Ailsa Paige | Page 6

a lower tier box, talking to a Mrs. Paige who,
curiously, miraculously, resembled the girlish portraits of his
mother--or he imagined so--until he noticed that her hair was yellow
and her eyes blue. And he laughed crazily to himself, inwardly
convulsed; and then his own voice sounded again, low, humorous,
caressingly modulated; and he listened to it, amused that he was able to
speak at all.
"And so you are the wonderful Ailsa Paige," he heard himself repeating.
"Camilla wrote me that I must beware of my peace of mind the moment
I first set eyes on you----"
"Camilla Lent is supremely silly, Mr. Berkley----"
"Camilla is a sibyl. This night my peace of mind departed for ever."
"May I offer you a little of mine?"
"I may ask more than that of you?"
"You mean a dance?"
"More than one."
"How many?"
"All of them. How many will you give me?"
"One. Please look at the stage. Isn't Laura Keene bewitching?"
"Your voice is."
"Such nonsense. Besides, I'd rather hear what Laura Keene is saying
than listen to you."

"Do you mean it?"
"Incredible as it may sound, Mr. Berkley, I really do."
He dropped back in the box. Camilla laid her painted fan across his
arm.
"Isn't Ailsa Paige the most enchanting creature you ever saw? I told
you so! _Isn't_ she?"
"Except one. I was looking at some pictures of her a half an hour ago."
"She must be very beautiful," sighed Camilla.
"She was."
"Oh. . . . Is she dead?"
"Murdered."
Camilla looked at the stage in horrified silence. Later she touched him
again on the arm, timidly.
"Are you not well, Mr. Berkley?"
"Perfectly. Why?"
"You are so pale. Do look at Ailsa Paige. I am completely enamoured
of her. Did you ever see such a lovely creature in all your life? And she
is very young but very wise. She knows useful and charitable
things--like nursing the sick, and dressing injuries, and her own hats.
And she actually served a whole year in the horrible city hospital!
Wasn't it brave of her!"
Berkley swayed forward to look at Ailsa Paige. He began to be
tormented again by the feverish idea that she resembled the girl pictures
of his mother. Nor could he rid himself of the fantastic impression. In
the growing unreality of it all, in the distorted outlines of a world gone
topsy-turvy, amid the deadly blurr of things material and mental, Ailsa

Paige's face alone remained strangely clear. And, scarcely knowing
what he was saying, he leaned forward to her shoulder again.
"There was only one other like you," he said. Mrs. Paige turned slowly
and looked at him, but the quiet rebuke in her eyes remained unuttered.
"Be more genuine with me," she said gently. "I am worth it, Mr.
Berkley."
Then, suddenly there seemed to run a pale flash through his brain,
"Yes," he said in an altered voice, "you are worth it. . . . Don't drive me
away from you just yet."
"Drive you away?" in soft concern. "I did not mean----"
"You will, some day. But don't do it to-night." Then the quick, feverish
smile broke out.
"Do you need a servant? I'm out of a place. I can either cook, clean
silver, open the door, wash sidewalks, or wait on the table; so you see I
have every qualification."
Smilingly perplexed, she let her eyes rest on his pallid face for a
moment, then turned toward the stage again.
The "Seven Sisters" pursued its spectacular course; Ione Burke, Polly
Marshall, and Mrs. Vining were in the cast; tableau succeeded tableau;
"I wish I were in Dixie," was sung, and the popular burlesque ended in
the celebrated scene, "The Birth of the Butterfly in the Bower of
Ferns," with the entire company kissing their finger-tips to a vociferous
and satiated audience.
Then it was supper at Delmonico's, and a dance--and at last the waltz
promised him by Ailsa Paige.
Through the fixed unreality of things he saw her clearly, standing,
awaiting him, saw her sensitive face as she quietly laid her hand on
his--saw it suddenly alter as the light contact startled both.

Flushed, she looked up at him like a hurt child, conscious yet only of
the surprise.
Dazed, he stared back. Neither spoke; his arm encircled her; both
seemed aware of that; then only of the swaying rhythm of the dance,
and of joined hands, and her waist imprisoned. Only the fragrance of
her hair seemed real to him; and the long lashes resting on curved
cheeks, and the youth of her yielding to his embrace.
Neither spoke when it had ended. She turned aside and stood
motionless a moment, resting against the stair rail as though to steady
herself. Her small head was lowered.
He managed