Ailsa Paige | Page 3

your conscience and your cruelty and your attorneys did to her twenty-four years ago, you have done this day to me! As surely as you outlawed her, so have you outlawed me to-day. That is what I now am, an outlaw!"
"It was insulted civilisation that punished, not I, Berkley----"
"It was you! You took your shrinking pound of flesh. I know your sort. Hell is full of them singing psalms!"
Colonel Arran sat silently stern a moment. Then the congested muscles, habituated to control, relaxed again. He said, under perfect self-command:
"You'd better know the truth. It is too late now to discuss whose fault it was that the trouble arose between your mother and me. We lived together only a few weeks. She was in love with her cousin; she didn't realise it until she'd married me. I have nothing more to say on that score; she tried to be faithful, I believe she was; but he was a scoundrel. And she ended by thinking me one.
"Even before I married her I was made painfully aware that our dispositions and temperaments were not entirely compatible. I think," he added grimly, "that in the letters read to you this afternoon she used the expression, 'ice and fire,' in referring to herself and me."
Berkley only looked at him.
"There is now nothing to be gained in reviewing that unhappy affair," continued the other. "Your mother's family are headlong, impulsive, fiery, unstable, emotional. There was a last shameful and degrading scene. I offered her a separation; but she was unwisely persuaded to sue for divorce."
Colonel Arran bent his head and touched his long gray moustache with bony fingers.
"The proceeding was farcical; the decree a fraud. I warned her; but she snapped her fingers at me and married her cousin the next day. . . . And then I did my duty by civilisation."
Still Berkley never stirred. The older man looked down at the wine-soiled cloth, traced the outline of the crimson stain with unsteady finger. Then, lifting his head:
"I had that infamous decree set aside," he said grimly. "It was a matter of duty and of conscience, and I did it without remorse. . . . They were on what they supposed to be a wedding trip. But I had warned her." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "If they were not over-particular they were probably happy. Then he broke his neck hunting--before you were born."
"Was he my father?"
"I am taking the chance that he was not."
"You had reason to believe----"
"I thought so. But--your mother remained silent. And her answer to my letters was to have you christened under the name you bear to-day, Philip Ormond Berkley. And then, to force matters, I made her status clear to her. Maybe--I don't know--but my punishment of her may have driven her to a hatred of me--a desperation that accepted everything--even you!"
Berkley lifted a countenance from which every vestige of colour had fled.
"Why did you tell me this?"
"Because I believe that there is every chance--that you may be legally entitled to my name. Since I have known who you are, I--I have had you watched. I have hesitated--a long while. My brokers have watched you for a year, now; my attorneys for much longer. To-day you stand in need of me, if ever you have stood in need of anybody. I take the chance that you have that claim on me; I offer to receive you, provide for you. That is all, Berkley. Now you know everything."
"Who else--knows?"
"Knows what?"
"Knows what you did to my mother?"
"Some people among the families immediately concerned," replied Colonel Arran coolly.
"Who are they?"
"Your mother's relatives, the Paiges, the Berkleys--my family, the Arrans, the Lents----"
"What Lents?" interrupted the young man looking up sharply.
"They live in Brooklyn. There's a brother and a sister, orphans; and an uncle. Captain Josiah Lent."
"Oh. . . . Who else?"
"A Mrs. Craig who lives in Brooklyn. She was Celia Paige, your mother's maid of honour."
"Who else?"
"A sister-in-law of Mrs. Craig, formerly my ward. She is now a widow, 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