so strikingly "in 
 evidence " at the window, was in some way 
 a signal. Obeying an impulse which he was 
 conscious had a half superstitious founda- 
 tion, he carefully lifted the vase from its 
 position before the window, and placed it 
 on a side table. Then he cautiously slipped 
 from the room. 
 
 But he could not easily shake off the per- 
 plexity which the occurrence had caused, 
 although he was satisfied that it was fraught 
 with no military or strategic danger to his 
 command, and that the unknown spy had 
 obtained no information whatever. Yet he 
 was forced to admit to himself that he was 
 more concerned in his attempts to justify 
 the conduct of Miss Faulkner with this later 
 revelation. It was quite possible that the 
 dispatch-box had been purloined by some 
 one else during her absence from the house, 
 as the presence of the mulatto servant in his 
 room would have been less suspicious than 
 hers. There was really little evidence to 
 connect Miss Faulkner with the actual out- 
 rage, — rather might not the real spy have 
 taken advantage of her visit here, to throw 
 suspicion upon her? He remembered her 
 
CLARENCE. 141 
 
 singular manner, — the strange inconsistency 
 with which she had forced this flower upon 
 him. She would hardly have done so had 
 she been conscious of its having so serious 
 an import. Yet, what was the secret of her 
 manifest agitation? A sudden inspiration 
 flashed across his mind; a smile came upon 
 his lips. She was in love! The enemy's 
 line contained some sighing Strephon of a 
 young subaltern with whom she was in com- 
 munication, and for whom she had under- 
 taken this quest. The flower was their 
 language of correspondence, no doubt. It 
 explained also the young girl's animosity 
 against the younger officers, — his adversa- 
 ries ; against himself, — their commander. 
 He had previously wondered why, if she 
 were indeed a spy, she had not chosen, upon 
 some equally specious order from Washing- 
 ton, the headquarters of the division com- 
 mander, whose secrets were more valuable. 
 This was explained by the fact that she was 
 neai-er the lines and her lover in her present 
 abode. He had no idea that he was making 
 excuses for her, — he believed himself only 
 just. The recollection of what she had said 
 of the power of love, albeit it had hurt him 
 cruelly at the time, was now clearer to him. 
 
142 CLARENCE. 
 
 and even seemed to mitigate lier offense. 
 She would be here but a day or two longer; 
 he could afford to wait without interrogating 
 her. 
 
 But as to the real intruder, spy or thief, 
 — that was another affair, and quickly set- 
 tled. He gave an order to the officer of the 
 day peremptorily forbidding the entrance 
 of alien servants or slaves within the pre- 
 cincts of the headquarters. Any one thus 
 trespassing was to be brought before him. 
 The officer looked surprised, he even fancied 
 disappointed. The graces of the midatto 
 woman's figure had evidently not been 
 thrown away upon his subalterns. 
 
 An hour or two later, when he was mount- 
 ing his horse for a round of inspection, he 
 was surprised to see Miss Faulkner, accom- 
 panied by the mulatto woman, running hur- 
 riedly to the house. He had forgotten his 
 late order until he saw the latter halted by 
 the sentries, but the young girl came flying 
 on, regardless of her companion. Her skirt 
 was held in one hand, her straw hat had 
 fallen back in her flight, and was caught 
 only by a ribbon around her swelling throat, 
 and her loosened hair lay in a black rijjpled 
 loop on one shoulder. For an instant Brant 
 
CLARENCE. 143 
 
 thought that she was seeking him in indig- 
 nation at his order, but a second look at her 
 set face, eager eyes, and parted scarlet lips, 
 showed him that she had not even noticed 
 him in the concentration of her purpose. 
 She swept by him into the hall, he heard 
 the swish of her skirt and rapid feet on 
 the stairs, — ■ she was gone. What had hap- 
 pened, or was this another of her moods ? 
 
 But he was called to himself by the ap- 
 parition of a corporal standing before him, 
 with the mulatto woman, — the first capture 
 under his order. She was tall, well-formed, 
 but unmistakably showing the negro type, 
 even in her small features. Her black eyes 
 were excited, but unintelligent ; her manner 
 dogged, but with the obstinacy of half- 
 conscious stupidity. Brant felt not only 
 disappointed, but had a singular impression 
 that she was not the same woman that he 
 had first seen. Yet there was the tall, 
 graceful figure, the dark profile, and the 
 turbaned head that he had once followed 
 down the passage by his room. 
 
 Her story was as stupidly simple. She 
 had known "Missy" from a chile! She had 
 just traipsed over to see her that afternoon ; 
 they were walking together when the sojers 
 
144 CLARENCE. 
 
 stopped her. She had never been stopped 
 before, even by "the patter rollers." ^ Her 
 old massa (Manly) had gib leaf to go see 
 Miss Tilly, and had n't said nuffin about no 
 "orders." 
 
 More annoyed than he cared to confess, 
 Brant briefly dismissed her with a warning. 
 As he cantered down the slope the view of 
 the distant pickets recalled the window in 
 the wing, and he turned in his saddle to 
 look at it. There it was — the largest and 
 most dominant window in that part of the 
 building — and within it, a distinct and 
 vivid object almost filling the opening, was 
 the vase of flowers, which he had a few hours 
 ago removed, restored to its original 2)0sl- 
 t'lon! He smiled. The hurried entrance 
 and consternation of Miss Faulkner were 
 now fully explained. He had interrupted 
 some impassioned message, perhaps even 
 countermanded some affectionate rendezvous 
 beyond the lines. And it seemed to settle 
 the fact that it was she who had done the 
 signaling! But would not this also make 
 her cognizant of the taking of the dispatch- 
 box? He reflected, however, that the room 
 
 1 i. e., patrols, — a civic home-guard in the South that 
 kept surveillauce of slaves. 
 
CLARENCE. 145 
 
 was apparently occupied by the mulatto 
 woman — he remembered the calico dresses 
 and turban on the bed — and it was possible 
 that Miss Faulkner had only visited it for 
 the purpose of signaling to her lover. Al- 
 though this circumstance did not tend to 
 make his mind easier, it was, however, 
 presently diverted by a new arrival and a 
 strange recognition. 
 
 As he rode through the camp a group of 
 officers congregated before a large mess tent 
 appeared to be highly amused by the con- 
 versation — half monologue and half ha- 
 rangue — of a singular-looking individual 
 who stood in the centre. He wore a 
 "slouch" hat, to the band of which he had 
 imparted a military air by the addition of a 
 gold cord, but the brim was caught up at 
 the side in a peculiarly theatrical and highly 
 artificial fashion. A heavy cavalry sabre 
 depended from a broad-buckled belt under 
 his black frock coat, with the addition of 
 two revolvers — minus their holsters — stuck 
 on either side of the buckle, after the style 
 of a stage smuggler. A pair of long enam- 
 eled leather riding boots, with the tops 
 turned deeply over, as if they had once done 
 duty for the representative of a cavalier, 
 
146 CLARENCE. 
 
 completed liis extraordinary equipment. 
 The group were so absorbed in him that 
 they did not perceive the approach of their 
 chief and his orderly; and Brant, with a 
 sign to the latter, halted only a few paces 
 from this central figure. His speech was a 
 singular mingling of high-flown and exalted 
 epithets, with inexact pronunciation and oc- 
 casional lapses of Western slang. 
 
 "Well, I ain't purtendin' to any stratu- 
 tegical smartness, and I did n't gradooate 
 at West Point as one of those Apocryphal 
 Engineers; I don't do much talking about 
 ' flank ' movements or ' recognizances in 
 force ' or ' Ekellon skirmishing, ' but when 
 it comes down to square Ingin fightin', I 
 reckon I kin have my say. There are men 
 who don't know the Army Contractor," he 
 added darkly, "who mebbe have heard of 
 ' Red Jim.' I don't mention names, gentle- 
 men, but only the other day a man that you 
 all know says to me, ' If I only knew what 
 you do about scoutin' I would n't be want- 
 ing for information as I do.' I ain't goin' 
 to say who it was, or break any confidences 
 between gentlemen by saying how many 
 stars he had on his shoulder strap; but 
 he was a man who knew what he was say- 
 
CLARENCE. 147 
 
 ing. And I say agin, gentlemen, that tlie 
 curse of the Northern Army is the want of 
 proper scoutin'. What was it caused Bull's 
 Run? — Want o' scoutin'. What was it 
 rolled up Pope ? — Want o' scoutin'. What 
 caused the slaughter at the Wilderness? — 
 Want o' scoutin' — Ingin scoutin' ! Why, 
 only the other day, gentlemen, I was ap- 
 proached to know what I 'd take to organize 
 a scoutin' force. And what did I say? — 
 'No, General; it ain't because I represent 
 one of the largest Army Beef Contracts in 
 this country, ' says I. 'It ain't because I be- 
 long, so to speak, to the "Sinews of War; " 
 but because I 'd want about ten thousand 
 trained Ingins from the Reservations ! ' 
 And the regular West Point, high-toned, 
 scientific inkybus that weighs so heavily on 
 our army don't see it — and won't have it! 
 Then Sherman, he sez to me " — 
 
 But here a roar of laughter interrupted 
 him, and in the cross fire of sarcastic inter- 
 rogations that began Brant saw, with relief, 
 a chance of escape. For in the voice, man- 
 ner, and, above all, the characteristic tem- 
 perament of the stranger, he had recognized 
 his old playmate and the husband of Susy, 
 — the redoubtable Jim Hooker ! There was 
 
148 CLARENCE. 
 
 no mistaking that gloomy audacity; that 
 mysterious significance; that magnificent 
 lying. But even at that moment Clarence 
 Brant's heart had gone out, with all his old 
 loyalty of feeluig, towards his old compan- 
 ion. He knew that a public recognition of 
 him then and there would plunge Hooker 
 into confusion; he felt keenly the ironical 
 plaudits and laughter of his officers over the 
 manifest wealiness and vanity of the ex- 
 teamster, ex-rancher, ex-actor, and husband 
 of his old girl sweetheart, and would have 
 spared him the knowledge that he had over- 
 heard it. Turning hastily to the orderly, 
 he bade him bring the stranger to his head- 
 quarters, and rode away unperceived. 
 
 He had heard enough, however, to ac- 
 count for his presence there, and the sin- 
 gular chance that had brought them again 
 together. He was evidently one of those 
 large civil contractors of supplies whom the 
 Government was obliged to employ, who vis- 
 ited the camp half officially, and whom the 
 army alternately depended upon and abused. 
 Brant had dealt with his underlings in the 
 Commissariat, and even now remembered 
 that he had heard he was coming, but had 
 overlooked the significance of his name. 
 
CLARENCE. 149 
 
 But how he came to leave his theatrical pro- 
 fession, how he had attained a position which 
 implied a command of considerable capital 
 — for many of the contractors had already 
 amassed large fortunes — and what had be- 
 come of Susy and her ambitions in this rad- 
 ical change of circumstances, were things 
 still to be learned. In his own changed con- 
 ditions he had seldom thought of her ; it was 
 with a strange feeling of irritation and half 
 responsibility that he now recalled their last 
 interview and the emotion to which he had 
 yielded. 
 
 He had not long to wait. He had 
 scarcely regained the quarters at his own 
 private office before he heard the step of the 
 orderly upon the veranda and the trailing 
 clank of Hooker's sabre. He did not know, 
 however, that Hooker, without recognizing 
 his name, had received the message as a 
 personal tribute, and had left his sarcastic 
 companions triumphantly, with the air of 
 going to a confidential interview, to which 
 his well-known military criticism had en- 
 titled him. It was with a bearing of gloomy 
 importance and his characteristic, sullen, 
 sidelong glance that he entered the apart- 
 ment and did not look up until Brant had 
 
150 CLARENCE. 
 
 signaled the orderly to withdraw, and closed 
 the door behind him. And then he recog- 
 nized his old boyish companion — the pre- 
 ferred favorite of fortune ! 
 
 For a moment he gasped with astonish- 
 ment. For a moment gloomy incredulity, 
 suspicion, delight, pride, admiration, even 
 affection, struggled for mastery in his sul- 
 len, staring eyes and open, twitching mouth. 
 For here was Clarence Brant, handsomer 
 than ever, more superior than ever, in the 
 majesty of uniform and authority which 
 fitted him — the younger man — by reason 
 of his four years of active service, with the 
 careless ease and bearing of the veteran ! 
 Here was the hero whose name was already 
 so famous that the mere coincidence of it 
 with that of the modest civilian he had 
 known would have struck him as jDrepos- 
 terous. Yet here he was — supreme and 
 dazzling — surrounded by the pomp and cir~ 
 cumstance of war — into whose reserved 
 presence he, Jim Hooker, had been ushered 
 with the formality of challenge, saluting, 
 and presented bayonets ! 
 
 Luckily, Brant had taken advantage of 
 his first gratified ejaculation to shake him 
 warmly by the hand, and then, with both 
 
CLARENCE. 151 
 
 hands laid familiarly on his shoulder, force 
 him down into a chair. Luckily, for by 
 that time Jim Hooker had, with character- 
 istic gloominess, found time to taste the 
 pangs of envy — an envy the more keen 
 since, in spite of his success as a peaceful 
 contractor, he had always secretly longed for 
 military display and distinction. He looked 
 at the man who had achieved it, as he firmly 
 believed, by sheer luck and accident, and 
 his eyes darkened. Then, with characteris- 
 tic weakness and vanity, he began to resist 
 his first impressions of Clarence's superior- 
 ity, and to air his own importance. He 
 leaned heavily back in the chair in which he 
 had been thus genially forced, drew off his 
 gauntlet and attempted to thrust it through 
 his belt, as he had seen Brant do, but failed 
 on account of his pistols already occupying 
 that position, dropped it, got his swoi'd be- 
 tween his legs in attempting to pick it up, 
 and then leaned back again, with haK-closed 
 eyes serenely indifferent of his old compan- 
 ion's smiling face. 
 
 " I reckon," he began slowly, with a 
 slightly patronizing air, "that we 'd have 
 met, sooner or later, at Washington, or at 
 Grant's headquarters, for Hooker, Meacham 
 
152 CLARENCE. 
 
 & Co. go everywhere, and are about as well 
 known as major-generals, to say nothin'," 
 he went on, with a sidelong glance at Brant's 
 shoulder-straps, "of brigadiers; and it 's 
 rather strange — only, of course, you 're 
 kind of fresh in the service — that you ain't 
 heard of me afore." 
 
 "But I 'm very glad to hear of you now, 
 Jim," said Brant, smiling, "and from your 
 own lips — which I am also delighted to 
 find," he added mischievously, "are still as 
 frankly communicative on that topic as of 
 old. But I congratulate you, old fellow, on 
 your good fortune. When did you leave 
 the stage? " 
 
 Mr. Hooker frowned slightly. 
 
 "I never was really on the stage, you 
 know," he said, waving his hand with as- 
 sumed negligence. " Only went on to please 
 my wife. Mrs. Hooker wouldn't act with 
 vulgar professionals, don't you see ! I was 
 really manager most of the time, and les- 
 see of the theatre. Went East when the war 
 broke out, to offer my sword and knowledge 
 of Ingin fightin' to Uncle Sam ! Drifted into 
 a big pork contract at St. Louis, with Fre- 
 mont. Been at it ever since. Offered a com- 
 mission in the reg'lar service lots o' times. 
 Refused." 
 
CLARENCE. 153 
 
 "Why?" asked Brant demurely. 
 
 "Too niucli West Point starch around to 
 suit me," returned Hooker darkly. "And 
 too many spies! " 
 
 " Spies ?" echoed Brant abstractedly, 
 with a momentary reminiscence of Miss 
 Faulkner. 
 
 "Yes, spies," continued Hooker, with 
 dogged mystery. "One half of Washing- 
 ton is watching t' other half, and, from the 
 President's wife down, most of the women 
 are secesh! " 
 
 Brant suddenly fixed his keen eyes on his 
 guest. But the next moment he reflected 
 that this was only Jim Hooker's usual 
 speech, and possessed no ulterior signifi- 
 cance. He smiled again, and said, more 
 gently, — 
 
 "And how is Mrs. Hooker? " 
 
 Mr. Hooker fixed his eyes on the ceiling, 
 rose, and pretended to look out of the win- 
 dow; then, taking his seat again by the 
 table, as if fronting an imaginary audience, 
 and pulling slowly at his gauntlets after the 
 usual theatrical indication of perfect sang- 
 froid, said, — 
 
 "There ain't any! " 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Brant, with gen- 
 
154 CLARENCE. 
 
 uine emotion. "I beg your pardon. Really, 
 I" — 
 
 "Mrs. Hooker and me are divorced," con- 
 tinued Hooker, slightly changing his atti- 
 tude, and leaning heavily on his sabre, 
 with his eyes still on his fanciful audience. 
 "There was, you understand" — lightly toss- 
 ing his gauntlet aside — " incompatibility of 
 temper — and — we — parted ! Ha ! ' ' 
 
 He uttered a low, bitter, scornful laugh, 
 which, however, produced the distinct im- 
 pression in Brant's mind that up to that 
 moment he had never had the slightest feel- 
 ing in the matter whatever. 
 
 "You seemed to be on such good terms 
 with each other ! " murmured Brant vaguely. 
 
 "Seemed!" said Hooker bitterly, glan- 
 cing sardonically at an ideal second row in 
 the pit before him, "yes — seemed! There 
 were other differences, social and political. 
 You understand that ; you have suffered, 
 too." He reached out his hand and pressed 
 Brant's, in heavy effusiveness. "But," he 
 continued haughtily, lightly tossing his glove 
 again, "we are also men of the world; we 
 let that pass." 
 
 And it was possible that he found the 
 strain of his present attitude too great, for 
 he changed to an easier position. 
 
CLARENCE. 155 
 
 "But," said Brant curiously, "I always 
 tliouglit that Mrs. Hooker was intensely 
 Union and Northern?" 
 
 "Put on!" said Hooker, in his natural 
 voice. 
 
 "But you remember the incident of the 
 flag?" persisted Brant. 
 
 "Mrs. Hooker was always an actress," 
 said Hooker significantly. "But," he added 
 cheerfully, "Mrs. Hooker is now the wife 
 of Senator Boompointer, one of the wealth- 
 iest and most powerful Republicans in 
 Washington — carries the patronage of the 
 whole West in his vest pocket." 
 
 "Yet, if she is not a Republican, why 
 did she " — began Brant. 
 
