Ailsa Paige | Page 4

a Mrs. Paige, living on London Terrace. She, however, has no
knowledge of the matter in question; nor have the Lents, nor any one in
the Craig family except Mrs. Craig."
"Who else?"
"Nobody."
"I see. . . . And, as I understand it, you are now stepping forward to
offer me--on the chance of--of----"
"I offer you a place in this house as my son. I offer to deal with you as
a father--accepting that belief and every responsibility, and every duty,
and every sacrifice that such a belief entails,"
For a long time the young fellow stood there without stirring, pallid, his
dark, expressionless eyes, fixed on space. And after a while he spoke.
"Colonel Arran, I had rather than all the happiness on earth, that you
had left me the memory of my mother. You have chosen not to do so.
And now, do you think I am likely to exchange what she and I really
are, for anything more respectable that you believe you can offer?
"How, under God, you could have punished her as you did--how you
could have reconciled your conscience to the invocation of a brutal law
which rehabilitated you at the expense of the woman who had been
your wife--how you could have done this in the name of duty and of
conscience, I can not comprehend.
"I do not believe that one drop of your blood runs in my veins."
He bent forward, laying his hands flat on the cloth, then gripping it
fiercely in clenched fists:
"All I want of you is what was my mother's. I bear the name she gave
me; it pleased her to bestow it; it is good enough for me to wear. If it be
hers only, or if it was also my father's, I do not know; but that name,

legitimate or otherwise, is not for exchange! I will keep it, Colonel
Arran. I am what I am."
He hesitated, rigid, clenching and unclenching his hands--then drew a
deep, agonised breath:
"I suppose you have meant to be just to me, I wish you might have
dealt more mercifully with my mother. As for what you have done to
me--well--if she was illegally my mother, I had rather be her
illegitimate son than the son of any woman who ever lived within the
law. Now may I have her letters?"
"Is that your decision, Berkley?"
"It is. I want only her letters from you--and any little
keepsakes--relics--if there be any----"
"I offer to recognise you as my son."
"I decline--believing that you mean to be just--and perhaps kind--God
knows what you do mean by disinterring the dead for a son to look
back upon----"
"Could I have offered you what I offer, otherwise?"
"Man! Man! You have nothing to offer me! Your silence was the only
kindness you could have done me! You have killed something in me. I
don't know what, yet--but I think it was the best part of me."
"Berkley, do you suppose that I have entered upon this matter lightly?"
Berkley laughed, showing his teeth. "No. It was your damned
conscience; and I suppose you couldn't strangle it. I am sorry you
couldn't. Sometimes a strangled conscience makes men kinder."
Colonel Arran rang. A dark flush had overspread his forehead; he
turned to the butler.
"Bring me the despatch box which stands on: my study table."

Berkley, hands behind his back, was pacing the dining-room carpet.
"Would you accept a glass of wine?" asked Colonel Arran in a low
voice.
Berkley wheeled on him with a terrible smile.
"Shall a man drink wine with the slayer of souls?" Then, pallid face
horribly distorted, he stretched out a shaking arm. "Not that you ever
could succeed in getting near enough to murder hers! But you've killed
mine. I know now what died in me. It was that! . . . And I know now, as
I stand here excommunicated by you from all who have been born
within the law, that there is not left alive in me one ideal, one noble
impulse, one spiritual conviction. I am what your righteousness has
made me--a man without hope; a man with nothing alive in him except
the physical brute. . . . Better not arouse that."
"You do not know what you are saying, Berkley"--Colonel Arran
choked; turned gray; then a spasm twitched his features and he grasped
the arms of his chair, staring at Berkley with burning eyes.
Neither spoke again until Larraway entered, carrying an inlaid box.
"Thank you, Larraway. You need not wait."
"Thank you, sir."
When they were again alone Colonel Arran unlocked and opened the
box, and, behind the raised lid, remained invisibly busy for some little
time, apparently sorting and re-sorting the hidden contents. He was so
very