The Washington times., 1894-12-09

they knew nothing of his later interview with
Pinckney, he TUNED away and ascended to
his own room.
He then threw himself into an armchair by
the dim light of single candle, as if to re-
fleet But he was conscious even then OF his
own calmness and want OF excitement and
that no reflection was necessary.
What he had done and what he intended to
do was quite clear; there was no alternative
suggested or to be even sought after. He had
that sense of relief which comes with the eli
max of all great struggles-eyen OF defeat.
He had never known before how hopeless
and continuous had been that struggle until
now it was over. He had no fear for to-mof-
row; he would meet it as he had to-day. with
the same singular consciousness OF being
equal to the occasion. There was even no
necessity ofpreparation for it; his will leav
ing his fortune to his wife-which seemed
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 Sc
renity by some memento of their past. There
was no disorder of flight-eyerything was in
its place except the drawer of 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 Capt. Pinckney's handwrit-
ing. 1t did not occur to him to look at them
even to justify himself-or excuse her. He
knew that his hatred of Capt Pinckney was
not so much that he believed him her lover
as his sudden convection that theywere alike.
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 ac-
count OF her but OF his own weakness that
hn1 Il hFr,al lar nd lnrc nd
man to his friends. He had been derelict of
duty in his unselfsh devotion TO her; he had
stiaed his ambition and underrated his own
possiblities--no wonder that others had ac-
cepted him at his own valuation. Clarence
Brant was 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 re-entered his own room and again
threw himself in his chair. His calm was be-
ing succeeded by physical weariness; he re-
membered he had not slept the night before
and he ought 10 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 suspicious would
be aroused He would try to sleep for little
while in the chair before he went down
stairs again. He closed his eyes, oddly
enough, on a dim, dreamy recollection of
SusY, of the old days in the little Madrono
hollow, where she had once given him rem
devious. He forgot the maturer and critical
uneasiness with which he had then received
her coquettish and willful advances, which
he now knew was the effect of the growing
dominance of Mrs. PeytOn over him The
faintness he had felt when awaiting in the old
rose garden few hours ago seemed to steal
on him once more. and to lapse into deli
cious drowsiness. He even seemed again to
inhale the perfume of the roses.
''Clarencei'
He started. He had been sleeping-but the
voice sounded strangely real.
A little girlish laugh followed. He sprang
to his feet. 1t was Susy. standing beside
him-and Susy even as she looked in the old
daysi
For with a flash of her old audacitv. aided
by her perfect 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 il on. and un-
loosening her brown hair, had let it fall in
ripping waves down her back. 1t 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 old Clarence. she said. with dane
ing eyes. II might have won dozen pairs of
gloves from you while you slept there. But
No matter-you We shown yourself a man at
lastl-and I'm proud OF you
Half ashamed OF the pleasure he felt, even
in his embarrassment, Clarence stammered:
But this change-this dresss"
Susy capped her hands like q child.
knew 1t would surprise you. It's an OLD
frock / wore the year l went away with
aunty. l knew where it was hidden, and
fished ii out again with these keys. Clar-
ence--it seemed so like old times. When 1
was with the old servants again-and you
didn't come down. just felt as If / d never
been away, and l just rampaged freel 1t
seemed to me, don't you know, not as if / d
just come-but as if I'd always been right
here-and it was you who'd just comel Don't
you understand! Just as you came when
me and Mary Rogers were here-dont you
remember her, Clarence. and how she used
to do 'gooseberry for us.-well-just like
that. So / said to JIM don't know you
any more-getI and l just slipped on this
frock and ordered Mannela around, as |
used to do-and she in titstof laughter
/ reckon. Clarence, she hasn't laughed as
much since / left. And then l thought
of you-perhaps worried and nus-
change and l just slipped into
the kitchen, and told old fat Conchita to
make some of these tortillas, you know-wlth
sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on top-and
tied on an apron and brought 'em upto you
on a tray with a glass of that old Catalan
wine that you used TO like. Then | sorter felt
frightened when | got here, and L didn't hear
any noise and put the tray down in the hall
and peeped in and found you asleep. Sit
still, I'll fetch EN-"
She tripped out into the passage. returning
with the tray, which she put on the table be-
side Clarence, and then, standing back lit
tie and with her hands tucked soubrette fash
ion in the tiny pockets of her apron, gazed at
him with mischievous smile.
1t 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
lit seems 80 nice TO be here-just you and
me. Clarence-like in the old days-with no.
body naggin' and snoopin' round after you.
Don't be greedy, Clarence, but give me a
cake" She took one and finished the dregs
of his glass
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.
1oSi ~ dlL Tldiuos Iull lliJ dlLeE your
wife's buggy You see, Clarence, after the
| old cat-that's your wife, please-left, /
wanted to make sure she had gone, and
wasn't hangin' round to lead you off again
with your leg tied to her apron string, like a
chickens! No! 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
/ /
look after you to see you didn't bolt, too. -
She laughed and then added .'But didn't
think l should fall into the old ways so soon,
and have such nice time; did you. Clarence?''