 " For a jDurpose," replied Hooker darkly. 
 "But," he added again, with greater cheer- 
 fulness, " she belongs to the very elite of 
 Washington society. Goes to all the foreign 
 ambassadors' balls, and is a power at the 
 White House. Her picture is in all the 
 first-class illustrated papers." 
 
 The singular but unmistakable pride of 
 the man in the importance of the wife from 
 whom he was divorced, and for whom he 
 did not care, would have offended Brant's 
 delicacy, or at least have excited his ridicule, 
 
156 CLARENCE. 
 
 but for the reason tliat he was more deejjly 
 stmig by Hooker's alkision to his own wife 
 and his degrading similitude of their two 
 conditions. But he dismissed the former as 
 part of Hooker's invincible and still boyish 
 extravagance, and the latter as part of his 
 equally characteristic assumption. Perhaps 
 he was conscious, too, notwithstanding the 
 lapse of years and the condonation of sepa- 
 ration and forgetfulness, that he deserved 
 little delicacy from the hands of Susy's hus- 
 band. Nevertheless, he dreaded to hear him 
 speak again of her ; and the fear was real- 
 ized in a question. 
 
 "Does she know you are here?" 
 
 "Who?" said Brant curtly. 
 
 "Your wife. That is — I reckon she 's 
 your wife still, eh? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I do not know what she knows, " 
 returned Brant quietly. He had regained his 
 self -composure. 
 
 "Susy, — Mrs. Senator Boompointer, that 
 is," — said Hooker, with an apparent dig- 
 nity in his late wife's new title, "allowed 
 that she 'd gone abroad on a secret mission 
 from the Southern Confederacy to them 
 crowned heads over there. She was good 
 at ropiu' men in, you know. Anyhow, Susy, 
 
CLARENCE. 157 
 
 afore slie was Mrs. Boompointer, was dead 
 set on findin' out where she was, but never 
 could. She seemed to drop out of sight a 
 year ago. Some said one thing, and some 
 said another. But you can bet your bottom 
 dollar that Mrs. Senator Boompointer, who 
 knows how to pull all the wires in Washing- 
 ton, will know, if any one does." 
 
 "But is Mrs. Boompointer really disaf- 
 fected, and a Southern sympathizer?" said 
 Brant, "or is it only caprice or fashion?" 
 
 While speaking he had risen, with a half- 
 abstracted face, and had gone to the win- 
 dow, where he stood in a listening attitude. 
 Presently he opened the window, and 
 stepped outside. Hooker wonderingiy fol- 
 lowed him. One or two officers had already 
 stej)ped out of their rooms, and were stand- 
 ing upon the veranda; another had halted 
 in the path. Then one quickly reentered 
 the house, reappeared with his cap and 
 sword in his hand, and ran lightly toward 
 the guard-house. A slight crackling noise 
 seemed to come from beyond the garden 
 wall. 
 
 "What 's up?" said Hooker, with star- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 "Picket firing!" 
 
158 CLARENCE. 
 
 The crackling suddenly became a long 
 rattle. Brant reentered the room, and 
 picked up his hat. 
 
 "You '11 excuse me for a few moments." 
 
 A faint sound, soft yet full, and not un- 
 like a bursting bubble, made the house ap- 
 pear to leap elastically, like the rebound of 
 a rubber ball. 
 
 "What 's that?" gasped Hooker. 
 
 "Cannon, out of range! " 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 In another instaut bugles were ringing 
 througli the camp, with the hurrying hoofs 
 of mounted officers and the trampling of 
 formins' men. The house itself was almost 
 deserted. Although the single cannon-shot 
 had been enough to show that it was no 
 mere skirmishing of pickets, Brant still did 
 not believe in any serious attack of the 
 enemy. His position, as in the previous 
 engagement, had no strategic importance to 
 them; they were no doubt only making a 
 feint against it to conceal some advance upon 
 the centre of the army two miles away. 
 Satisfied that he was in easy supporting dis- 
 tance of his division commander, he ex- 
 tended his line along the ridge, ready to fall 
 back in that direction, while retarding their 
 advance and masking the position of his 
 own chief. He gave a few orders necessary 
 to the probable abandonment of the house, 
 and then returned to it. Shot and shell 
 were already dropping in the field below. A 
 
160 CLARENCE. 
 
 tliin ridge of blue haze showed the line of 
 skirmish fire. A small conical, white cloud, 
 like a bursting cotton-pod, revealed an open 
 battery in the willow-fringed meadow. Yet 
 the pastoral peacefulness of the house was 
 unchanged. The afternoon sun lay softly 
 on its deep verandas ; the pot pourri incense 
 of fallen rose-leaves haunted it stiU. 
 
 He entered his room through the French 
 window on the veranda, when the door lead- 
 ing from the passage was suddenly flung 
 open, and Miss Faulkner swept quickly in- 
 side, closed the door behind her, and leaned 
 back against it, panting and breathless. 
 
 Clarence was startled, and for a moment 
 ashamed. He had suddenly realized that in 
 the excitement he had entirely forgotten her 
 and the dangers to which she might be ex- 
 posed. She had probably heard the firing, 
 her womanly fears had been awakened ; sfce 
 had come to him for protection. But as he 
 turned towards her with a reassuring smile, 
 he was shocked to see that her agitation and 
 pallor were far beyond any physical cause. 
 She motioned him desperately to shut the 
 window by which he had entered, and said, 
 with white lips, — 
 
 "I must speak with you alone! " 
 
CLARENCE. 161 
 
 "Certainly. But there is no immediate 
 danger to you even here — and I can soon 
 put you beyond the reach of any possible 
 harm." 
 
 "Harm — to me I God! i£ it were only 
 that!" 
 
 He stared at her uneasily. 
 
 " Listen," she said gaspingly, "listen to 
 me ! Then hate, despise me — kill me if you 
 will. For you are betrayed and ruined — 
 cut off and surrounded ! It has been helped 
 on by me, but I swear to you the blow did 
 not come from ony hand. I would have 
 saved you. God only knows how it hap- 
 pened — it was Fate ! " 
 
 In an instant Brant saw the whole truth 
 instinctively and clearly. But with the 
 revelation came the usual calmness and per- 
 fect self-possession which never yet had 
 failed him in any emergency. With the 
 sound of the increasing cannonade and its 
 shifting position made clearer to his ears, 
 the view of his whole threatened position 
 spread out like a map before his eyes, the 
 swift calculation of the time his men could 
 hold the ridge in his mind — even a hurried 
 estimate of the precious moments he could 
 give to the wretched woman before him — he 
 
162 CLARENCE. 
 
 even then, gravely and gently, led her to a 
 chair and said in a calm voice, — 
 
 " That is not enough I Speak slowly, 
 plainly. I must know everything. How 
 and in what way have you betrayed me? " 
 
 She looked at him imploringly — reas- 
 sured, yet awed by his gentleness. 
 
 "You won't believe me; you cannot be- 
 lieve me! for I do not even know. I have 
 taken and exchanged letters — whose con- 
 tents I never saw — between the Confeder- 
 ates and a spy who comes to this house, but 
 who is far away by this time. I did it be- 
 cause I thought you hated and despised me 
 — because I thought it was my duty to help 
 my cause — because you said it was ' war ' 
 between us — but I never sj)ied on you. I 
 swear it." 
 
 "Then how do you know of this attack?" 
 he said calmly. 
 
 She brightened, half timidly, half hope- 
 fully. 
 
 "There Is a window in the wing of this 
 house that overlooks the slope near the Con- 
 federate lines. There was a signal placed 
 in it — not by me — but I know it meant 
 that as long as it was there the plot, what- 
 ever it was, was not ripe, and that no attack 
 
CLARENCE. '163' 
 
 would be made on you as long as it was 
 visible. That much I know, — that much 
 the spy had to tell me, for we both had to 
 guard that room in turns. I wanted to 
 keep this dreadful thing off — until" — her 
 voice trembled, "until," she added hur- 
 riedly, seeing his calm eyes were reading her 
 very soul, "until I went away — and for 
 that purpose I withheld some of the letters 
 that were given me. But this morning, 
 while I was away from the house, I looked 
 back and saw that the signal was no longer 
 there. Some one had changed it. I ran 
 back, but I was too late — God helj) me ! 
 — as you see." 
 
 The truth flashed upon Brant. It was 
 his own hand that had precipitated the at- 
 tack. But a larger truth came to him now, 
 like a dazzling inspiration. If he had thus 
 precipitated the attack before they were 
 ready, there was a chance that it was imper- 
 fect, and there was still hope. But there 
 was no trace of this visible in his face as he 
 fixed his eyes calmly on hers, although his 
 pulses were halting in expectancy as he 
 said — 
 
 "Then the spy had suspected you, and 
 changed it." 
 
164 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Oh, no," she said eagerly, "for the 
 spy was with me and was friglitened too. 
 We both ran back together — you remember 
 — she was stopped by the patrol! " 
 
 She checked herself suddenly, but too 
 late. Her cheeks blazed, her head sank, 
 with the foolish identification of the spy into 
 which her eagerness had betrayed her. 
 
 But Brant appeared not to notice it. He 
 was, in fact, puzzling his brain to conceive 
 what information the stupid mulatto woman 
 could have obtained here. His strength, his 
 position was no secret to the enemy — there 
 was nothing to gain from him. She mvist 
 have been, like the trembling, eager woman 
 before him, a mere tool of others. 
 
 "Did this woman live here? " he said. 
 
 "No," she said. "She lived with the 
 Manly s, but had friends whom she visited 
 at your general's headquarters." 
 
 With difficulty Brant suppressed a start. 
 It was clear to him now. The information 
 had been obtained at the division head- 
 quarters, and passed through his camp as 
 being nearest the Confederate lines. But 
 what was the information — and what move- 
 ment had he precipitated ? It was clear that 
 this woman did not know. He looked at 
 
CLARENCE. 165 
 
 her keenly. A sudden explosion shook the 
 house, — a drift of smoke passed the win- 
 dow, — a shell had burst in the garden. 
 
 She had been gazing at him despairingly, 
 wistfully — but did not blanch or start. 
 
 An idea took possession of him. He ap- 
 proached her, and took her cold hand. A 
 half -smile parted her pale lips. 
 
 "You have courage — you have devo- 
 tion," he said gravely. "I believe you re- 
 gret the step you have taken. If you could 
 undo what you have done, even at peril to 
 yourseK, dare you do it? " 
 
 "Yes," she said breathlessly. 
 
 "You are known to the enemy. If I am 
 surrounded, you could pass through their 
 lines unquestioned?" 
 
 "Yes," she said eagerly. 
 
 "A note from me would pass you again 
 through the pickets of our headquarters. 
 But you would bear a note to the general 
 that no eyes but his must see. It would not 
 implicate you or yours; would only be a 
 word of warning." 
 
 "And you," she said quickly, "would be 
 saved! They would come to your assist- 
 ance! You would not then be taken?" 
 
 He smiled gently. 
 
166 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Perhaps — who knows ! " 
 
 He sat down and wrote hurriedly. 
 
 "This," he said, handing her a slip of 
 paper, "is a pass. You will use it beyond 
 your own lines. This note," he continued, 
 handing her a sealed envelope, "is for the 
 general. No one else must see it or know 
 of it — not even your lover, should you meet 
 him!" 
 
 "My lover! " she said indignantly, with a 
 flash of her old savagery; "what do you 
 mean ? I have no lover ! " 
 
 Brant glanced at her flushed face. 
 
 "I thought," he said quietly, "that there 
 was some one you cared for in yonder lines 
 — some one you wrote to. It would have 
 been an excuse " — 
 
 He stopped, as her face paled again, and 
 her hands dropped heavily at her side. 
 
 "Good God! — you thought that, too! 
 You thought that I would sacrifice you for 
 another man! " 
 
 "Pardon me," said Brant quickly. "I 
 was foolish. But whether your lover is a 
 man or a cause, you have shown a woman's 
 devotion. And, in repairing your fault, you 
 are showing more than a woman's courage 
 now." 
 
CLARENCE. 167 
 
 To his surprise, the color had again 
 mounted her pretty cheeks, and even a flash 
 of mischief shone in her bhie eyes. 
 
 "It would have been an excuse," she mur- 
 mured, "yes — to save a man, surely!" 
 Then she said quickly, "I will go. At 
 once! I am ready!" 
 
 "One moment," he said gravely. "Al- 
 though this pass and an escort insure your 
 probable safe conduct, this is ' war ' and 
 danger! You are still a spy! Are you 
 ready to go? " 
 
 "I am," she said proudly, tossing back a 
 braid of her fallen hair. Yet a moment 
 after she hesitated. Then she said, in a 
 lower voice, "Are you ready to forgive? " 
 
 "In either case," he said, touched by her 
 manner; "and God speed you! " 
 
 He extended his hand, and left a slight 
 pressure on her cold fingers. But they 
 slipped quickly from his grasp, and she 
 turned away with a heightened color. 
 
 He stepped to the door. One or two aides- 
 de-camp, withheld by his order against in- 
 trusion, were waiting eagerly with reports. 
 The horse of a mounted field officer was 
 pawing the garden turf. The officers stared 
 at the young girl. 
 
168 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Take Miss Faulkner, with a flag, to 
 some safe point of the enemy's line. She 
 is a non-combatant of their own, and will 
 receive their protection." 
 
 He had scarcely exchanged a dozen words 
 with the aids-de-camp before the field offi- 
 cer hurriedly entered. Taking Brant aside, 
 he said quickly, — 
 
 "Pardon me. General; but there is a 
 strong feeling among the men that this at- 
 tack is the result of some information ob- 
 tained by the enemy. You must know that 
 the woman you have just given a safeguard 
 to is suspected, and the men are indignant." 
 
 "The more reason why she should be 
 conveyed beyond any consequences of their 
 folly. Major," said Brant frigidly, "and I 
 look to you for her safe convoy. There is 
 nothing in this attack to show that the 
 enemy has received any information regard- 
 ing us. But I woiild suggest that it would 
 be better to see that my orders are carried 
 out regarding the slaves and non-combatants 
 who are passing our lines from divisional 
 headquarters, where valuable information 
 may be obtained, than in the surveillance of 
 a testy and outspoken girl." 
 
 An angry flush crossed the major's cheek 
 
CLARENCE. 169 
 
 as he saluted and fell back, and Brant 
 turned to the aide-de-camp. The news was 
 grave. The column of the enemy was mov- 
 ing against the ridge — it was no longer pos- 
 sible to hold it — and the brigade was cut 
 off from its communication with the divis- 
 ional headquarters, although as yet no 
 combined movement was made against it. 
 Brant's secret fears that it was an intended 
 impact against the centre were confirmed. 
 Would his communication to the divisional 
 commander pass through the attacking col- 
 umn in time? 
 
 Yet one thing puzzled him. The enemy, 
 after forcing his flank, had shown no dispo- 
 sition, even with their overwhelming force, 
 to turn aside and crush him. He could 
 easily have fallen back, when it was possible 
 to hold the ridge no longer, without pursuit. 
 His other flank and rear were not threat- 
 ened, as they might have been, by the divi- 
 sion of so large an attacking cobuuu, which 
 was moving steadily on towards the ridge. 
 It was this fact that seemed to show a fail- 
 ure or imperfection in the enemy's plan. It 
 was possible that his precipitation of the 
 attack by the changed signal had been the 
 cause of it. Doubtless some provision had 
 
170 CLARENCE. 
 
 been made to attack him in flank and rear, 
 but in tlie unexpected hurry of the onset it 
 had to be abandoned. He could still save 
 himself, as his officers knew; but his con- 
 viction that he might yet be able to support 
 his divisional commander by holding his 
 position doggedly, but coolly awaiting his 
 opportunity, was strong. More than that, 
 it was his temperament and instinct. 
 
 Harrying them in flank and rear, contest- 
 ing the ground inch by inch, and holding his 
 own against the artillery sent to dislodge 
 him, or the outriding cavalry that, circling 
 round, swept through his open ranks, he 
 saw his files melt away beside this steady 
 current without flinching. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Yet all along the fateful ridge — now 
 obscured and confused with thin crossing 
 smoke - drifts from file - firing, like partly 
 rubbed - out slate - pencil marks ; or else, 
 when cleared of those drifts, presenting only 
 an indistinguishable map of zigzag lines of 
 straggling wagons and horses, unintelligi- 
 ble to any eye but his — the singular mag- 
 netism of the chief was felt everywhere: 
 whether it was shown in the quick closing 
 in of resistance to some sharper onset of the 
 enemy or the more dogged stand of inaction 
 under fire, his power was always dominant. 
 A word or two of comprehensive direction 
 sent through an aide-de-camp, or the sudden 
 relief of his dark, watchful, composed face 
 uplifted above a line of bayonets, never 
 failed in their magic. Like all born lead- 
 ers, he seemed in these emergencies to hold 
 a charmed life — infecting his followers with 
 a like disbelief in death; men dropped to 
 riffht and left of him with serene assurance 
 
172 CLARENCE. 
 
 in their ghastly faces or a cry of life and con- 
 fidence in tlieir last gasp. Stragglers fell 
 in and closed up under his passing glance ; 
 a hopeless, inextricable wrangle around an 
 overturned caisson, at a turn of the road, 
 resolved itself into an orderly, quiet, deliber- 
 ate clearing away of the impediment before 
 the significant waiting of that dark, silent 
 horseman. 
 
 Yet under this imperturbable mask he was 
 keenly conscious of everything; in that ap- 
 parent concentration there was a sharpening 
 of all his senses and his impressibility: he 
 saw the first trace of doubt or alarm in the 
 face of a subaltern to whom he was giving 
 an order; the first touch of sluggishness 
 in a re-forming line; the more significant 
 clumsiness of a living evolution that he knew 
 was clogged by the dead bodies of comrades ; 
 the ominous silence of a breastwork; the 
 awful inertia of some rigidly kneeling files 
 beyond, which still kept their form but 
 never would move again ; the melting away 
 of skirmish points; the sudden gaps here 
 and there ; the sickening incurving of what 
 a moment before had been a straight line — 
 all these he saw in all their fatal signifi- 
 cance. But even at this moment, coming 
 
CLARENCE. 173 
 
 upon a hasty barricade of overset commis- 
 sary wagons, he stopped to glance at a 
 familiar figure he had seen but an hour ago, 
 who now seemed to be commanding a group 
 of collected stragglers and camp followers. 
 Mounted on a wheel, with a revolver in each 
 hand and a bowie knife between his teeth — 
 theatrical even in his paroxysm of undoubted 
 courage — glared Jim Hooker. And Clar- 
 ence Brant, with the whole responsibility of 
 the field on his shoulders, even at that des- 
 perate moment, found himself recalling a 
 vivid picture of the actor Hooker personat- 
 ing the character of "Red Dick" in "Rosa- 
 lie, the Prairie Flower," as he had seen him 
 in a California theatre five years before. 
 
