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 contemporaneous 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 anything 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 humorist 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 Puritanic morality or of Epicurean ethics.  Brant had even solicited an audience, but had retired awkwardly, and with his confidence unspoken, before the dark, humorous eyes, that seemed almost too tolerant of his grievance.  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 fanatics, 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 humorous illustration, which the young brigadier 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 retired.  As they left the gallery he lingered in the ante-room for the President to appear.  But, as he did not come, afraid of losing his chances, he returned to the gallery.  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 prescience 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 unbending; he was about to add his petty burden to the shoulders of this Western Atlas.  He drew back silently, and descended the stairs.