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 gravity.

“I have something to attend to,” said Clarence, with a faint smile, “and I must ask you and Susy to excuse me for a little 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 Pinckney, he turned away and ascended to his own room.

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 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 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 tomorrow, 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 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 bedroom partly in the hope of disturbing his serenity by some memento of their past.  There was no disorder of flight—­everything 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 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 conviction 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 possibilities.  No wonder that others had accepted him at his own valuation.  Clarence Brant was a modest man, but the egotism of modesty is more fatal than that of pretension, for it has the haunting consciousness of superior virtue.