 It wanted still an hour of the darkness 
 that would probably close the fight of that 
 day. Could he hold out, keeping his offen- 
 sive position so long? A hasty council 
 with his officers showed him that the weak- 
 ness of their position had already infected 
 them. They reminded him that his line of 
 retreat was still open — that in the coiu-se 
 of the night the enemy, although still press- 
 ing towards the division centre, might 
 yet turn and outflank him — or that their 
 strangely delayed supports might come up 
 
174 CLARENCE. 
 
 before morning. Brant's glass, however, 
 remained fixed on tlie main column, still 
 pursuing its way along the ridge. It struck 
 him suddenly, however, that the steady cur- 
 rent had stopped, spread out along the crest 
 on both sides, and was now at right angles 
 with its previous course. There had been a 
 check! The next moment the thunder of 
 guns along the whole horizon, and the rising 
 cloud of smoke, revealed a line of battle. 
 The division centre was engaged. The 
 oj)portunity he had longed for had come — 
 the desperate chance to throw himself on 
 their rear and cut his way through to the 
 division — but it had come too late ! He 
 looked at his shattered ranks — scarce a 
 regiment remained. Even as a demonstra- 
 tion, the attack would fail against the ene- 
 my's superior numbers. Nothing clearly 
 was left to him now but to remain where he 
 was — within supporting distance, and await 
 the issue of the fight beyond. He was put- 
 ting up his glass, when the dull boom of can- 
 non in the extreme western limit of the hori- 
 zon attracted his attention. By the still 
 gleaming sky he could see a long gray line 
 stealing vip from the valley from the distant 
 rear of the headquarters to join the main 
 
CLARENCE. 175 
 
 column. They were the missing sujjports ! 
 His heart leaped. He held the key of the 
 mystery now. The one imperfect detail of 
 the enemy's plan was before him. The 
 supports, coming- later from the west, had 
 only seen the second signal from the win- 
 dow — when Miss Faulkner had replaced 
 the vase — and had avoided his position. It 
 was impossible to limit the effect of this 
 blunder. If the young girl who had thus 
 saved him had reached the division com- 
 mander with his message in time, he might 
 be forewarned, and even profit by it. His 
 own position would be less precarious, as the 
 enemy, already engaged in front, would be 
 unable to recover their position in the rear 
 and correct the blunder. The bidk of their 
 column had already streamed past him. If 
 defeated, there was always the danger that 
 it might be rolled back upon him — but he 
 conjectured that the division commander 
 would attempt to prevent the junction of the 
 supports with the main column by breaking 
 between them, crowding them from the 
 ridge, and joining him. As the last strag- 
 glers of the rear guard swept by, Brant's 
 bugles were already recalling the skirmish- 
 ers. He redoubled his pickets, and resolved 
 to wait and watch. 
 
176 CLARENCE. 
 
 And there was the more painful duty of 
 looking after the wounded and the dead. 
 The larger rooms of the headquarters had 
 already been used as a hospital. Passing 
 from cot to cot, recognizing in the faces 
 now drawn with agony, or staring in vacant 
 unconsciousness, the features that he had 
 seen only a few hours before flushed with 
 enthusiasm and excitement, something of his 
 old doubting, questioning nature returned. 
 Was there no way but this ? How far was 
 he — moving among them unscathed and 
 uninjui-ed — responsible ? 
 
 And if not he — who then? His mind 
 went back bitterly to the old days of the 
 conspiracy — to the inception of that strug- 
 gle which was bearing such ghastly fruit. He 
 thought of his traitorous wife, until he felt his 
 cheeks tingle, and he was fain to avert his 
 eyes from those of his prostrate comrades, 
 in a strange fear that, with the clairvoyance 
 of dying men, they should read his secret. 
 
 It was past midnight when, without un- 
 dressing, he threw himself upon his bed in 
 the little convent-like cell to snatch a few 
 moments of sleep. Its spotless, peaceful 
 walls and draperies affected him strangely, 
 as if he had brought into its immaculate 
 
CLARENCE. 177 
 
 serenity the sanguine stain of war. He 
 was awakened suddenly from a deep slum- 
 ber by an indefinite sense of alarm. His 
 first thought was that he had been summoned 
 to repel an attack. He sat up and listened ; 
 everything was silent except the measured 
 tread of the sentry on the gravel walk be- 
 low. But the door was open. He sprang 
 to his feet and slipped into the gallery in 
 time to see the tall figure of a woman glide 
 before the last moonlit window at its far- 
 thest end. He could not see her face — but 
 the characteristic turbaned head of the negro 
 race was plainly visible. 
 
 He did not care to follow her or even to 
 alarm the guard. If it were the spy or one 
 of her emissaries, she was powerless now to 
 do any harm, and under his late orders and 
 the rigorous vigilance of his sentinels she 
 could not leave the lines — or, indeed, the 
 house. She probably knew this as well as 
 he did; it was, therefore, no doubt only an 
 accidental intrusion of one of the servants. 
 He reentered the room, and stood for a few 
 moments by the window, looking over the 
 moonlit ridge. The sounds of distant can- 
 non had long since ceased. Wide awake, 
 and refreshed by the keen morning air, 
 
178 CLARENCE. 
 
 which alone of all created things seemed to 
 have shaken the burden of the dreadful yes- 
 terday from its dewy wings, he turned away 
 and lit a candle on the table. As he was 
 rebuckling his sword belt he saw a piece of 
 paper lying on the foot of the bed from 
 which he had just risen. Taking it to the 
 candle, he read in a roughly scrawled hand : 
 
 "You are asleep when you should be on 
 the march. You have no time to lose. Be- 
 fore daybreak the supports of the column 
 you have been foolishly resisting will be 
 upon you. — From one who would save you^ 
 but hates your cause." 
 
 A smile of scorn passed his lips. The 
 handwriting was imknown and evidently dis- 
 guised. The purport of the message had not 
 alarmed him; but suddenly a suspicion 
 flashed upon him — that it came from Miss 
 Faulkner! She had failed in her attempt 
 to pass through the enemy's lines — or she 
 had never tried to. She had deceived him 
 — or had thought better of her chivalrous 
 impulse, and now sought to mitigate her 
 second treachery by this second warning. 
 And he had let her messenger escape him ! 
 
 He hurriedly descended the stairs. The 
 sound of voices was approaching him. He 
 
CLARENCE. 179 
 
 halted, and recognized the faces of the bri- 
 gade surgeon and one of his aides-de-camp. 
 
 "We were hesitating whether to disturb 
 you, general, but it may be an affair of some 
 importance. Under your orders a negro 
 woman was just now challenged stealing out 
 of the lines. Attempting to escape, she was 
 chased, there was a struggle and scramble 
 over the wall, and she fell, striking her 
 head. She was brought into the guard- 
 house unconscious." 
 
 "Very good. I will see her," said Brant, 
 with a feeling of relief. 
 
 " One moment, general. We thought you 
 would ]3erhaj)s prefer to see her alone," said 
 the surgeon, "for when I endeavored to 
 bring her to, and was sponging her face and 
 head to discover her injuries, her color came 
 off ! She was a white woman — stained and 
 disguised as a mulatto." 
 
 For an instant Brant's heart sank. It 
 was Miss Faulkner. 
 
 "Did you recognize her? " he said, glan- 
 cing from the one to the other. " Have you 
 seen her here before?" 
 
 "No, sir," replied the aide-de-camp. 
 "But she seemed to be quite a superior wo- 
 man — a lady, I should say." 
 
180 CLARENCE. 
 
 Brant breathed more freely. 
 
 "AVliere is she now? " he asked. 
 
 "In the guardhouse. We thought it bet- 
 ter not to bring her into hospital, among the 
 men, until we had your orders." 
 
 "You have done well," returned Brant 
 gravely. "And you will keep this to your- 
 selves for the present ; but see that she is 
 brought here quietly and with as little pub- 
 licity as possible. Put her in my room 
 above, which I give up to her and any neces- 
 sary attendant. But you will look carefully 
 after her, doctor," — he turned to the sur- 
 geon, — "and when she recovers conscious- 
 ness let me know." 
 
 He moved away. Although attaching 
 little importance to the mysterious message, 
 whether sent by Miss Faulkner or emanat- 
 ing from the stranger herself, which, he 
 reasoned, was based only upon a knowledge 
 of the original plan of attack, he neverthe- 
 less quickly dispatched a small scouting 
 party in the direction from which the attack 
 might come, with orders to fall back and 
 report at once. With a certain half irony 
 of recollection he had selected Jim Hooker 
 to accompany the party as a volunteer. 
 This done, he returned to the gallery. The 
 sursreon met him at the door. 
 
CLARENCE. 181 
 
 "Tlie indications of concussion are pass- 
 ing away," he said, "but she seems to be 
 suffering from the exhaustion following some 
 great nervous excitement. You may go in 
 — she may rally from it at any moment," 
 
 With the artificial step and mysterious 
 hush of the ordinary visitor to a sick bed, 
 Brant entered the room. But some instinct 
 greater than this common expression of hu- 
 manity held him suddenly in awe. The 
 room seemed no longer his — it had slipped 
 back into that austere conventual privacy 
 which had first impressed him. Yet he 
 hesitated; another strange suggestion — it 
 seemed ahnost a vague recollection — over- 
 came him like some lingering perfume, far 
 off and pathetic, in its dying familiarity. 
 He turned his eyes almost timidly towards 
 the bed. The coverlet was drawn up near 
 the throat of the figure to replace the striped 
 cotton gown stained with blood and dust, 
 which had been hurriedly torn off and 
 thrown on a chair. The pale face, cleansed 
 of blood and disguising color, the long hair, 
 still damp from the surgeon's sponge, lay 
 rigidly back on the pillow. Suddenly this 
 man of steady nerve uttered a faint cry, 
 and, with a face as white as the upturned 
 
182 CLARENCE. 
 
 one before him, fell on his knees beside the 
 bed. For the face that lay there was his 
 wife's! 
 
 Yes, hers! But the beautiful hair that 
 she had gloried in — the hair that in his 
 youth he had thought had once fallen like a 
 benediction on his shoulder — was streaked 
 with gray along the blue-veined hollows of 
 the temples ; the orbits of those clear eyes, 
 beneath their delicately arched brows, were 
 ringed with days of suffering; only the 
 clear-cut profile, even to the delicate impe- 
 riousness of lips and nostril, was still there 
 in all its beauty. The coverlet had slipped 
 from her shoulder; its familiar cold contour 
 startled him. He remembered how, in their 
 early married days, he had felt the sanctity 
 of that Diana-like revelation, and the still 
 nymph-like austerity which clung to this 
 strange, childless woman. He even fancied 
 that he breathed again the subtle character- 
 istic perfume of the laces, embroideries, and 
 delicate enwrappings in her chamber at Ro- 
 bles. Perhaps it was the intensity of his 
 gaze — perhaps it was the magnetism of his 
 presence — but her lips parted with a half 
 sigh, half moan. Her head, although her 
 eyes were still closed, turned on the pillow 
 
CLARENCE. 183 
 
 instinctively towards him. He rose from 
 Jiis knees. Her eyes opened slowly. As 
 the first glare of wonderment cleared from 
 them, they met him — in the old antagonism 
 of spirit. Yet her first gesture was a pa- 
 thetic feminine movement with both hands 
 to arrange her straggling hair. It brought 
 her white fingers, cleaned of their disguis- 
 ing stains, as a sudden revelation to her of 
 what had happened; she instantly slipped 
 them back under the coverlet again. Brant 
 did not speak, but with folded arms stood 
 gazing upon her. And it was her voice that 
 first broke the silence. 
 
 "You have recognized me? Well, I sup- 
 pose you know all," she said, with a weak 
 half -defiance. 
 
 He bowed his head. He felt as yet he 
 could not trust his voice, and envied her 
 her own. 
 
 "I may sit up, may n't I?" She man- 
 aged, by sheer foi'ce of will, to struggle to a 
 sitting posture. Then, as the coverlet 
 slipped from the bare shovdder, she said, as 
 she drew it, with a shiver of disgust, around 
 her again, — 
 
 "I forgot that you strip women, you 
 Northern soldiers! But I forgot, too," she 
 
184 CLARENCE. 
 
 added, with a sarcastic smile, "that you are 
 also my husband, and I am in your room." 
 
 The contemptuous significance of her 
 speech dispelled the last lingering remnant 
 of Brant's dream. In a voice as dry as her 
 own, he said, — 
 
 "I am afraid you will now have to re- 
 member only that I am a Northern general, 
 and you a Southern spy." 
 
 "So be it," she said gravely. Then im- 
 pulsively, "But I have not spied on yow." 
 
 Yet, the next moment, she bit her lips as 
 if the expression had unwittingly escaped 
 her ; and with a reckless shrug of her shoul- 
 ders she lay back on her pillow. 
 
 "It matters not," said Brant coldly. 
 "You have used this house and those within 
 it to forward your designs. It is not your 
 fault that you found nothing in the dispatch- 
 box you opened." 
 
 She stared at him quickly ; then shrugged 
 her shoulders again. 
 
 "I might have known she was false to 
 me," she said bitterly, "and that you would 
 wheedle her soul away as you have others. 
 Well, she betrayed me! For what?" 
 
 A flush passed over Brant's face. But 
 with an effort he contained himself. 
 
CLARENCE. 185 
 
 "It was tlie flower that betrayed you! 
 The flower whose red dust fell m the box 
 when you opened it on the desk by the win- 
 dow in yonder room — the flower that stood 
 in the window as a signal — the flower I 
 myself removed, and so spoiled the miser- 
 able plot that your friends concocted." 
 
 A look of mingled terror and awe came 
 into her face. 
 
 " You changed the signal! " she repeated 
 dazedly; then, in a lower voice, "that ac- 
 counts for it all!" But the next moment 
 she turned again fiercely upon him. "And 
 you mean to tell me that she did n't help 
 you — that she did n't sell me — your wife 
 — to you for — for what was it ? A look — 
 a kiss!" 
 
 " I mean to say that she did not know the 
 signal was changed, and that she herself 
 restored it to its place. It is no fault of hers 
 nor yours that I am not here a prisoner." 
 
 She passed her thin hand dazedly across 
 her forehead. "» 
 
 "I see," she muttered. Then again burst- 
 ing out passionately, she said — " Fool ! you 
 never would have been touched! Do you 
 think that Lee would have gone for you, 
 with higher game in your division com- 
 
186 CLARENCE. 
 
 mander ? No ! Those supports were a feint 
 to draw him to your assistance while our 
 main column broke his centre. Yes, you 
 may stare at me, Clarence Brant. You are 
 a good lawyer — they say a dashing fighter, 
 too. I never thought you a coward, even 
 in your irresolution; but you are fighting 
 with men drilled in the art of war and 
 strategy when you were a boy outcast on the 
 plains." She stopped, closed her eyes, and 
 then added, wearily — "But that was yes- 
 terday — to-day, who knows? All may be 
 changed. The supports may still attack 
 you. That was why I stopped to write you 
 that note an hour ago, when I believed I 
 should be leaving here for ever. Yes, I 
 did it!" she went on, with half -wearied, 
 half -dogged determination. "You may as 
 well know all. I had arranged to fly. Your 
 pickets were to be drawn by friends of mine, 
 who were waiting for me beyond your lines. 
 Well, I lingered here when I saw you arrive 
 — lingered to write you that note. And — 
 I was too late! " 
 
 But Brant had been watching her varying 
 expression, her kindling eye, her strange 
 masculine grasp of military knowledge, her 
 soldierly phraseology, all so new to her, that 
 
CLARENCE. 187 
 
 he scarcely heeded the feminine ending of 
 her speech. It seemed to him no longer the 
 Diana of his youtMul fancy, but some Pal- 
 las Athense, who now looked up at him from 
 the pillow. He had never before fully be- 
 lieved in her unselfish devotion to the cause 
 until now, when it seemed to have almost 
 unsexed her. In his wildest comprehension 
 of her he had never dreamed her a Joan of 
 Arc, and yet hers was the face which might 
 have confronted him, exalted and inspired, 
 on the battlefield itself. He recalled him- 
 self with an effort. 
 
 "I thank you for your would-be warning," 
 he said more gently, if not so tenderly, "and 
 God knows I wish your flight had been suc- 
 cessful. But even your warning is unneces- 
 sary, for the supports had already come up ; 
 they had followed the second signal, and 
 diverged to engage our division on the left, 
 leaving me alone. And their ruse of draw- 
 ing our commander to assist me would not 
 have been successful, as I had suspected it, 
 and sent a message to him that I wanted no 
 help." 
 
 It was the truth; it was the sole purport 
 of the note he had sent through Miss Faulk- 
 ner. He would not have disclosed his sacri- 
 
188 CLARENCE. 
 
 fice; but so great was the strange domina- 
 tion of this woman still over him, that he 
 felt compelled to assert his superiority. She 
 fixed her eyes upon him. 
 
 "And Miss Faulkner took your mes- 
 sage?" she said slowly. "Don't deny it! 
 No one else could have passed through our 
 lines; and you gave her a safe conduct 
 through yours. Yes, I might have known 
 it. And this was the creature they sent me 
 for an ally and confidant! " 
 
 For an instant Brant felt the sting of this 
 enforced contrast between the two women. 
 But he only said, — 
 
 " You forget that I did not know you were 
 the spy, nor do I believe that she suspected 
 you were my wife." 
 
 "Why should she?" she said almost 
 fiercely. "I am known among these people 
 only by the name of Benliam — my maiden 
 name. Yes! — you can take me out, and 
 shoot me under that name, without disgra- 
 cing yours. Nobody will know that the 
 Southern spy was the wife of the Northern 
 general! You see, I have thought even of 
 that!" 
 
 "And thinking of that," said Brant 
 slowly, "you have put yourself — I will not 
 
CLARENCE. 189 
 
 say in my power, for you are iu tlie power 
 of any man in this camp who may know 
 you, or even hear you speak. Well, let us 
 understand each other plainly. I do not 
 know how great a sacrifice your devotion to 
 your cause demands of you ; I do know what 
 it seems to demand of me. Hear me, then ! 
 I will do my best to protect you, and get you 
 safely away from here ; but, failing that, I 
 tell you plainly that I shall blow out your 
 brains and my own together." 
 
