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 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 outline, he was not perhaps sorry that the exquisite 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, though I didn't tell him--I don't tell Jim EVERYTHING."
Here Jim rose, and looking at his watch, "guessed he'd run over to the Lick House and get some cigars." If he was acting upon some hint from his wife, his simulation was so badly done that Clarence felt his first sense of uneasiness. But as Hooker closed the door awkwardly and unostentatiously behind him, Clarence smilingly said he had waited to hear the message from her own lips.
"Jim only knows what he's heard outside: 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 Robles 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, 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 mention of the Robles Ranche, 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 hastily 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 doesn't blame you?" asked Susy sneeringly.
The color came slightly to Clarence's cheek, but before he could reply the actress added,--"No, she prefers to use you!"
"I don't think I understand you," said Clarence, rising coldly.
"No, you don't understand HER!" retorted Susy sharply. "Look here, Clarence 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 everybody suspects--that she turns you round her little finger. But I did ask you here to tell you what nobody, not even you, suspects--but what I 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 Robles Ranche and shut up in Fort Alcatraz this very night!"
Still with the pink glowing in her rounding cheek, and eyes snapping 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 willful childhood, although still blended with the provincial actress whom he had seen on the stage only an hour ago. Thoroughly alarmed at her threat, in his efforts to conceal his feelings he was not above a weak retaliation. Stepping back, he affected to regard her with a critical admiration that was only half simulated, and said with a smile,--"Very well done--but you have forgotten the flag."
She did not flinch. Rather accepting the sarca** 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 officers have been warned; General Sumner has been sent out here-- and his first act was to 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 WHERE and HOW 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 information came from your husband--my old friend, Jim Hooker?"
