Ailsa Paige | Page 5

long about it that Berkley stirred at last in his chair; and at the
same moment the older man seemed to arrive at an abrupt decision, for
he closed the lid and laid two packages on the cloth between them.
"Are these mine?" asked Berkley.
"They are mine," corrected the other quietly, "but I choose to yield
them to you."

"Thank you," said Berkley. There was a hint of ferocity in his voice. He
took the letters, turned around to look for his hat, found it, and
straightened up with a long, deep intake of breath.
"I think there is nothing more to be said between us, Colonel Arran?"
"That lies with you."
Berkley passed a steady hand across his eyes. "Then, sir, there remain
the ceremonies of my leave taking--" he stepped closer,
level-eyed--"and my very bitter hatred."
There was a pause. Colonel Arran waited a moment, then struck the
bell:
"Larraway, Mr. Berkley has decided to go."
"Yes, sir."
"You will accompany Mr. Berkley to the door."
"Yes, sir."
"And hand to Mr. Berkley the outer key of this house."
"Yes, sir."
"And in case Mr. Berkley ever again desires to enter this house, he is to
be admitted, and his orders are to be obeyed by every servant in it."
"Yes, sir."
Colonel Arran rose trembling. He and Berkley looked at each other;
then both bowed; and the butler ushered out the younger man.
"Pardon--the latch-key, sir."
Berkley took it, examined it, handed it back.

"Return it to Colonel Arran with Mr. Berkley's undying--compliments,"
he said, and went blindly out into the April night, but his senses were
swimming as though he were drunk.
Behind him the door of the house of Arran clanged.
Larraway stood stealthily peering through the side-lights; then tiptoed
toward the hallway and entered the dining-room with velvet tread.
"Port or brandy, sir?" he whispered at Colonel Arran's elbow.
The Colonel shook his head.
"Nothing more. Take that box to my study."
Later, seated at his study table before the open box, he heard Larraway
knock; and he quietly laid away the miniature of Berkley's mother
which had been lying in his steady palm for hours.
"Well?"
"Pardon. Mr. Berkley's key, with Mr. Berkley's compliments, sir." And
he laid it upon the table by the box.
"Thank you. That will be all."
"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."
"Good night."
The Colonel picked up the evening paper and opened it mechanically:
"By telegraph!" he read, "War inevitable. Postscript! Fort Sumter! It is
now certain that the Government has decided to reinforce Major
Andersen's command at all hazards----"
The lines in the Evening Post blurred under his eyes; he passed one
broad, bony hand across them, straightened his shoulders, and, setting
the unlighted cigar firmly between his teeth, composed himself to read.

But after a few minutes he had read enough. He dropped deeper into his
arm-chair, groping for the miniature of Berkley's mother.
As for Berkley, he was at last alone with his letters and his keepsakes,
in the lodgings which he inhabited--and now would inhabit no more.
The letters lay still unopened before him on his writing table; he stood
looking at the miniatures and photographs, all portraits of his mother,
from girlhood onward.
One by one he took them up, examined them--touched them to his lips,
laid each away. The letters he also laid away unopened; he could not
bear to read them now.
The French clock in his bedroom struck eight. He closed and locked his
desk, stood looking at it blankly for a moment; then he squared his
shoulders. An envelope lay open on the desk beside him.
"Oh--yes," he said aloud, but scarcely heard his own voice.
The envelope enclosed an invitation from one, Camilla Lent, to a
theatre party for that evening, and a dance afterward.
He had a vague idea that he had accepted.
The play was "The Seven Sisters" at Laura, Keene's Theatre. The dance
was somewhere--probably at Delmonico's. If he were going, it was time
he was afoot.
His eyes wandered from one familiar object to another; he moved
restlessly, and began to roam through the richly furnished rooms. But
to Berkley nothing in the world seemed familiar any longer; and the
strangeness of it, and the solitude were stupefying him.
When he became tired trying to think, he made the tour again in a
stupid sort of way, then rang for his servant, Burgess, and started
mechanically about his dressing.
Nothing any longer seemed real, not even pain.

He rang for Burgess again, but the fellow did not appear. So he dressed
without aid. And at last he was ready; and went out, drunk with fatigue
and the reaction from pain.
He did not afterward remember how he came to the theatre. Presently
he found himself in