 She knew that he would do it. Yet her 
 eyes suddenly beamed with a new and awak- 
 ening light; she put back her hair again, 
 and half raised herself upon the pillow, to 
 gaze at his dark, set face. 
 
 "And as I shall let no other life but ours 
 be periled in this affair," he went on qui- 
 etly, "and will accompany you myself iu 
 some disguise beyond the lines, we will to- 
 gether take the risks — or the bullets of the 
 sentries that may save us both all further 
 trouble. An houi- or two more will settle 
 that. Until then your weak condition will 
 excuse you from any disturbance or intru- 
 sion here. The mulatto woman you have 
 sometimes personated may be still in this 
 house ; I will ajjpoint her to attend you. I 
 
190 CLARENCE. 
 
 suppose you can trust her, for you must per- 
 sonate her again, and escape in her clothes, 
 while she takes your place in this room as 
 my j)risoner." 
 
 "Clarence!" 
 
 Her voice had changed suddenly; it was 
 no longer bitter and stridulous, but low 
 and thrilling as he had heard her call to him 
 that night in the patio of Robles. He 
 turned quickly. She was leaning from the 
 bed — her thin, white hands stretched ap- 
 pealingly towards him. 
 
 "Let us go together, Clarence," she said 
 eagerly. " Let us leave this horrible place — 
 these wicked, cruel people — forever. Come 
 with me ! Come with me to my people — to 
 my own faith — to my own house — which 
 shall be yours! Come with me to defend 
 it with your good sword, Clarence, against 
 those vile invaders with whom you have 
 nothing in common, and who are the dirt 
 under your feet. Yes, yes ! I know it ! — I 
 have done you wrong — I have lied to you 
 when I spoke against your skill and power. 
 You are a hero — a born leader of men ! I 
 know it! Have I not heard it from the 
 men who have fought against you, and yet 
 admired and understood you, ay, better 
 
CLARENCE. 191 
 
 than your own ? — gallant men, Clarence, 
 soldiers bred wlio did not know what you 
 were to me nor how proud I was of you 
 even while I hated you? Come with me! 
 Think what we would do together — with one 
 faith — one cause — one ambition ! Think, 
 Clarence, there is no limit you might not 
 attain ! We are no niggards of our rewards 
 and honors — we have no hireling votes to 
 truckle to — we know our friends ! Even I 
 — Clarence — I" — there was a strange 
 pathos in the sudden humility that seemed 
 to overcome her — "I have had my reward 
 and known my power. I have been sent 
 abroad, in the confidence of the highest — to 
 the highest. Don't turn from me. I am 
 offering you no bribe, Clarence, only your 
 deserts. Come with me. Leave these curs 
 behind, and live the hero that you are! " 
 
 He turned his blazing eyes upon her. 
 
 "If you were a man" — he began pas- 
 sionately, then stopped. 
 
 " No ! I am only a woman and must fight 
 in a woman's way," she interrupted bitterly. 
 "Yes! I intreat, I implore, I wheedle, 
 I flatter, I fawn, I lie! I creep where you 
 stand upright, and pass through doors to 
 which you would not bow. You wear your 
 
192 CLARENCE. 
 
 blazon of honor on your shoulder; I hide 
 mine in a slave's gown. And yet I have 
 worked and striven and suffered! Listen, 
 Clarence," — her voice again sank to its 
 appealing minor, — "I know what you men 
 call ' honor, ' that which makes you cling to 
 a merely spoken word, or an empty oath. 
 Well, let that pass! I am weary; I have 
 done my share of this work, you have done 
 yours. Let us both fly; let us leave the 
 fight to those who shall come after us, and 
 let us go together to some distant land where 
 the sounds of these guns or the blood of our 
 brothers no longer cry out to us for ven- 
 geance ! There are those living here — 
 I have met them, Clarence," she went on 
 hurriedly, "who think it wrong to lift up 
 fratricidal hands in the struggle, yet who 
 cannot live under the Northern yoke. They 
 are," her voice hesitated, "good men and 
 women — they are resjiected — they are " — 
 " Recreants and slaves, before whom you, 
 spy as you are — stand a queen! " broke in 
 Brant, passionately. He stopped and turned 
 towards the window. After a pause he 
 came back again towards the bed — paused 
 again and then said in a lower voice — 
 " Four years ago, Alice, in the patio of our 
 
CLARENCE. 193 
 
 house at Robles, I miglit have listened to 
 this proposal, and — I tremble to think — I 
 might have accepted it ! I loved you ; I was 
 as weak, as selfish, as unreflecting, my life 
 was as purposeless — but for you — as the 
 creatures you speak of. But give me now, 
 at least, the credit of a devotion to my cause 
 equal to your own — a credit which I have 
 never denied you ! For the night that you 
 left me, I awoke to a sense of my own worth- 
 lessness and degradation — perhaps I have 
 even to thank you for that awakening — 
 and I realized the bitter truth. But that 
 night I found my true vocation — my pur- 
 pose, my manhood " — 
 
 A bitter laugh came from the pillow on 
 which she had languidly thrown herself. 
 
 "I believe I left you with Mrs. Hooker 
 — spare me the details." 
 
 The blood rushed to Brant's face and then 
 receded as suddenly. 
 
 "You left me with Captain Pinckney, 
 who had tempted you, and whom I killed! " 
 he said furiously. 
 
 They were both staring savagely at each 
 other. Suddenly he said, "Hush!" and 
 sprang towards the door, as the sound of 
 hurried footsteps echoed along the passage. 
 
194 CLARENCE. 
 
 But he was too late ; it was thrown open to 
 the officer of the guard, who appeared, 
 standing on the threshold. 
 
 " Two Confederate officers arrested hover- 
 ing around our pickets. They demand to 
 see you." 
 
 Before Brant could interpose, two men in 
 riding cloaks of Confederate gray stepped 
 into the room with a jaunty and self-confi- 
 dent air. 
 
 "Not demand^ general," said the fore- 
 most, a tall, distinguished-looking man, lift- 
 ing his hand with a graceful deprecating air. 
 "In fact, too sorry to bother you with an 
 affair of no importance except to ourselves. 
 A bit of after-dinner bravado brought us in 
 contact with your pickets, and, of course, 
 we had to take the consequences. Served us 
 right, and we were lucky not to have got a 
 bullet through us. Gad! I'm afraid my 
 men would have been less discreet! I am 
 Colonel Lagrange, of the 5th Tennessee ; my 
 young friend here is Captain Faulkner, of 
 the 1st Kentucky. Some excuse for a young- 
 ster like him — none for me ! I " — 
 
 He stopped, for his eyes suddenly fell 
 upon the bed and its occupant. Both he 
 and his companion started. But to the nat- 
 
CLARENCE. 195 
 
 ural, unaffected dismay of a gentleman who 
 had unwittingiy intruded upon a lady's bed- 
 chamber, Brant's quick eye saw a more dis- 
 astrous concern superadded. Colonel La- 
 grange was quick to recover himself, as they 
 both removed their caps. 
 
 "A thousand pardons," he said, hurriedly 
 stepping backwards to the door. "But I 
 hardly need say to a fellow-officer, general, 
 that we had no idea of making so gross an 
 intrusion! We heard some cock-and-bull 
 story of your being occupied — cross-ques- 
 tioning an escaped or escaping nigger — or 
 we should never have forced ourselves upon 
 
 you." 
 
 Brant glanced quickly at his wife. Her 
 face had apparently become rigid on the en- 
 trance of the two men ; her eyes were coldly 
 fixed upon the ceiling. He bowed formally, 
 and, with a wave of his hand towards the 
 door, said, — 
 
 "I will hear your story below, gentle- 
 man." 
 
 He followed them from the room, stopped 
 to quietly turn the key in the lock, and then 
 motioned them to precede him down the 
 staircase. 
 
CHAPTER VIL 
 
 Not a word was exchanged till they had 
 reached the lower landing and Brant's pri- 
 vate room. Dismissing his subaltern and 
 orderly with a sign, Brant turned towards 
 his prisoners. The jaunty ease, but not the 
 self-possession, had gone from Lagrange's 
 face; the eyes of Captain Faulkner were 
 fixed on his older companion with a half- 
 humorous look of perplexity. 
 
 "I am afraid I can only repeat, general, 
 that our foolhardy freak has put us in colli- 
 sion with your sentries," said Lagrange, 
 with a slight hauteur, that rej)laced his for- 
 mer jauntiness ; " and we were very properly 
 made prisoners. If you will accept my pa- 
 role, I have no doubt our commander will 
 proceed to exchange a couple of gallant fel- 
 lows of yours, whom I have had the honor 
 of meeting within our own lines, and whom 
 you must miss probably more than I fear 
 our superiors miss us." 
 
 "Whatever brought you here, gentle- 
 
CLARENCE. 197 
 
 men," said Brant drily, "I am glad, for 
 your sakes, that you are in uniform, al- 
 though it does not, unfortunately, relieve 
 me of an unpleasant duty." 
 
 "I don't think I understand you," re- 
 turned Lagrange, coldly. 
 
 "If you had not been in uniform, you 
 would probably have been shot down as 
 spies, without the trouble of capture," said 
 Brant quietly. 
 
 "Do you mean to imply, sir" — began 
 Lagrange sternly. 
 
 "I mean to say that the existence of 
 a Confederate spy between this camp and 
 the division headquarters is sufficiently well 
 known to us to justify the strongest action." 
 
 "And pray, how can that affect us?" 
 said Lagrange haughtily. 
 
 "I need not inform so old a soldier as 
 Colonel Lagrange that the aiding, abetting, 
 and even receiving information from a spy 
 or traitor within one's lines is an equally 
 dangerous service." 
 
 "Perhaps you would like to satisfy your- 
 self, General," said Colonel Lagrange, with 
 an ironical laugh. "Pray do not hesitate 
 on account of our uniform. Search us if 
 you like." 
 
198 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Not on entering my lines, Colonel," 
 replied Brant, with quiet significance. 
 
 Lagrange's cheek flushed. But he recov- 
 ered himself quickly, and with a formal 
 bow said, — 
 
 "You will, then, perhaps, let us know 
 your pleasure?" 
 
 "My diity. Colonel, is to keep you both 
 close prisoners here until I have an oppor- 
 tunity to forward you to the division com- 
 mander, with a report of the circumstances 
 of your arrest. That I propose to do. How 
 soon I may have that opportunity, or if I am 
 ever to have it," continued Brant, fixing his 
 clear eyes significantly on Lagrange, "de- 
 pends upon the chances of war, which you 
 probably understand as well as I do." 
 
 "We should never think of making any 
 calculation on the action of an officer of such 
 infinite resources as General Brant," said 
 Lagrange ironically. 
 
 "You will, no doubt, have an opportun- 
 ity of stating your own case to the division 
 commander," continued Brant, with an un- 
 moved face. "And," he continued, turning 
 for the first time to Captain Faulkner," 
 "when you tell the commander what I be- 
 lieve to be the fact — from your name and 
 
CLARENCE. 199 
 
 resemblance — that you are a relation of the 
 young lady who for the last three weeks has 
 been an inmate of this house under a pass 
 from Washington, you will, I have no doubt, 
 favorably explain your own propinquity to 
 my lines." 
 
 "My sister Tilly! " said the young of&eer 
 impulsively. "But she is no longer here. 
 She passed through the lines back to 
 Washington yesterday. No," he added, 
 with a light laugh, " I 'm afraid that excuse 
 won't count for to-day." 
 
 A sudden frown upon the face of the elder 
 officer, added to the perfect ingenuousness 
 of Faulkner's speech, satisfied Brant that he 
 had not only elicited the truth, but that Miss 
 Faulkner had been successful. But he was 
 sincere in his suggestion that her relation- 
 ship to the young officer would incline the 
 division commander to look leniently upon 
 his fault, for he was conscious of a singular 
 satisfaction in thus being able to serve her. 
 Of the real object of the two men before 
 him he had no doubt. They were " the 
 friends" of his wife, who were waiting for 
 her outside the lines! Chance alone had 
 saved her from being arrested with them, 
 with the consequent exposure of her treach- 
 
200 CLARENCE. 
 
 ery before liis own men, who, as yet, had no 
 proof of her guilt, nor any suspicion of her 
 actual identity. Meanwhile his own chance 
 of conveying her with safety beyond his lines 
 was not affected by the incident ; the prison- 
 ers dare not reveal what they knew of her, 
 and it was with a grim triumph that he 
 thought of compassing her escape without 
 their aid. Nothing of this, however, was 
 visible in his face, which the younger man 
 watched with a kind of boyish curiosity, 
 while Colonel Lagrange regarded the ceil- 
 ing with a politely repressed yawn. "I re- 
 gret," concluded Brant, as he summoned the 
 officer of the guard, "that I shall have to 
 deprive you of each other's company during 
 the time you are here ; but I shall see that 
 you, separately, want for nothing in your 
 confinement." 
 
 "If this is with a view to separate inter- 
 rogatory, general, I can retire now," said 
 Lagrange, rising, with ironical politeness. 
 
 "I believe I have all the information I 
 require," returned Brant, with undisturbed 
 composure. Giving the necessary orders to 
 his subaltern, he acknowledged with equal 
 calm the formal salutes of the two pris- 
 oners as they were led away, and returned 
 
CLARENCE. 201 
 
 quickly to his bedroom above. He paused 
 instinctively for a moment before the closed 
 door, and listened. There was no sound 
 from within. He unlocked the door, and 
 opened it. 
 
 So quiet was the interior that for an in- 
 stant, without glancing at the bed, he cast a 
 quick look at the window, which, till then, 
 he had forgotten, and which he remembered 
 gave upon the veranda roof. But it was 
 still closed, and as he approached the bed, 
 he saw his wife still lying there, in the atti- 
 tude in which he had left her. But her eyes 
 were ringed, and slightly filmed, as if with 
 recent tears. 
 
 It was perhaps this circumstance that soft- 
 ened his voice, still harsh with command, as 
 he said, — 
 
 "I suppose you knew those two men? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And that I have put it out of their 
 power to help you? " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 There was something so strangely submis- 
 sive in her voice that he again looked sus- 
 piciously at her. But he was shocked to see 
 that she was quite pale now, and that the 
 fire had gone out of her dark eyes. 
 
202 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Then I may tell you what is my plan to 
 save you. But, first, you must find this mu- 
 latto woman who has acted as your double." 
 
 "She is here." 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How do you know it? " he asked, in 
 quick suspicion. 
 
 " She was not to leave this place until she 
 knew I was safe within our lines. I have 
 some friends who are faithful to me." 
 After a pause she added, "She has been 
 here already." 
 
 He looked at her, startled. "Impossible 
 — I" — 
 
 "You locked the door. Yes! but she has 
 a second key. And even if she had not, 
 there is another entrance from that closet. 
 You do not know this house : you have been 
 here two weeks; I spent two years of my 
 life, as a girl, in this room." 
 
 An indescribable sensation came over him ; 
 he remembered how he had felt when he first 
 occupied it; this was followed by a keen 
 sense of shame on reflecting that he had been, 
 ever since, but a helpless puppet in the 
 power of his enemies, and that she could 
 have escaped if she would, even now. 
 
CLARENCE. 203 
 
 "Perhaps," he said grmily, "you have 
 already arranged your plans? " 
 
 She looked at him with a singular re- 
 proachfulness even in her submission. 
 
 "I have only told her to be ready to 
 change clothes with me and helj) me color 
 my face and hands at the time aj)]3ointed. I 
 have left the rest to you." 
 
 "Then this is my jilan. I have changed 
 only a detail. You and she must both leave 
 this house at the same time, by different 
 exits, but one of them must be private — 
 and unknown to my men. Do you know of 
 such a one? " 
 
 "Yes," she said, "in the rear of the negro 
 quarters." 
 
 "Good," he replied, "that will be your 
 way out. She will leave here, publicly, 
 through the parade, armed with a pass from 
 me. She will be overhauled and challeng^ed 
 by the first sentry near the guardhouse, be- 
 low the waU. She will be subjected to some 
 delay and scrutiny, which she will, however, 
 be able to pass better than you would. 
 This will create the momentary diversion 
 that we require. In the mean time, you will 
 have left the house by the rear, aiid you will 
 then keep in the shadow of the hedge until 
 
204 CLARENCE. 
 
 you can drop down along the Run, where 
 it emj^ties into the swamp. That," he con- 
 tinued, fixing his keen eyes upon her, "is 
 the one weak point in the position of this 
 place that is neither overlooked nor de- 
 fended. But perhaps," he added again 
 grimly, "you already know it." 
 
 " It is the marsh where the flowers grow, 
 near the path where you met Miss Faulkner. 
 I had crossed the marsh to give her a let- 
 ter," she said slowly. 
 
 A bitter smile came over Brant's face, 
 but passed as quickly. 
 
 "Enough," he said quietly, "I will meet 
 you beside the Run, and cross the marsh 
 with you until you are within hailing dis- 
 tance of your lines. I will be in plain 
 clothes, Alice," he went on slowly, "for it 
 will not be the commander of this force who 
 accompanies you, but your husband, and, 
 without disgracing his uniform, he will drop 
 to your level; for the instant he passes his 
 own lines, in disguise, he will become, like 
 you, a spy, and amenable to its penalties." 
 
 Her eyes seemed suddenly to leap up to 
 his with that strange look of awakening and 
 enthusiasm which he had noted before. 
 And in its complete prepossession of all her 
 
CLARENCE. 205 
 
 instincts she rose from the bed, unheeding 
 her bared arms and shouklers and loosened 
 hair, and stood upright before him. For 
 an instant husband and wife regarded each 
 other as unreservedly as in their own cham- 
 ber at Kobles. 
 
 "When shall I go?" 
 
 He glanced through the window already 
 growing lighter with the coming dawn. 
 The relief would pass in a few moments ; the 
 time seemed propitious. 
 
 "At once," he said. "I will send Rose 
 to you." 
 
 But his wife had already passed into the 
 closet, and was tapping upon some inner 
 door. He heard the sound of hinges turn- 
 ing and the rustling of garments. She re- 
 appeared, holding the curtains of the closet 
 together with her hand, and said, — 
 
 "Go! When she comes to your office 
 for the pass, you will know that I have 
 gone." 
 
 He turned away. 
 
 "Stop! " she said faintly. 
 
