Ailsa Paige: A Novel

  CHAPTER IX

  And now at last she knew what it was she feared. For she wasbeginning to understand that this man was utterly unworthy, utterlyinsensible, without character, without one sympathetic trait thatappealed to anything in her except her senses.

  She understood it now, lying there alone in her room, knowing it tobe true, admitting it in all the bitter humiliation ofself-contempt. But even in the light of this new self-knowledgeher inclination for him seemed a thing so unreasonable, soterrible, that, confused and terrified by the fear of spiritualdemoralisation, she believed that this bewildering passion was allthat he had ever evoked in her, and fell sick in mind and body forthe shame of it.

  A living fever was on her night and day; disordered memories of himhaunted her, waking; defied her, sleeping; and her hatred for whathe had awakened in her grew as her blind, childish longing to seehim grew, leaving no peace for her.

  What kind of love was that?--founded on nothing, nurtured onnothing, thriving on nothing except what her senses beheld in him.Nothing higher, nothing purer, nothing more exalted had she everlearned of him than what her eyes saw; and they had seen only a manin his ripe youth, without purpose, without ideals, takingcarelessly of the world what he would one day return to it--thematerial, born in corruption, and to corruption doomed.

  It was night she feared most. By day there were duties awaiting,or to be invented. Also, sometimes, standing on her steps, shecould hear the distant sound of drums, catch a glimpse far to theeastward of some regiment bound South, the long rippling line ofbayonets, a flutter of colour where the North was passing on God'sown errand. And love of country became a passion.

  Stephen came sometimes, but his news of Berkley was alwaysindefinite, usually expressed with a shrug and emphasised insilences.

  Colonel Arran was still in Washington, but he wrote her every day,and always he asked whether Berkley had come. She never told him.

  Like thousands and thousands of other women in New York she didwhat she could for the soldiers, contributing from her purse,attending meetings, making havelocks, ten by eight, for thesoldiers' caps, rolling bandages, scraping lint in company withother girls of her acquaintance, visiting barracks and camps and"soldiers' rests," sending endless batches of pies and cakes anddozens of jars of preserves from her kitchen to the variousdistributing depots.

  Sainte Ursula's Church sent out a call to its parishioners; anotice was printed in all the papers requesting any women of thecongregation who had a knowledge of nursing to meet at the rectoryfor the purpose of organisation. And Ailsa went and enrolledherself as one who had had some hospital experience.

  Sickness among the thousands of troops in the city there alreadywas, also a few cases of gunshots in the accident wards incident onthe carelessness or ignorance of raw volunteers. But as yet in theEast there had been no soldier wounded in battle, no violent deathexcept that of the young colonel of the 1st Fire Zouaves, shot downat Alexandria.

  So there was no regular hospital duty asked of Ailsa Paige, nonerequired; and she and a few other women attended a class ofinstruction conducted by her own physician, Dr. Benton, whoexplained the simpler necessities of emergency cases and coollypredicted that there would be plenty of need for every properlyinstructed woman who cared to volunteer.

  So the ladies of Sainte Ursula's listened very seriously; and somehad enough of it very soon, and some remained longer, and finallyonly a small residue was left--quiet, silent, attentive women ofvarious ages who came every day to hear what Dr. Benton had to tellthem, and write it down in their little morocco notebooks. Andthese, after a while, became the Protestant sisterhood of SainteUrsula, and wore, on duty, the garb of gray with the pectoralscarlet heart.

  May went out with the booming of shotted guns beyond the, Southernhorizon, amid rumours of dead zouaves and cavalrymen somewherebeyond Alexandria. And on that day the 7th Regiment returned togarrison the city, and the anxious city cheered its return, andpeople slept more soundly for it, though all day long the streetsechoed with the music of troops departing, and of regimentsparading for a last inspection before the last good-byes were said.

  Berkley saw some of this from his window. Never perfectly sobernow, he seldom left his rooms except at night; and all day long heread, or brooded, or lay listless, or as near drunk as he evercould be, indifferent, neither patient nor impatient with a life heno longer cared enough about to either use or take.

  There were intervals when the deep despair within him awokequivering; instants of fierce grief instantly controlled,throttled; moments of listless relaxation when some particularlycontemptible trait in Burgess faintly amused him, or some attemptedinvasion of his miserable seclusion provoked a sneer or a haggardsmile, or perhaps an uneasiness less ignoble, as when, possibly,the brief series of letters began and ended between him and thedancing girl of the Canterbury.