 He turned back. Her expression had 
 again changed. Her face was deadly pale ; 
 a strange tremor seemed to have taken pos- 
 session of her. Her hands dropped from 
 
206 CLARENCE. 
 
 the curtain. Her beautiful arms moved 
 slightly forward; it seemed to him that she 
 would in the next moment have extended 
 them towards him. But even then she said 
 hurriedly, "Go! Go!" and slipped again 
 behind the curtains. 
 
 He quickly descended the stairs as the 
 sound of trampling feet on the road, and the 
 hurried word of command, announced the 
 return of the scouting party. The officer 
 had little report to make beyond the fact 
 that a morning mist, creeping along the 
 valley, prevented any further observation, 
 and bade fair to interrupt their own com- 
 munications with the camp. Everything 
 was quiet in the west, although the en- 
 emy's lines along the ridge seemed to have 
 receded. 
 
 Brant had listened impatiently, for a new 
 idea had seized him. Hooker was of the 
 party, and was the one man in whom he 
 could partly confide, and obtain a disguise. 
 He at once made his way to the commissary 
 wagons — one of which he knew Hooker 
 used as a tent. Hastily telling him that he 
 wished to visit the pickets without recogni- 
 tion, he induced him to lend him his slouched 
 hat and frock coat, leaving with him his own 
 
CLARENCE. 207 
 
 dlstinguisliing tunic, hat, and sword. He 
 resisted the belt and pistols which Hooker 
 would have forced upon him. As he left 
 the wagon he was amusedly conscious that 
 his old companion was characteristically ex- 
 amining the garments he had left behind 
 with mingled admiration and envy. But he 
 did not know, as he slipped out of the camp, 
 that Mr. Hooker was quietly trying them 
 on, before a broken mirror in the wagon- 
 head ! 
 
 The gray light of that summer morning 
 was already so strong that, to avoid detec- 
 tion, he quickly dropped into the shadow of 
 the gully that sloped towards the Run. The 
 hot mist which the scouts had seen was now 
 lying like a tranquil sea between him and 
 the pickets of the enemy's rear-guard, which 
 it seemed to submerge, and was clinging in 
 moist tenuous swathes — like drawn-out cot- 
 ton wool — along the ridge, half obliterating 
 its face. From the valley in the rear it was 
 already stealing in a thin white line up the 
 slope like the advance of a ghostly column, 
 with a stealthiness that, in spite of himself, 
 touched him with superstitious significance. 
 A warm perfume, languid and treacherous 
 — as from the swamp magnolia — seemed to 
 
208 CLARENCE. 
 
 rise from the half -hidden marsh. An om- 
 inous silence, that appeared to be a part of 
 this veiling of all things under the clear 
 opal-tinted sky above, was so little like the 
 hush of rest and peace, that he half -yearned 
 for the outburst of musketry and tumult of 
 attack that might dispel it. All that he 
 had ever heard or dreamed of the insid- 
 ious South, with its languid subtleties of 
 climate and of race, seemed to encompass 
 him here. 
 
 But the next moment he saw the figure he 
 was waiting for stealing towards him from 
 the shadow of the guUey beneath the negro 
 quarters. 
 
 Even in that uncertain light there was no 
 mistaking the tall figure, the gaudily striped 
 clinging gown and turbaned head. And 
 then a strange revulsion of feeling, quite 
 characteristic of the emotional side of his 
 singular temperament, overcame him. He 
 was taking leave of his wife — the dream of 
 his youth — perhaps forever ! It should be 
 no parting in anger as at Robles ; it should 
 be with a tenderness that would blot out 
 their past in their separate memories — God 
 knows ! it might even be that a parting at 
 that moment was a joining of them in eter- 
 
CLARENCE. 209 
 
 nity. In his momentary exaltation it even 
 struck him that it was a duty, no less sacred, 
 no less unselfish than the one to which he 
 had devoted his life. The light was growing 
 stronger ; he could hear voices in the nearest 
 picket line, and the sound o£ a cough in the 
 invading mist. He made a hurried sign 
 to the on-coming figure to follow him, ran 
 ahead, and halted at last in the cover of 
 a hackmatack bush. Still gazing forward 
 over the marsh, he stealthily held out his 
 hand behind him as the rustling skirt came 
 nearer. At last his hand was touched — 
 but even at that touch he started and turned 
 quickly. 
 
 It was not his wife, but Rose ! — her mu- 
 latto double! Her face was rigid with 
 fright, her beady eyes staring in their china 
 sockets, her white teeth chattering. Yet 
 she would have spoken. 
 
 "Hush! " he said, clutching her hand, in 
 a fierce whisper. "Not a word! " 
 
 She was holding something white in her 
 fingers; he snatched it quickly. It was a 
 note from his wife — not in the disguised 
 hand of her first warning, but in one that 
 he remembered as if it were a voice from 
 their past. 
 
210 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Forgive me for disobeying you to save 
 you from capture, disgrace, or death — 
 which would have come to you where you 
 were going! I have taken Rose's pass. 
 You need not fear that your honor will suf- 
 fer by it, for if I am stopped I shall confess 
 that I took it from her. Think no more of 
 me, Clarence, but only of yourself. You 
 are in danger." 
 
 He crushed the letter in his hand. 
 
 "Tell me," he said in a fierce whisper, 
 seizing her arm, "and speak low. When 
 did you leave her? " 
 
 "Sho'ly just now! " gasped the fright- 
 ened woman. 
 
 He flung her aside. There might be 
 still time to overtake and save her before she 
 reached the picket lines. He ran up the 
 gully, and out on to the slojie towards the 
 first guard-post. But a familiar challenge 
 reached his ear, and his heart stopped beat- 
 ing. 
 
 "Who goes there?" 
 
 There was a pause, a rattle of arms — 
 voices — another pause — and Brant stood 
 breathlessly listening. Then the voice rose 
 again slowly and clearly : " Pass the mulatto 
 woman ! " 
 
CLARENCE. 211 
 
 Thank God ! she was saved ! But the 
 thought had scarcely crossed his mind before 
 it seemed to him that a blinding crackle of 
 sparks burst out along the whole slope be- 
 low the wall, a characteristic yell which he 
 knew too well rang in his ears, and an un- 
 dulating line of dusty figures came leaping 
 like gray wolves out of the mist upon his 
 pickets. He heard the shouts of his men 
 falling back as they fired; the harsh com- 
 mands of a few officers hurrying to their 
 posts, and knew that he had been hopelessly 
 surprised and surrounded! 
 
 He ran forward among his disorganized 
 men. To his consternation no one seemed 
 to heed him! Then the remembrance of 
 his disguise flashed upon him. But he had 
 only time to throw away his hat and snatch 
 a sword from a falling lieutenant, before a 
 scorching flash seemed to pass before his 
 eyes and burn through his hair, and he 
 dropped like a log beside his subaltern. 
 
 An aching under the bandage around his 
 head where a spent bullet had grazed his 
 scalp, and the sound of impossible voices in 
 his ears were all he knew as he struggled 
 slowly back to consciousness again. Even 
 
212 CLARENCE. 
 
 then it still seemed a delusion, — for he 
 was lying on a cot in his own hospital, yet 
 with officers of the division staff around 
 him, and the division commander himself 
 standing by his side, and regarding him 
 with an air of grave but not unkindly con- 
 cern. But the wounded man felt instinc- 
 tively that it was not the effect of his physi- 
 cal condition, and a sense of shame came 
 suddenly over him, which was not dissipated 
 by his superior's words. For, motioning 
 the others aside, the major-general leaned 
 over his cot, and said, — 
 
 "Until a few moments ago, the report was 
 that you had been captured in the first rush 
 of the rear -guard which we were rolling up 
 for your attack, and when you were picked 
 up, just now, in plain clothes on the slope, 
 you were not recognized. The one thing 
 seemed to be as improbable as the other," 
 he added significantly. 
 
 The miserable truth flashed across Brant's 
 mind. Hooker must have been captured in 
 his clothes — perhaps in some extravagant 
 sally — and had not been recognized in the 
 confusion by his own officers. Nevertheless, 
 he raised his eyes to his superior. 
 
 "You got my note? " 
 
CLARENCE. 213 
 
 The general's brow darkened. 
 
 "Yes," he said slowly, "but findmg you 
 thus unprepared — - I had been thinking 
 just now that you had been deceived by that 
 woman — or by others — and that it was a 
 clumsy forgery." He stopped, and seeing 
 the hopeless bewilderment in the face of the 
 wounded man, added more kindly: "But 
 we will not talk of that in your present con- 
 dition. The doctor says a few hours will 
 put you straight again. Get strong, for I 
 want you to lose no time — for your own sake 
 — to report yourself at Washington." 
 
 " Report myself — at Washington ! " re- 
 peated Brant slowly. 
 
 "That was last night's order," said the 
 commander, with military curtness. Then 
 he burst out: "I don't understand it, 
 Brant! I believe you have been misunder- 
 stood, misrepresented, perhaps maligned — 
 and I shall make it my business to see the 
 thing through — but those are the Depart- 
 ment orders. And for the j)resent — I am 
 sorry to say you are relieved of your com- 
 mand." 
 
 He turned away, and Brant closed his 
 eyes. With them it seemed to him that he 
 closed his career. No one would ever un- 
 
214 CLARENCE. 
 
 derstand his explanation — even had he been 
 tempted to give one, and he knew he never 
 would. Everything was over now! Even 
 this wretched bullet had not struck him 
 fairly, and culminated his fate as it might! 
 For an instant, he recalled his wife's last 
 offer to fly with him beyond the seas — be- 
 yond this cruel injustice — but even as he 
 recalled it, he knew that flight meant the 
 worst of all — a half-conf ession ! But she 
 had escaped ! Thank God for that ! Again 
 and again in his hopeless perplexity this com- 
 fort returned to him, — he had saved her ; 
 he had done his duty. And harping upon 
 this in his strange fatalism, it at last seemed 
 to him that this was for what he had lived 
 
 — for what he had suffered — for what he 
 had fitly ended his career. Perhaps it was 
 left for him now to pass his remaining years 
 in forgotten exile — even as his father had 
 
 — his father ! — his breath came quickly 
 at the thought — God knows ! perhaps as 
 wrongfully accused! It may have been a 
 Providence that she had borne him no child, 
 to whom this dreadful heritage could be 
 again transmitted. 
 
 There was something of this strange and 
 fateful resignation in his face, a few hours 
 
CLARENCE. 215 
 
 later, wten he was able to be helped again 
 into the saddle. But he could see in the 
 eyes of the few comrades who commiser- 
 atingly took leave of him, a vague, half- 
 repressed awe of some indefinite weakness 
 in the man, that mingled with their heart- 
 felt parting with a gallant soldier. Yet 
 even this touched him no longer. He cast 
 a glance at the house and the room where he 
 had parted from her, at the slope from 
 which she had passed — and rode away. 
 
 And then, as his figure disappeared down 
 the road, the restrained commentary of won- 
 der, surmise, and criticism broke out : — 
 
 "It must have been something mighty 
 bad, for the old man, who swears by him, 
 looked rather troubled. And it was deuced 
 queer, you know, this changing clothes with 
 somebody, just before this surprise! " 
 
 "Nonsense I It 's something away back 
 of that! Did n't you hear the old man say 
 that the orders for him to report himself 
 came from Washington Zas^ night f No!" 
 — the speaker lowered his voice — " Strange- 
 ways says that he had regularly sold himself 
 
 out to one of them d d secesh woman 
 
 spies! It 's the old Marc Antony business 
 over again! " 
 
216 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Now I think of it," said a younger sub- 
 altern, "lie did seem mightily taken with 
 one of those quadroons or mulattoes he 
 issued orders against. I suppose that was a 
 blind for us ! I remember the first day he 
 saw her ; he was regularly keen to know aU 
 about her." 
 
 Major Curtis gave a short laugh. 
 
 "That mulatto, Martin, was a white wo- 
 man, burnt-corked ! She was trying to get 
 through the lines last night, and fell off a 
 wall or got a knock on the head from a sen- 
 try's carbine. When she was brought in, 
 Doctor Simmons set to washing the blood 
 off her face ; the cork came off and the whole 
 thing came out. Brant hushed it up — and 
 the woman, too — in his own quarters! It 's 
 supposed now that she got away somehow in 
 the rush! " 
 
 "It goes further back than that, gentle- 
 men," said the adjutant authoritatively. 
 " They say his wife was a howling secession- 
 ist, four years ago, in California, was mixed 
 up in a conspiracy, and he had to leave on 
 account of it. Look how thick he and that 
 Miss Faulkner became, before he helped lier 
 off!" 
 
 "That 's your jealousy, Tommy; she 
 
CLARENCE. 217 
 
 knew lie was, by all odds, the biggest man 
 here, and a good deal more, too, and you 
 had no show!" 
 
 In the laugh that followed, it would seem 
 that Brant's eulogy had been spoken and 
 forgotten. But as Lieutenant Martin was 
 turning away, a lingering corporal touched 
 his cap. 
 
 "You were speaking of those prowling 
 mulattoes, sir. You know the general 
 passed one out this morning." 
 
 "So I have heard." 
 
 "I reckon she did n't get very far. It 
 was just at the time that we were driven in 
 by their first fire, and I think she got her 
 share of it, too. Do you mind walking this 
 way, sir! " 
 
 The lieutenant did not mind, although he 
 rather languidly followed. When they had 
 reached the top of the gully, the corporal 
 pointed to what seemed to be a bit of striped 
 calico hanging on a thorn bush in the ra- 
 vine. 
 
 "That's her," said the corporal. "I 
 know the dress ; I was on guard when she 
 was passed. The searchers, who were pick- 
 ing up our men, have n't got to her yet; 
 but she aiu't moved or stirred these two 
 
218 CLARENCE. 
 
 hours. Would you like to go down and see 
 her? " 
 
 The lieutenant hesitated. He was young, 
 and slightly fastidious as to unnecessary un- 
 pleasantness. He believed he would wait 
 until the searchers brought her up, when the 
 corporal might call him. 
 
 The mist came up gloriously from the 
 swamp like a golden halo. And as Clar- 
 ence Brant, already forgotten, rode moodily 
 through it towards Washington, hugging to 
 his heart the solitary comfort of his great 
 sacrifice, his wife, Alice Brant, for whom he 
 had made it, was lying in the ravine, dead 
 and uncared for. Perhaps it was part of 
 the inconsistency of her sex that she was 
 pierced with the bullets of those she had 
 loved, and was wearing the garments of the 
 race that she had wronged. 
 
PART III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was sunset of a hot day at Washing- 
 ton. Even at that hour the broad avenues, 
 which diverged from the Capitol like the 
 rays of another sun, were fierce and glitter- 
 ing. The sterile distances between glowed 
 more cruelly than ever, and pedestrians, 
 keeping in the scant shade, hesitated on the 
 curbstones before plunging into the Sahara- 
 like waste of crossings. The city seemed 
 deserted. Even that vast army of contrac- 
 tors, speculators, place-hunters, and lobby- 
 ists, which hung on the heels of the other 
 army, and had turned this pacific camp of 
 the nation into a battlefield of ignoble con- 
 flict and contention — more disastrous than 
 the one to the South — had slunk into their 
 holes in hotel back bedrooms, in shady bar- 
 rooms, or in the negro quarters of George- 
 town, as if the majestic, white-robed God- 
 dess enthroned upon the dome of the Capitol 
 had at last descended among: them and was 
 
220 CLARENCE. 
 
 smiting to right and left with the flat and 
 flash of her insufferable sword. 
 
 Into this stifling atmosphere of greed and 
 corruption Clarence Brant stepped from the 
 shadow of the War Department. For the 
 last three weeks he had haunted its ante- 
 rooms and audience-chambers, in the vain 
 hope of righting himself before his superi- 
 ors, who were content, without formulating 
 charges against him, to keep him in this 
 disgrace of inaction and the anxiety of sus- 
 pense. Unable to ascertain the details of 
 the accusation, and conscious of his own 
 secret, he was debarred the last resort of 
 demanding a court-martial, which he knew 
 could only exonerate him by the exposure of 
 the guilt of his wife, whom he still hoped 
 had safely escaped. His division comman- 
 der, in active operations in the field, had no 
 time to help him at Washington. Elbowed 
 aside by greedy contractors, forestalled by 
 selfish politicians, and disdaining the ordi- 
 nary method of influence, he had no friend 
 to turn to. In his few years of campaign- 
 ing he had lost his instinct of diplomacy, 
 without acquiring a soldier's bluntness. 
 
 The nearly level rays of the sun forced 
 him at last to turn aside into one of the 
 
CLARENCE. 221 
 
 openings of a large building — a famous 
 caravansary of that hotel-liaunted capital, 
 and he presently found himself in the luxu- 
 rious bar-room, fragrant with mint, and cool 
 with ice-slabs piled symmetrically on its 
 marble counters. A few groups of men 
 were seeking coolness at small tables with 
 glasses before them and palm-leaf fans in 
 their hands, but a larger and noisier assem- 
 blage was collected before the bar, where a 
 man, coUarless and in his shirt-sleeves, with 
 his back to the counter, was pretentiously 
 addressing them. Brant, who had moodily 
 dropped into a chair in the corner, after or- 
 dering a cooling drink as an excuse for his 
 temporary refuge from the stifling street, 
 haK-regretted his enforced participation in 
 their conviviality. But a sudden lowering 
 of the speaker's voice into a note of gloomy 
 significance seemed familiar to him. He 
 glanced at him quickly, from the shadow of 
 his corner. He was not mistaken — it was 
 Jim Hooker! 
 
 For the first time in his life, Brant wished 
 to evade him. In the days of his own pros- 
 perity his heart had always gone out towards 
 this old companion of his boyhood; in his 
 present himiiliation his presence jarred upon 
 
222 CLARENCE. 
 
 him. He would have slipped away, hut to 
 do so he would have had to pass before the 
 counter again, and Hooker, with the self- 
 consciousness of a story-teller, had an eye 
 on his audience. Brant, with a pahn-leaf 
 fan before his face, was obliged to listen. 
 
 "Yes, gentlemen," said Hooker, examin- 
 ing his glass dramatically, "when a man 's 
 been cooped up in a Rebel prison, with a 
 death line before him that he 's obliged to 
 cross every time he wants a square drink, it 
 seems sort of like a dream of his boyhood to 
 be standin' here comf'ble before his liquor, 
 alongside o' white men once more. And 
 when he knows he 's bin jDut to all that 
 trouble jest to save the reputation of another 
 man, and the secrets of a few high and 
 mighty ones, it 's almost enough to make his 
 liquor go agin him." He stopped theat- 
 rically, seemed to choke emotionally over 
 his brandy squash, but with a pause of dra- 
 matic determination finally dashed it down. 
 "No, gentlemen," he continued gloomily, 
 "I don't say what I 'm back in Washington 
 for — I don't say what I 've been sayin' to 
 myself when I 've bin picking the weevils 
 outer my biscuits in Libby Prison — but ef 
 you don't see some pretty big men in the 
 
CLARENCE. 223 
 
 War Department obliged to climb down in 
 tlie next few days, my name ain't Jim 
 Hooker, of Hooker, Meacbam & Co., Army 
 Beef Contractors, and the man who saved 
 the fight at Gray Oaks! " 
 
 The smile of satisfaction that went around 
 his audience — an audience quick to seize 
 the weakness of any performance — might 
 have startled a vanity less oblivious than 
 Hooker's; but it only aroused Brant's in- 
 dignation and pity, and made his position 
 still more intolerable. But Hooker, scorn- 
 fully expectorating a thin stream of tobacco 
 juice against the spittoon, remained for an 
 instant gloomily silent. 
 
 "Tell us about the fight again," said a 
 smiling auditor. 
 
 Hooker looked around the room with a 
 certain dark suspiciousness, and then, in an 
 affected lower voice, which his theatrical ex- 
 perience made perfectly audible, went on : — 
 
 " It ain't much to speak of, and if it 
 was n't for the principle of the thing, I 
 would n't be talking. A man who 's seen 
 Injin fightin' don't go much on this here 
 West Point fightin' by rule-of -three — ■ but 
 that ain't here or there! Well, I 'd bin out 
 a-scoutin' — just to help the boys along, and 
 
224 CLARENCE. 
 
 I was sittin' in my wagon about daybreak, 
 when along comes a brigadier-general, and 
 he looks into the wagon flap. I oughter 
 to tell you first, gentlemen, that every minit 
 he was expecting an attack — but he didn't 
 let on a hint of it to me. 'How are you, 
 Jim?' said he. 'How are you, general?' 
 said I. 'Would you mind lendin' me your 
 coat and hat? ' says he. ' I 've got a little 
 game here with our pickets, and I don't 
 want to be recognized.' 'Anything to 
 oblige, general,' said I, and with that I 
 strips off my coat and hat, and he peels and 
 puts them on. 'Nearly the same figure, 
 Jim,' he says, lookin' at me, 'suppose you 
 try on my things and see. ' With that he 
 hands me his coat — full uniform, by G — d ! 
 
 — with the little gold cords and laces and 
 the epaulettes with a star, and I puts it on 
 
 — quite innocent-like. And then he says, 
 handin' me his sword and belt, 'Same inches 
 round the waist, I reckon, ' and I puts that 
 on too. 'You may as well keep 'em on 
 till I come back,' says he, 'for it 's mighty 
 damp and malarious at this time around 
 the swamp. ' And with that he lights out. 
 Well, gentlemen, I hadn't sat there five 
 minutes before Bang! bang! rattle! rattle! 
 
CLARENCE. 225 
 
 kershiz ! and I hears a yell. I steps out of 
 the wagon ; everything 's quite dark, but 
 the rattle goes on. Then along trots an 
 orderly, leadin' a horse. 'Mount, general,' 
 he says, 'we 'reattached — the rear -guard 's 
 on us! ' " 
 
 He paused, looked round his audience, 
 and then in a lower voice, said darkly, — 
 
 "I ain't a fool, an' in that minute a man's 
 brain works at high pressure, and I saw it 
 all ! I saw the little game of the brigadier 
 — to skunk away in my clothes and leave 
 me to be caj)tured in his. But I ain't a dog 
 neither, and I mounted that horse, gentle- 
 men, and lit out to where the men were 
 formin'! I didn't dare to speak, lest they 
 should know me, but I waved my sword, 
 and by G — d ! they followed me ! And the 
 next minit we was in the thick of it. I had 
 my hat as full of holes as that ice strainer ; 
 I had a dozen bullets through my coat, the 
 fringe of my epaulettes was shot away, but 
 I kept the boys at their work — and we 
 stopped 'em! Stopped 'em, gentlemen, 
 until we heard the bugles of the rest of our 
 division, that all this time had been rolling 
 that blasted rear-guard over on us ! And it 
 saved the fight; but the next minute the 
 
226 CLARENCE. 
 
 Johnny Rebs made a last clash and cut me 
 off — and there I was — by G — d, a pris- 
 oner! Me that had saved the fight! " 
 
 A ripple of ironical applause went round 
 as Hooker gloomily drained his glass, and 
 then held up his hand in scornful depreca- 
 tion. 
 
 "I said I was a prisoner, gentlemen," he 
 went on bitterly; " but that ain't all! I 
 asked to see Johnston, told him what I had 
 done, and demanded to be exchanged for a 
 
 general officer. He said, ' You be d d. ' 
 
 I then sent word to the division command- 
 er-in-chief, and told him how I had saved 
 Gray Oaks when his brigadier ran away, 
 
 and he said, ' You be d d. ' I 've bin 
 
 ' You be d d ' from the lowest non-com. 
 
 to the commander-in-chief, and when I was 
 at last exchanged, I was exchanged, gentle- 
 men, for two mules and a broken wagon. 
 But I 'm here, gentlemen — as I was thar ! " 
 
 "Why don't you see the President about 
 it?" asked a bystander, in affected com- 
 miseration. 
 
 Mr. Hooker stared contemptuously at the 
 suggestion, and expectorated his scornful 
 dissent. 
 
 "Not much! " he said. "But I 'm going 
 
CLARENCE. 227 
 
 to see the man that carries him and his Cab- 
 inet in his breeches-pocket — Senator Boom- 
 pointer." 
 
 "Boompointer 's a big man," continued 
 his auditor doubtfully. "Do you know 
 him?" 
 
 "Know him? " Mr. Hooker laughed a 
 bitter, sardonic laugh. "Well, gentlemen, I 
 ain't the kind o' man to go in for family in- 
 fluence; but," he added, with gloomy eleva- 
 tion, "considering he 's an intimate relation 
 of mine, hy marriage., I should say I did." 
 
 Brant heard no more ; the facing around 
 of his old companion towards the bar gave 
 him that opportunity of escaping he had 
 been waiting for. The defection of Hooker 
 and his peculiar inventions were too char- 
 acteristic of him to excite surprise, and, 
 although they no longer awakened his good- 
 humored tolerance, they were powerless to 
 affect him in his greater trouble. Only one 
 thing he learned — that Hooker knew no- 
 thing of his wife being in camp as a spy — 
 the incident would have been too tempting 
 to have escaped his dramatic embellishment. 
 And the allusion to Senator Boompointer, 
 monstrous as it seemed in Hooker's mouth, 
 gave him a grim temptation. He had heard 
 
228 CLARENCE. 
 
 of Boompointer's wonderful power; he be- 
 lieved tliat Susy would and could help him 
 — Clarence — whether she did or did not 
 help Hooker. But the next moment he 
 dismissed the idea, with a flushing cheek. 
 How low had he already sunk, even to think 
 of it! 
 
 It had been once or twice in his mind to 
 seek the President, and, under a promise of 
 secrecy, reveal a part of his story. He had 
 heard many anecdotes of his goodness of 
 heart and generous tolerance of all things, 
 but with this was joined — so said contem- 
 poraneous history — a flippancy of speech 
 and a brutality of directness from which 
 Clarence's sensibility shrank. Would he 
 see anything in his wife but a common spy 
 on his army ; would he see anj^thing in him 
 but the weak victim, like many others, of a 
 scheming woman? Stories current in camp 
 and Congress of the way that this grim hu- 
 morist had, with an apposite anecdote or a 
 rugged illustration, brushed away the most 
 delicate sentiment or the subtlest poetry, 
 even as he had exposed the sham of Puri- 
 tanic morality or of Epicurean ethics. Brant 
 had even solicited an audience, but had re- 
 tired awkwardly, and with his confidence 
 
CLARENCE. 229 
 
 unspoken, before the dark, humorous eyes, 
 that seemed ahuost too tolerant of his griev- 
 ance. He had been to levees, and his heart 
 had sunk equally before the vulgar crowd, 
 who seemed to regard this man as their own 
 buffoon, and the pompousness of position, 
 learning and dignity, which he seemed to 
 delight to shake and disturb. 
 
 One afternoon, a few days later, in sheer 
 listlessness of purpose, he found himself 
 again at the White House. The President 
 was giving audience to a deputation of fan- 
 atics, who, with a pathetic simplicity almost 
 equal to his own pathetic tolerance, were 
 urging upon this ruler of millions the policy 
 of an insignificant score, and Brant listened 
 to his patient, practical response of facts 
 and logic, clothed in simple but sinewy 
 English, up to the inevitable climax of hu- 
 morous illustration, which the young briga- 
 dier could now see was necessary to relieve 
 the grimness of his refusal. For the first 
 time Brant felt the courage to address him, 
 and resolved to wait until the deputation re- 
 tired. As they left the gallery he lingered 
 in the ante -room for the President to ap- 
 pear. But, as he did not come, afraid of 
 losing his chances, he returned to the gallery. 
 
230 CLARENCE. 
 
 Alone in his privacy and shadow, the man 
 he had just left was standing by a column, 
 in motionless abstraction, looking over the 
 distant garden. But the kindly, humorous 
 face was almost tragic with an intensity of 
 weariness! Every line of those strong, 
 rustic features was relaxed under a burden 
 which even the long, lank, angular figure — 
 overgrown and unfinished as his own West 
 — seemed to be distorted in its efforts to 
 adjust itself to ; while the dark, deep - set 
 eyes were abstracted with the vague pre- 
 science of the prophet and the martyr. 
 Shocked at that sudden change, Brant felt 
 his cheek burn with shame. And he was 
 about to break upon that wearied man's un- 
 bending ; he was about to add his petty bur- 
 den to the shoulders of this Western Atlas. 
 He drew back silently, and descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 But before he had left the house, while 
 mingling with the crowd in one of the larger 
 rooms, he saw the President reappear beside 
 an important, prosperous-looking figure, on 
 whom the kindly giant was now smiling with 
 humorous toleration. He noticed the di- 
 vided attention of the crowd; the name of 
 Senator Boompointer was upon every lip: 
 
CLARENCE. 231 
 
 he was nearlj'^ face to face with that famous 
 dispenser of place and preferment — this 
 second husband of Susy ! An indescribable 
 feeling — half cynical, half f atef id — came 
 over him. He would not have been sur- 
 prised to see Jim Hooker join the throng, 
 which now seemed to him to even dwarf 
 the lonely central figure that had so lately 
 touched him ! He wanted to escape it all ! 
 
 But his fate brought him to the entrance 
 at the same moment that Boompointer was 
 leaving it, and that distinguished man 
 brushed hastily by him as a gorgeous car- 
 riage, drawn by two spirited horses, and 
 driven by a resplendent negro coachman, 
 dashed up. It was the Boompointer car- 
 riage. 
 
 A fashionably - dressed, pretty woman, 
 who, in style, bearing, opulent contentment, 
 and ingenuous self - consciousness, was in 
 perfect keeping with the slight ostentation 
 of the equipage, was its only occupant. As 
 Boompointer stepped into the vehicle, her 
 blue eyes fell for an instant on Brant. A 
 happy, childlike pink flush came into her 
 cheeks, and a violet ray of recognition and 
 mischief darted from her eyes to his. For 
 it was Susy. 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 When Brant returned to his hotel there 
 was an augmented respect in the voice of 
 the clerk as he handed him a note with the 
 remark that it had been left by Senator 
 Boompointer's coachman. He had no diffi- 
 culty in recognizing Susy's peculiarly Brob- 
 dingnagian school-girl hand. 
 
 "Kla'uns, I call it real mean! I believe 
 you jnst hoped I wouldn't know you. If 
 you 're' a bit like your old self you '11 come 
 right off here — this very night ! I 've got 
 a big party on — but we can talk somewhere 
 between the acts! Haven't I growed? 
 Tell me! And my! what a gloomy swell 
 the young brigadier is ! The carriage will 
 come for you — so you have no excuse." 
 
 The effect of this childish note upon Brant 
 was strangely out of proportion to its triv- 
 iality. But then it was Susy's very triv- 
 iality — so expressive of her characteristic 
 irresponsibility — which had always affected 
 him at such moments. Again, as at Robles, 
 
CLARENCE. 233 
 
 he felt it react against his own ethics. 
 Was she not right in her delightful materi- 
 alism? Was she not happier than if she 
 had been consistently true to Mrs. Peyton, 
 to the convent, to the episode of her theat- 
 rical career, to Jim Hooker — even to him- 
 self? And did he conscientiously believe 
 that Hooker or himself had suffered from 
 her inconsistency ? No ! From all that he 
 had heard, she was a suitable helpmate to 
 the senator, in her social attractiveness, 
 her charming ostentations, her engaging 
 vanity that disarmed suspicion, and her lack 
 of responsibility even in her partisanship. 
 Nobody ever dared to hold the senator re- 
 sponsible for her promises, even while en- 
 joying the fellowship of both, and it is said 
 that the worthy man singiilarly profited by 
 it. Looking upon the invitation as a pos- 
 sible distraction to his gloomy thoughts, 
 Brant resolved to go. 
 
 The moon was high as the carriage 
 whirled him out of the still stifling avenues 
 towards the Soldiers' Home — a sylvan sub- 
 urb frequented by cabinet ministers and 
 the President — where the good Senator 
 had "decreed," like Kubla Khan, "a stately 
 pleasure dome," to entertain his friends and 
 
234 CLARENCE. 
 
 partisans. As tliey approached the house, 
 the trembling light like fireflies through the 
 leaves, the warm silence broken only by a 
 military band playiag a drowsy waltz on the 
 veranda, and the heavy odors of jessamine 
 in the air, thrilled Brant with a sense of 
 shame as he thought of his old comrades 
 in the field. But this was presently dissi- 
 pated by the imiforms that met him in the 
 hall, with the presence of some of his dis- 
 tinguished superiors. At the head of the 
 stairs, with a circling background of the 
 shining crosses and ribbons of the diplo- 
 matic corps, stood Susy — her bare arms 
 and neck glittering with diamonds, her face 
 radiant with childlike vivacity. A signifi- 
 cant pressure of her little glove as he made 
 his bow seemed to be his only welcome, but a 
 moment later she caught his arm. "You 've 
 yet to know ^m," she said in a half whis- 
 per; "he thinks a good deal of himself — 
 just like Jim. But he makes others be- 
 lieve it, and that 's where poor Jim slipped 
 up." She paused before the man thus 
 characteristically disposed of, and presented 
 Brant. It was the man he had seen before 
 — material, capable, dogmatic. A glance 
 from his shrewd eyes — accustomed to the 
 
CLARENCE. 235 
 
 weig-liing of men's weaknesses and ambitions 
 — and a few hurried phrases, apparently 
 satisfied him that Brant was not just then 
 important or available to him, and the two 
 men, a moment later, drifted easily apart. 
 Brant sauntered listlessly through the 
 crowded rooms, half remorsefully conscious 
 that he had taken some ii-revocable step, and 
 none the less assured by the presence of two 
 or three reporters and correspondents who 
 were dogging his steps, or the glance of two 
 or three pretty women whose curiosity had 
 evidently been aroused by the singular ab- 
 straction of this handsome, distinguished, 
 but sardonic-looking officer. But the next 
 moment he was genuinely moved. 
 
 A tall young woman had just glided into 
 the centre of the room with an indolent yet 
 supple gracefulness that seemed familiar to 
 him. A change in her position suddenly 
 revealed her face. It was Miss Faulkner. 
 Previously he had known her only in the 
 riding habit of Confederate gray v/hich she 
 had at first affected, or in the light muslin 
 morning dress she had worn at Gray Oaks. 
 It seemed to him, to-night, that the studied 
 elegance of her full dress became her still 
 more ; that the pretty willfulness of her chin 
 
236 CLARENCE. 
 
 and shoulders was chastened and modified 
 by the pearls round her fair throat. Sud- 
 denly their eyes met ; her face paled visibly ; 
 he fancied that she almost leaned against 
 her companion for support; then she met 
 his glance again with a face into which the 
 color had as suddenly rushed, but with eyes 
 that seemed to be appealing to him even to 
 the point of pain and fright. Brant was not 
 conceited; he could see that the girl's agita- 
 tion was not the effect of any mere personal 
 influence in his recognition, but of some- 
 thing else. He turned hastily away; when 
 he looked around again she was gone. 
 
 Nevertheless he felt filled with a vague 
 irritation. Did she think him such a fool 
 as to imperil her safety by openly recogniz- 
 ing her without her consent? Did she think 
 that he would dare to presume upon the 
 service she had done him? Or, more out- 
 rageous thought, had she heard of his dis- 
 grace, known its cause, and feared that he 
 would drag her into a disclosure to save 
 himself ? No, no ; she could not think that ! 
 She had perhaps regretted what she had 
 done in a freak of girlish chivalry ; she had 
 returned to her old feelings and partisan- 
 ship; she was only startled at meeting the 
 
CLARENCE. 237 
 
 single witness of her folly. Well, she need 
 not fear ! He would as studiously avoid her 
 hereafter, and she should know it. And yet 
 — yes, there was a "yet." For he could not 
 forget — indeed, in the past three weeks it 
 had been more often before him than he 
 cared to think — that she was the one human 
 being who had been capable of a great act 
 of self-sacrifice for him — her enemy, her 
 accuser, the man who had scarcely treated 
 her civilly. He was ashamed to remember 
 now that this thought had occurred to him 
 at the bedside of his wife — at the hour 
 of her escape — even on the fatal slope on 
 which he had been struck down. And now 
 this fond illusion must go with the rest — 
 the girl who had served him so loyally was 
 ashamed of it ! A bitter smile crossed his 
 face. 
 
 " Well, I don't wonder ! Here are all the 
 women asking me who is that good-looking 
 Mephistopheles, with the burning eyes, who 
 is prowling around my rooms as if searching 
 for a victim. Why, you 're smiling for all 
 the world like poor Jim when he used to do 
 the Red Avenger." 
 
 Susy's voice — and illustration — recalled 
 him to himself. 
 
238 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Furious I may be," he said with a gen- 
 tler smile, although his eyes still glittered, 
 "furious that I have to wait until the one 
 woman I came to see — the one woman I 
 have not seen for so long, while these pup- 
 pets have been nightly dancing before her 
 — can give me a few moments from them, 
 to talk of the old days." 
 
 In his reaction he was quite sincere, al- 
 though he felt a slight sense of remorse as 
 he saw the quick, faint color rise, as in those 
 old days, even through the to-night's pow- 
 der of her cheek. 
 
 "That's like the old Kla'vms," she said, 
 with a slight pressure of his arm, "but we 
 will not have a chance to speak until later. 
 When they are nearly all gone, you '11 take 
 me to get a little refreshment, and we '11 
 have a chat in the conservatory. But you 
 must drop that awfully wicked look and 
 make yourself generally agreeable to those 
 women until then." 
 
 It was, perhaps, part of this reaction which 
 enabled him to obey his hostess' commands 
 with a certain recklessness that, however, 
 seemed to be in keeping with the previous 
 Satanic reputation he had all unconsciously 
 achieved* The women listened to the cyni- 
 
CLARENCE. 239 
 
 cal flipijancy of tliis good - looking soldier 
 with an undisguised admiration which in 
 turn excited curiosity and envy from his 
 own sex. He saw the whispered question- 
 ing, the lifted eyebrows, scornful shrugging 
 of shoulders — and knew that the story of 
 his disgrace was in the air. But I fear this 
 only excited him to further recklessness and 
 triumph. Once he thought he recognized 
 Miss Faulkner's figure at a distance, and 
 even fancied that she had been watchinff 
 him; but he only redoubled his attentions 
 to the fair woman beside him, and looked 
 no more. 
 
 Yet he was glad when the guests began to 
 drop off, the great rooms thinned, and Susy, 
 appearing on the arm of her husband, co- 
 quettishly reminded him of his j^romise. 
 
 "For I want to talk to you of old times. 
 General Brant," she went on, turning ex- 
 planatorily to Boompointer, "married my 
 adopted mother in California — at Robles, 
 a dear old place where I spent my earliest 
 years. So, you see, we are sort of relations 
 by marriage," she added, with delightful 
 naivete. 
 
 Hooker's own vainglorious allusion to his 
 relations to the man before him flashed 
 
240 CLARENCE. 
 
 across Brant's mind, but it left now only a 
 smile on liis lips. He felt lie liad already 
 become a part of the irresjDonsible comedy 
 played around him. Why should he re- 
 sist, or examine its ethics too closely? He 
 offered his arm to Susy as they descended 
 the stairs, but, instead of pausing in the 
 supper-room, she simply passed through it 
 with a significant pressure on his arm, and, 
 drawing aside a muslin curtain, stepjjed into 
 the moonlit conservatory. Behind the cur- 
 tain there was a small rustic settee ; without 
 releasing his arm she sat down, so that 
 when he dropped beside her, their hands 
 met, and mutually clasped. 
 
 "Now, Kla'uns," she said, with a slight, 
 comfortable shiver as she nestled beside 
 him, "it 's a little like your chair down at 
 old Robles, isn't it? — tell me! And to 
 think it 's five years ago ! But, Kla'ims, 
 what 's the matter? You are changed," 
 she said, looking at his dark face in the 
 moonlight, "or you have something to tell 
 me." 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "And it 's something dreadful, I know! " 
 she said, wrinkling her brows with a pretty 
 terror. "Could n't you pretend you liad 
 
CLARENCE. 241 
 
 told It to me, and let us go on just the same? 
 Could n't you, Kla'uns ? Tell me ! " 
 
 "I am afraid I couldn't," lie said, with 
 a sad smile. 
 
 "Is it about yourself, Kla'uns? You 
 know," she went on with cheerful rapidity, 
 "I know everything about you — I always 
 did, you know — and I don't care, and 
 never did care, and it don't, and never did, 
 make the slightest difference to me. So 
 don't tell it, and waste time, Kla'uns." 
 
 "It 's not about me, but about my wife! " 
 he said slowly. 
 
 Her expression changed slightly. 
 
 "Oh, her ! " she said after a pause. Then, 
 half -resignedly, "Go on, Kla'uns." 
 
 He began. He had a dozen times re- 
 hearsed to himself his miserable story, al- 
 ways feeling it keenly, and even fearing 
 that he might be carried away by emotion 
 or morbid sentiment in telling it to another. 
 But, to his astonishment, he found himself 
 telling it practically, calmly, almost cyni- 
 cally, to his old playmate, repressing the 
 half devotion and even tenderness that had 
 governed him, from the time that his wife, 
 disguised as the mulatto woman, had se- 
 cretly watched him at his office, to the hour 
 
242 CLARENCE. 
 
 that lie had passed through the lines. He 
 withheld only the incident of Miss Faulk- 
 ner's complicity and sacrifice. 
 
 "And she got away, after having kicked 
 you out of your place, Kla'uns? " said Susy, 
 when he had ended. 
 
 Clarence stiffened beside her. But he felt 
 he had gone too far to quarrel with his con- 
 fidante. 
 
 "She went away. I honestly believe we 
 shall never meet again, or I should not be 
 telling you this ! " 
 
 "Kla'uns," she said lightly, taking his 
 hand again, "don't you believe it! She 
 won't let you go. You 're one of those men 
 that a woman, when she 's once hooked on 
 to, won't let go of, even when she believes 
 she no longer loves him, or meets bigger and 
 better men. I reckon it 's because you 're 
 so different from other men; maybe there 
 are so many different things about you to 
 hook on to, and you don't slip off as easily 
 as the others. Now, if you were like old 
 Peyton, her first husband, or like poor Jim, 
 or even my Boompointer, you 'd be all right! 
 No, ray boy, all we can do is to try to keep 
 her from getting at you here. I reckon she 
 won't trust herself in Washington again in 
 a hurry." 
 
CLARENCE. 243 
 
 " But I cannot stay here ; my career is in 
 the field." 
 
 "Your career is alongside o' me, honey 
 
 — and Boompointer. But nearer me. We'll 
 fix all that. I heard something about your 
 being in disgrace, but the story was that 
 you were sweet on some secesh girl down 
 there, and neglected your business, Kla'uns. 
 But, Lordy ! to think it was only your own 
 wife ! Never mind ; we '11 straighten that 
 out. We 've had worse jobs than that on. 
 Why, there was that commissary who was 
 buying up dead horses at one end of the 
 field, and selling them to the Government 
 for mess beef at the other; and there was 
 that general who would n't make an at- 
 tack when it rained ; and the other general 
 
 — you know who I mean, Kla'uns — who 
 wouldn't invade the State where his sister 
 lived; but we straightened them out, some- 
 how, and they were a heap worse than you. 
 We '11 get you a position in the war de- 
 pai'tment here, one of the bureau offices, 
 where you keep your rank and your uni- 
 form — you don't look bad in it, Kla'uns — 
 on better pay. And you '11 come and see 
 me, and we '11 talk over old times." 
 
 Brant felt his heart turn sick within him. 
 
244 CLARENCE. 
 
 But he was at her mercy now! He said, 
 with an effort, — 
 
 "But I 've told you that my career — nay, 
 my life — now is in the field." 
 
 "Don't you be a fool, Kla'uns, and leave 
 it there! You have done your work of 
 fighting — mighty good fighting, too, — 
 and everybody knows it. You 've earned a 
 change. Let others take your place." 
 
 He shuddered, as he remembered that his 
 wife had made the same appeal. Was he a 
 fool then, and these two women — so totally 
 unlike in everything — right in this ? 
 
 "Come, Kla'uns," said Susy, relapsing 
 again against his shoulder. "Now talk to 
 me! You don't say what you think of me, 
 of my home, of my fiu-niture, of my posi- 
 tion — even of him ! Tell me ! " 
 
 "I find you well, prosperous, and happy," 
 he said, with a faint smile. 
 
 " Is that all ? And ho w do I look ? ' ' 
 
 She turned her still youthful, mischievous 
 face towards him in the moonlight. The 
 witchery of her blue eyes was still there 
 as of old, the same frank irresponsibility 
 beamed from them ; her parted lips seemed 
 to give him back the breath of his youth. 
 He started, but she did not. 
 
CLARENCE. 245 
 
 "Susy, dear! " 
 
 It was her husband's voice. 
 
 "I quite forgot," the Senator went on, as 
 he drew the curtam aside, "that you are en- 
 gaged with a friend ; but Miss Faulkner is 
 waiting to say good-night, and I volunteered 
 to find you." 
 
 "Tell her to wait a moment," said Susy, 
 with an impatience that was as undisguised 
 as it was without embarrassment or confu- 
 sion. 
 
 But Miss Faulkner, unconsciously follow- 
 ing Mr. Boompointer, was already upon 
 them. For a moment the whole four were 
 silent, although perfectly composed. Sena- 
 tor Boompointer, unconscious of any infeli- 
 city in his interruption, was calmly waiting. 
 Clarence, opposed suddenly to the young girl 
 whom he believed was avoiding his recog- 
 nition, rose, coldly imperturbable. Miss 
 Faulkner, looking taUer and more erect in 
 the long folds of her satin cloak, neither 
 paled nor blushed, as she regarded Susy and 
 Brant with a smile of well-bred apology. 
 
 "I expect to leave Washington to-mor- 
 row, and may not be able to call again," she 
 said, "or I would not have so particularly 
 pressed a leave-taking upon you." 
 
246 CLARENCE. 
 
 "I was talking witli my old friend, Gen- 
 eral Brant," said Snsy, more by way of in- 
 troduction than apology. 
 
 Brant bowed. For an instant the clear 
 eyes of Miss Faulkner slipped icily across 
 his as she made him an old-fashioned South- 
 ern courtesy, and, taking Susy's arm, she 
 left the room. Brant did not linger, but 
 took leave of his host almost in the same 
 breath. At the front door a well-appointed 
 carriage of one of the Legations had just 
 rolled into waiting. He looked back; he 
 saw Miss Faulkner, erect and looking like 
 a bride in her gauzy draperies, descending 
 the stairs before the waiting servants. He 
 felt his heart beat strangely. He hesitated, 
 recalled himself with an effort, hurriedly 
 stepped from the porch into the path, as he 
 heard the carriage door close behind him in 
 the distance , and then felt the dust from her 
 horse's hoofs rise around him as she drove 
 past him and away. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Although Brant was convinced as soon 
 as lie left the house that he could not accept 
 anything from the Boompointer influence, 
 and that his interview with Susy was fruit- 
 less, he knew that he must temporize. 
 While he did not believe that his old play- 
 mate would willingly betray him, he was 
 uneasy when he thought of the vanity and 
 impulsiveness which might compromise him 
 — or of a possible jealousy that might seek 
 revenge. Yet he had no reason to believe 
 that Susy's nature was jealous, or that she 
 was likely to have any cause ; but the fact 
 remained that Miss Faulkner's innocent in- 
 trusion upon their tete-a-tete affected him 
 more strongly than anything else in his in- 
 terview with Susy. Once out of the atmos- 
 phere of that house, it struck him, too, that 
 Miss Faulkner was almost as much of an 
 alien in it as himself. He wondered what 
 she had been doing there. Could it be pos- 
 sible that she was obtaining information for 
 
248 CLARENCE. 
 
 tlie South? But he rejected the idea as 
 quickly as it had occurred to him. Perhaps 
 there could be no stronger proof of the un- 
 conscious influence the young girl already 
 had over him. 
 
 He remembered the liveries of the diplo- 
 matic carriage that had borne her away, and 
 ascertained without difficulty that her sister 
 had married one of the foreign ministers, 
 and that she was a guest in his house. But 
 he was the more astonished to hear that she 
 and her sister were considered to be South- 
 ern Unionists — and were greatly petted in 
 governmental circles for their sacrificing 
 fidelity to the flag. His informant, an offi- 
 cial in the State Department, added that 
 Miss Matilda might have been a good deal 
 of a madcap at the outbreak of the war — for 
 the sisters had a brother in the Confederate 
 service — but that she had changed greatly, 
 and, indeed, within a month. "For," he 
 added, "she was at the White House for 
 the first time last week, and they say the 
 President talked more to her than to any 
 other woman." 
 
 The indescribable sensation with which 
 this simple information filled Brant startled 
 him more than the news itself. Hope, joy, 
 
CLARENCE. 249 
 
 fear, distrust, and despair, alternately dis- 
 tracted him. He recalled Miss Faulkner's 
 almost agonizing- glance of appeal to him in 
 the drawing-room at Susy's, and it seemed 
 to be equally consistent with the truth of 
 what he had just heard — or some monstrous 
 treachery and deceit of which she might be 
 capable. Even now she might be a secret 
 emissary of some spy within the President's 
 family; she might have been in corresjjond- 
 ence with some traitor in the Boompointer 
 clique, and her imploring glance only the 
 result of a fear of exposure. Or, again, she 
 might have truly recanted after her escapade 
 at Gray Oaks, and feared only his recollec- 
 tion of her as go-between of spies. And yet 
 both of these presumptions were inconsistent 
 with her conduct in the conservatory. It 
 seemed impossible that this impulsive wo- 
 man, capable of doing what he had himself 
 known her to do, and equally sensitive to 
 the shame or joy of such impulses, should be 
 the same conventional woman of society who 
 had so coldly recognized and parted from 
 him. 
 
 But this interval of doubt was transitory. 
 The next day he received a dispatch from 
 the War Department, ordering him to re- 
 
250 CLARENCE. 
 
 port himself for duty at once. With a beat- 
 ing heart he hurried to the Secretary. But 
 that official had merely left a memorandum 
 with his assistant directing General Brant 
 to accompany some fresh levies to a camp 
 of "organization" near the front. Brant 
 felt a chill of disappointment. Duties of 
 this kind had been left to dubious regular 
 army veterans, hurriedly displaced general 
 officers, and favored detrimentals. But if 
 it was not restoration, it was no longer in- 
 action, and it was at least a release from 
 Washington. 
 
 It was also evidently the result of some 
 influence — but hardly that of the Boom- 
 pointers, for he knew that Susy wished 
 to keep him at the Capital. Was there an- 
 other power at work to send him away 
 from AVashington? His previous doubts re- 
 turned. Nor were they dissipated when the 
 chief of the bureau placed a letter before 
 him with the remark that it had been en- 
 trusted to him by a lady with the request 
 that it should be delivered only into his own 
 hands. 
 
 "She did not know your hotel address, 
 but ascertained you were to call here. She 
 said it was of some importance. There is 
 
CLARENCE. 251 
 
 no mystery about it, General," continued the 
 official with a mischievous glance at Brant's 
 handsome, jjerplexed face, "although it's 
 from a very pretty woman — whom we all 
 know." 
 
 "Mrs. Boompointer? " suggested Brant, 
 with affected lightness. 
 
 It was a maladroit speech. The official's 
 face darkened. 
 
 "We have not yet become a Postal De- 
 partment for the Boompointers, General," he 
 said dryly, "however great their influence 
 elsewhere. It was from rather a different 
 style of woman — Miss Faulkner. You will 
 receive your papers later at your hotel, and 
 leave to-night." 
 
 Brant's unlucky slip was stiU potent 
 enough to divert the official attention, or he 
 would have noticed the change in his visitor's 
 face, and the abruptness of his departure. 
 
 Once in the street. Brant tore off the en- 
 velope. But beneath it was another, on 
 which was written in a delicate, refined 
 hand: "Please do not open this until you 
 reach your destination." 
 
 Then she knew he was going! And per- 
 haps this was her influence? All his sus- 
 picions again returned. She knew he was 
 
252 CLARENCE. 
 
 going near the lines, and his very appoint- 
 ment, through her power, might be a plot to 
 serve her and the enemy ! Was this letter, 
 which she was entrusting to him, the cover of 
 some missive to her Southern friends which 
 she expected him to carry — perhaps as a re- 
 turn for her own act of self-sacrifice ? Was 
 this the appeal she had been making to his 
 chivalry, his gratitude, his honor? The per- 
 spiration stood in beads on his forehead. 
 What defect lay hidden in his nature that 
 seemed to make him an easy victim of these 
 intriguing women? He had not even the 
 excuse of gallantry; less susceptible to the 
 potencies of the sex than most men, he was 
 still compelled to bear that reputation. He 
 remembered his coldness to Miss Faulkner 
 in the first days of their meeting, and her 
 effect upon his subalterns. Why had she 
 selected him from among them — when she 
 could have modeled the others like wax to 
 her purposes? Why? And yet with the 
 question came a possible answer that he 
 hardly dared to think of — that in its very 
 vagueness seemed to fill him with a stimu- 
 lating thrill and hopefulness. He quickened 
 his pace. He would take the letter, and 
 yet be master of himself when the time came 
 to open it. 
 
CLARENCE. 
 
 253 
 
 That time came three days later, in his 
 tent at Three Pines Crossing. As he broke 
 open the envelope, he was relieved to find 
 that it contained no other iuclosure, and 
 seemed intended only for himself. It began 
 abruptly : — 
 
 "When you read this, you will under- 
 stand why I did not speak to you when we 
 met last night; why I even dreaded that 
 you might speak to me, knowing, as I did, 
 what I ought to tell you at that place and 
 moment — something you could only know 
 from me. I did not know you were in 
 Washington, although I knew you were re- 
 lieved; I had no way of seeing you or send- 
 ing to you before, and I only came to Mrs. 
 Boompointer's party in the hope of hearing 
 news of you. 
 
 " You know that my brother was captured 
 by your pickets in company with another 
 officer. He thinks you suspected the truth 
 — that he and his friend were hovering near 
 your lines to effect the escape of the spy. 
 But he says that, although they failed to 
 help her, she did escape, or was passed 
 through the lines by your connivance. He 
 says that you seemed to know her, that from 
 what Rose — the mulatto woman — told him, 
 
254 CLARENCE. 
 
 you and she were evidently old friends. I 
 would not speak of tliis, nor intrude upon 
 your private affairs, only that I think you 
 ought to know that / had no knowledge of it 
 when I was in your house, but believed her 
 to be a stranger to you. You gave me no in- 
 timation that you knew her, and I believed 
 that you were frank with me. But I should 
 not speak of this at all — for I believe that 
 it would have made no difference to me in 
 repairing the wrong that I thought I had 
 done you — only that, as I am forced by cir- 
 cumstances to tell you the terrible ending of 
 this story, you ought to know it all. 
 
 "My brother wrote to me that the even- 
 ing after you left, the burying party picked 
 up the body of what they believed to be a 
 mulatto woman lying on the slope. It was 
 not Rose, but the body of the very woman 
 — the real and only spy — whom you had 
 passed through the lines. She was accident- 
 ally killed by the Confederates in the first 
 attack upon you, at daybreak. But only 
 my brother and his friend recognized her 
 through- her blackened face and disguise, 
 and on the plea that she was a servant of 
 one of their friends, they got permission 
 from the division commander to take her 
 
CLARENCE. 255 
 
 away, and she was buried by her friends and 
 among her people in the little cemetery of 
 Three Pines Crossing, not far from where 
 you have gone. My brother thought that 
 I ought to tell you this: it seems that he 
 and his friend had a strange sympathy for 
 you in what they ajipear to know or guess of 
 your relations with that woman, and I think 
 he was touched by what he thought was your 
 kindness and chivalry to him on account of 
 , his sister. But I do not think he ever knew, 
 or will know, how great is the task that he 
 has imposed upon me. 
 
 "You know now, do you not, why I did 
 not speak to you when we first met; it 
 seemed so impossible to do it in an atmos- 
 phere and a festivity that was so incongru- 
 ous with the dreadful message I was charged 
 with. And when I had to meet you later 
 — perhaps I may have wronged you — but 
 it seemed to me that you were so preoccu- 
 pied and interested with other things that I 
 might perhaps only be wearying you with 
 something you cared little for, or perhaps 
 already knew and had quickly forgotten. 
 
 "I had been wanting to say something 
 else to you when I had got rid of my dread- 
 ful message. I do not know if you still care 
 
256 CLARENCE. 
 
 to hear it. But you were once generous 
 enough to think that I had done you a ser- 
 vice in bringing a letter to your commander. 
 Although I know better than anybody else 
 the genuine devotion to your duty that made 
 you accept my poor service, from all that I 
 can hear, you have never had the credit of 
 it. Will you not try me again? I am 
 more in favor here, and I might yet be more 
 successful in showing your superiors how 
 true you have been to your trust, even if. 
 you have little faith in your friend, Matilda 
 Faulkner." 
 
 For a long time he remained motionless, 
 with the letter in his hand. Then he arose, 
 ordered his horse, and galloped away. 
 
 There was little difficulty in finding the 
 cemetery of Three Pines Crossing — a hill- 
 side slope, hearsed with pine and cypress, 
 and starred with white crosses, that in the 
 distance looked like flowers. Still less was 
 there in finding the newer marble shaft 
 among the older lichen-spotted slabs, which 
 bore the simple words: "Alice Benham, 
 Martyr," A few Confederate soldiers, un- 
 der still plainer and newer wooden head- 
 stones, carved only with initials, lay at her 
 feet. Brant sank on his knees beside the 
 
CLARENCE. 257 
 
 grave, but he was shocked to see that the 
 base of the marble was stained with the red 
 pollen of the fateful lily, whose blossoms 
 had been heaped upon her mound, but 
 whose fallen petals lay dark and sodden in 
 decay. 
 
 How long he remained there he did not 
 know. And then a solitary bugle from the 
 camp seemed to summon him, as it had once 
 before summoned him, and he went away 
 
 — as he had gone before — to a separation 
 that he now knew was for all time. 
 
 Then followed a month of superintend- 
 ence and drill, and the infusing into the 
 little camp under his instruction the spirit 
 which seemed to be passing out of his own 
 life forever. Shut in by alien hills on the 
 borderland of the great struggle, from time 
 to time reports reached him of the bitter 
 fiofhtins:, and almost disastrous successes of 
 his old division commander. Orders came 
 from Washington to hurry the preparation 
 of his raw levies to the field, and a faint 
 hope sprang up in his mind. But follow- 
 ing it came another dispatch ordering his 
 return to the Capital. 
 
 He reached it with neither hope nor fear 
 
 — so benumbed had become his spirit under 
 
258 CLARENCE. 
 
 this last trial, and what seemed to be now 
 the mockery of this last sacrifice to his wife. 
 Though it was no longer a question of her 
 life and safety, he knew that he could still 
 preserve her memory from stain by keeping 
 her secret, even though its divulgings might 
 clear his own. For that reason, he had even 
 hesitated to inform Susy of her death, in the 
 fear that, in her thoughtless irresponsibility 
 and impulsiveness, she might be tempted 
 to use it in his favor. He had made his 
 late appointment a plea for her withholding 
 any present efforts to assist him. He even 
 avoided the Boompointers' house, in what he 
 believed was partly a duty to the memory 
 of his wife. But he saw no inconsistency 
 in occasionally extending his lonely walks 
 to the vicinity of a foreign Legation, or in 
 being lifted with a certain expectation at the 
 sight of its liveries on the Avenue. There 
 was a craving for sympathy in his heart, 
 which Miss Faulkner's letter had awakened. 
 Meantime, he had reported himself for 
 duty at the War Department — with little 
 hope, however, in that formality. But he 
 was surprised the next day when the chief 
 of the bureau informed him that his claim 
 was before the President. 
 
CLARENCE. 259 
 
 "I was not aware that I had presented 
 any claim," he said, a little haughtily. 
 
 The bureau chief looked up with some 
 surprise. This quiet, patient, reserved man 
 had puzzled him once or twice before. 
 
 "Perhaps I should say ' case,' General," 
 he said, drily. "But the personal interest 
 of the highest executive in the land strikes 
 me as being desirable in anything." 
 
 "I only mean that I have obeyed the or- 
 ders of the department in reporting myself 
 here, as I have done," said Brant, with less 
 feeling, but none the less firmness; "and 
 I should imagine it was not the duty of a 
 soldier to question them. Which I fancy a 
 ' claim ' or a ' case ' would imply." 
 
 He had no idea of taking this attitude be- 
 fore, but the disappointments of the past 
 month, added to this first official notice of 
 his disgrace, had brought forward that 
 dogged, reckless, yet half -scornful obstinacy 
 that was part of his nature. 
 
 The official smiled. 
 
 "I suppose, then, you are waiting to hear 
 from the President," he said drily. 
 
 "I am awaiting orders from the de- 
 partment," returned Brant quietly, "but 
 whether they originate in the President as 
 
260 CLARENCE. 
 
 commander-in-chief, or not — it is not for 
 me to intjuire." 
 
 Even when he reached his hotel this 
 half-savage indifference which had taken 
 the place of his former incertitude had not 
 changed. It seemed to him that he had 
 reached the crisis of his life where he was 
 no longer a free agent, and could wait, su- 
 perior alike to effort or expectation. And 
 it was with a merely dispassionate curiosity 
 that he found a note the next morning from 
 the President's private secretary, informing 
 him that the President would see him early 
 that day. 
 
 A few hours later he was ushered through 
 the public rooms of the White House to a 
 more secluded part of the household. The 
 messenger stopped before a modest door and 
 knocked. It was opened by a tall figure — 
 the President himself. He reached out a 
 long arm to Brant, who stood hesitatingly 
 on the threshold, grasped his hand, and led 
 him into the room. It had a single, large, 
 elaborately draped window and a handsome 
 medallioned carpet, which contrasted with 
 the otherwise almost appalling simplicity of 
 the furniture. A single plain angular desk, 
 with a blotting pad and a few sheets of large 
 
CLARENCE. 261 
 
 foolscap upon it, a waste-paper basket and 
 four plain armchairs, completed the interior 
 with a contrast as simple and homely as 
 its long - limbed, black - coated occupaut. 
 Releasing the hand of the general to shut a 
 door which opened into another apartment, 
 the President shoved an armchair towards 
 him and sank somewhat wearily into another 
 before the desk. But only for a moment; 
 the long shambling limbs did not seem to 
 adjust themselves easily to the chair; the 
 high narrow shoulders drooped to find a more 
 comfortable lounging attitude, shifted from 
 side to side, and the long legs moved dis- 
 persedly. Yet the face that was turned 
 towards Brant was humorous and tranquil. 
 
 "I was told I should have to send for you 
 if I wished to see you," he said smilingly. 
 
 Already mollified, and perhaps again fall- 
 ing under the previous influence of this sin- 
 gular man. Brant began somewhat hesitat- 
 ingly to explain. 
 
 But the President checked him gently, — 
 
 "You don't understand. It was some- 
 thing new to my experience here to find an 
 able-bodied American citizen with an honest 
 genuine grievance who had to have it drawn 
 from him like a decayed tooth. But you 
 
262 CLARENCE. 
 
 have been here before. I seem to remember 
 your face." 
 
 Brant's reserve had gone. He admitted 
 that he had twice sought an audience — 
 but — 
 
 " You dodged the dentist ! That was 
 wrong." As Brant made a slight movement 
 of deprecation the President continued: "I 
 understand ! Not from fear of giving pain 
 to yourself but to others. I don't know 
 that that is right, either. A certain 
 amount of pain must be suffered in this 
 world — even by one's enemies. Well, I 
 have looked into your case. General Brant." 
 He took up a piece of paper from his desk, 
 scrawled with two or three notes in pencil. 
 "I think this is the way it stands. You 
 were commanding a position at Gray Oaks 
 when information was received by the de- 
 partment that, either through neglect or 
 complicity, spies were passing through your 
 lines. There was no attempt to prove your 
 neglect; your orders, the facts of your per- 
 sonal care and precaution, were all before 
 the department. But it was also shown 
 that your wife, from whom you were only 
 temporarily separated, was a notorious se- 
 cessionist ; that, before the war, you yourself 
 
CLARENCE. 263 
 
 were suspected, and that, therefore, you 
 were quite capable of evading your own or- 
 ders, which you may have only given as a 
 blind. On this information you were re- 
 lieved by the department of your command. 
 Later on it was discovered that the spy was 
 none other than your own wife, disguised as 
 a mulatto; that, after her arrest by your 
 own soldiers, you connived at her escape — 
 and this was considered conclusive proof 
 of — well, let us say — your treachery." 
 
 " But I did not know it was my wife until 
 she was arrested," said Brant impulsvely. 
 
 The President knitted his eyebrows hu- 
 morously. 
 
 "Don't let us travel out of the record, 
 General. "You 're as bad as the depart- 
 ment. The question was one of your per- 
 sonal treachery, but you need not accept 
 the fact that you were justly removed be- 
 cause your wife was a spy. Now, General, 
 I am an old lawyer, and I don't mind tell- 
 ing you that in Illinois we would n't hang a 
 yellow dog on that evidence before the de- 
 partment. But when I was asked to look 
 into the matter by your friends, I discovered 
 something of more importance to you. I 
 had been trying to find a scrap of evidence 
 
264 CLARENCE. 
 
 that would justify the presumption that you 
 had sent information to the enemy. I found 
 that it was based upon the fact of the enemy 
 being in possession of knowledge at the first 
 battle at Gray Oaks, which could only have 
 been obtained from our side, and which led 
 to a Federal disaster; that you, however, 
 retrieved by your gallantry. I then asked 
 the secretary if he was prepared to show 
 that you had sent the information with that 
 view, or that you had been overtaken by a 
 tardy sense of repentance. He preferred to 
 consider my suggestion as humorous. But 
 the inquiry led to my further discovery that 
 the only treasonable correspondence actually 
 in evidence was found upon the body of a 
 trusted Federal officer, and had been for- 
 warded to the division commander. But 
 there was no record of it in the case." 
 
 "Why, I forwarded it myself," said Brant 
 eagerly. 
 
 "So the division commander writes," said 
 the President, smiling, "and he forwarded 
 it to the department. But it was suppressed 
 in some way. Have you any enemies. Gen- 
 eral Brant?" 
 
 "Not that I know of." 
 
 " Then you probably have. You are 
 
CLARENCE. 265 
 
 young and successful. Think of the hun- 
 dred other officers who naturally believe 
 themselves better than you are, and haven't 
 a traitorous wife. Still, the department may 
 have made an example of you for the benefit 
 of the only man who couldn't profit by it." 
 
 "Might it not have been, sir, that this 
 suppression was for the good report of the 
 service — as the chief offender was dead? " 
 
 "I am glad to hear you say so, General, 
 for it is the argument I have used success- 
 fully in behalf of your wife." 
 
 "Then you know it all, sir?" said Brant 
 after a gloomy pause. 
 
 " All, I think. Come, General, you 
 seemed just now to be uncertain about your 
 enemies. Let me assure you, you need not 
 be so in regard to your friends. 
 
 "I dare to hope I have found one, sir," 
 said Brant with almost boyish timidity. 
 
 "Oh, not me!" said the President, with 
 a laugh of deprecation. " Some one much 
 more potent." 
 
 "May I know his name, Mr. President?" 
 
 "No, for it is a woman. You were nearly 
 ruined by one. General. I suppose it 's quite 
 right that you should be saved by one. 
 And, of course, irregularly." 
 
266 CLARENCE. 
 
 "A woman! " echoed Brant. 
 
 "Yes; one who was willing to confess 
 herself a worse spy than your wife — a 
 double traitor — to save you ! Upon my 
 word, General, I don't know if the depart- 
 ment was far wrong; a man with such an 
 alternately unsettling and convincing effect 
 upon a woman's highest political convictions 
 should be under some restraint. Luckily 
 the department knows nothing of it." 
 
 " Nor would any one else have known from 
 me," said Brant eagerly. I trust that she 
 did not think — that you, sir, did not for an 
 instant believe that I " — 
 
 " Oh dear, no ! Nobody would have be- 
 lieved you! It was her free confidence to 
 me. That was what made the affair so diffi- 
 cult to handle. For even her bringing your 
 dispatch to the division commander looked 
 bad for you ; and you know he even doubted 
 its authenticity." 
 
 "Does she — does Miss Faulkner know 
 the spy was my wife? " hesitated Brant. 
 
 The President twisted himself in his chair, 
 so as to regard Brant more gravely with his 
 deep-set eyes, and then thoughtfully rubbed 
 his leg. 
 
 "Don't let VIS travel out of the record, 
 
CLARENCE. 267 
 
 General, he said after a pause. But as 
 the color surged into Brant's cheek he raised 
 his eyes to the ceiling, and said, in half -hu- 
 morous recollection — 
 
 "No, I think that fact was first gathered 
 from your other friend — Mr. Hooker." 
 
 " Hooker ! " said Brant, indignantly ; " did 
 he come here? " 
 
 "Pray don't destroy my faith in Mr. 
 Hooker, General," said the President, in 
 half - weary, half - humorous deprecation. 
 "Don't tell me that any of his inventions 
 are true ! Leave me at least that magnifi- 
 cent liar — the one perfectly intelligible wit- 
 ness you have. For from the time that he 
 first appeared here with a grievance and a 
 claim for a commission, he has been an un- 
 speakable joy to me 'and a convincing testi- 
 mony to you. Other witnesses have been 
 partisans and prejudiced ; Mr. Hooker was 
 frankly true to himself. How else should 
 I have known of the care you took to dis- 
 guise yourself, save the honor of your uni- 
 form, and run the risk of being shot as an 
 unknown spy at your wife's side, except 
 from his magnificent version of Ms part in 
 it? How else shovild I have known the 
 story of your discovery of the Californian 
 
268 CLARENCE. 
 
 consj)iracy, except from his supreme por- 
 trayal of it, with himself as the hero? No, 
 you must not forget to thank Mr. Hooker 
 when you meet him. Miss Faulkner is at 
 present more accessible; she is calling on 
 some members of my family in the next 
 room. Shall I leave you with her ? " 
 
 Brant rose with a pale face and a quickly 
 throbbing heart as the President, glancing 
 at the clock, untwisted himself from the 
 chair, and shook himself out full length, 
 and rose gradually to his feet. 
 
 "Your wish for active service is granted. 
 General Brant," he said slowly, "and you 
 will at once rejoin your old division com- 
 mander, who is now at the head of the 'I'enth 
 Army Corps. But," he said, after a delib- 
 erate pause, "there are certain rules and 
 regulations of your service that even / can- 
 not, with decent respect to your depart- 
 ment, override. You will, therefore, under- 
 stand that you cannot rejoin the army in 
 your former position." 
 
 The slight flush that came to Brant's 
 cheek quickly passed. And there was only 
 the unmistakable sparkle of renewed youth 
 in his frank eyes as he said — 
 
 "Let me go to the front again, Mr. Presi- 
 dent, and I care not Ao^«." 
 
CLARENCE. 269 
 
 The President smiled, and, laying his 
 heavy hand on Brant's shoulder, pushed 
 him gently towards the door of the inner 
 room. 
 
 "I was only about to say," he added, 
 as he opened the door, "that it would be 
 necessary for you to rejoin your promoted 
 commander as a major-general. And," 
 he continued, lifting his voice, as he gently 
 pushed his guest into the room, "he has n't 
 even thanked me for it, Miss Faulkner! " 
 
 The door closed behind him, and he stood 
 for a moment dazed, and still hearing the 
 distant voice of the President, in the room 
 he had just quitted, now welcoming a new 
 visitor. But the room before him, opening 
 into a conservatory, was empty, save for a 
 single figure that turned, half timidly, half 
 mischievously, towards him. The same 
 quick, sympathetic glance was in both their 
 faces; the same timid, happy look in both 
 their eyes. He moved quickly to her side. 
 
 "Then you knew that — that — woman 
 was my wife?" he said, hurriedly, as he 
 grasped her hand. 
 
 She cast a half -appealing look at his face 
 — a half-friohtened one around the room 
 and at the open door beyond. 
 
270 CLARENCE. 
 
 "Let us," she said faintly, "go into the 
 conservatory. 
 
 It is but a few years ago that the vera- 
 cious chronicler of these pages moved with 
 a wondering crowd of sightseers in the gar- 
 dens of the White House. The war cloud 
 had long since lifted and vanished; the 
 Potomac flowed peacefully by and on to 
 where once lay the broad plantation of a 
 great Confederate leader — now a national 
 cemetery that had gathered the soldier dead 
 of both sections side by side in equal rest 
 and honor — and the great goddess once 
 more looked down serenely from the dome 
 of the white Capitol. The chronicler's at- 
 tention was attracted by an erect, hand- 
 some soldierly-looking man, with a beard 
 and moustache slightly streaked with gray, 
 pointing out the various objects of interest 
 to a boy of twelve or fourteen at his side. 
 
 " Yes ; although, as I told you, this house 
 belongs only to the President of the United 
 States and his family," said the gentleman, 
 smilingly, "in that little conservatory I pro- 
 posed to your mother." 
 
 "Oh! Clarence, how can you! " said the 
 lady, reprovingly, "you know it was long 
 after that!" 
 
RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 Wilmer 
 545