  "DEAR MR. BERKLEY: "Could you come for me after the theatre this evening? "LETITIA LYNDEN."

  "DEAR LETTY: "I'm afraid I couldn't. "Very truly yours, "P. O. BERKLEY."

  "DEAR MR. BERKLEY: "Am I not to see you again? I think perhaps you might care to hear that I have been doing what you wished ever since that night. I have also written home, but nobody has replied. I don't think they want me now. It is a little lonely, being what you wish me to be. I thought you might come sometimes. Could you? "LETITIA LYNDEN."

  "DEAR LETITIA: "I seem to be winning my bet, but nobody can ever tell. Wait for a while and then write home again. Meantime, why not make bonnets? If you want to, I'll see that you get a chance. "P. O. BERKLEY."

  "DEAR MR. BERKLEY: "I don't know how. I never had any skill. I was assistant in a physician's office--once. Thank you for your kind and good offer--for all your goodness to me. I wish I could see you sometimes. You have been better to me than any man. Could I? "LETTY."

  "DEAR LETTY: "Why not try some physician's office?"

  "DEAR MR. BERKLEY: "Do you wish me to? Would you see me sometimes if I left the Canterbury? It is _so_ lonely--you don't know, Mr. Berkley, how lonely it is to be what you wish me to be. Please only come and speak to me. "LETTY."

  "DEAR LETTY: "Here is a card to a nice doctor, Phineas Benton, M.D. I have not seen him in years; he remembers me as I was. You will not, of course, disillusion him. I've had to lie to him about you--and about myself. I've told him that I know your family in Philadelphia, that they asked me about the chances of a position here for you as an assistant in a physician's office, and that now you had come on to seek for such a position. Let me know how the lie turns out. "P. O. BERKLEY."

  A fortnight later came her last letter:

  "DEAR MR. BERKLEY: "I have been with Dr. Benton nearly two weeks now. He took me at once. He is such a good man! But--I don't know--sometimes he looks at me and looks at me as though he suspected what I am--and I feel my cheeks getting hot, and I can scarcely speak for nervousness; and then he always smiles so pleasantly and speaks so courteously that I know he is too kind and good to suspect.

  "I hold sponges and instruments in minor operations, keep the office clean, usher in patients, offer them smelling salts and fan them, prepare lint, roll bandages--and I know already how to do all this quite well. I think he seems pleased with me. He is so very kind to me. And I have a little hall bedroom in his house, very tiny but very neat and clean; and I have my meals with his housekeeper, an old, old woman who is very deaf and very pleasant.

  "I don't go out because I don't know where to go. I'm afraid to go near the Canterbury--afraid to meet anybody from there. I think I would die if any man I ever saw there ever came into Dr. Benton's office. The idea of that often frightens me. But nobody has come. And I sometimes do go out with Dr. Benton. He is instructing a class of ladies in the principles of hospital nursing, and lately I have gone with him to hold things for him while he demonstrates. And once, when he was called away suddenly, I remained with the class alone, a
nd I was not very nervous, and I answered all their questions for them and showed them how things ought to be done. They were _so_ kind to me; and one very lovely girl came to me afterward and thanked me and said that she, too, had worked a little as a nurse for charity, and asked me to call on her.

  "I was so silly--do you know I couldn't see her for the tears, and I couldn't speak--and I couldn't let go of her hands. I wanted to kiss them, but I was ashamed.

  "Some day do you think I might see you again? I am what you have asked me to be. I never wanted to be anything else. They will not believe that at home because they had warned me, and I was such a fool--and perhaps you won't believe me--but I _didn't_ know what I was doing; I didn't want to be what I became--This is really true, Mr. Berkley. Sometime may I see you again? Yours sincerely, "LETITIA A. LYNDEN."

  He had replied that he would see her some day, meaning not to doso. And there it had rested; and there, stretched on his sofa, herested, the sneer still edging his lips, not for her but forhimself.

  "She'd have made some respectable man a good--mistress," he said."Here is a most excellent mistress, spoiled, to make a common-placenurse! . . . _Gaude! Maria Virgo; gaudent proenomine mollesauriculoe. . . . Gratis poenitet esse probum_. Burgess!"

  "Sir?"

  "What the devil are you scratching for outside my door?"

  "A letter, sir."

  "Shove it under, and let me alone."

  The letter appeared, cautiously inserted under the door, and laythere very white on the floor. He eyed it, scowling, withoutcuriosity, turned over, and presently became absorbed in the bookhe had been reading:

  "Zarathustra asked Ahura-Mazda: 'Heavenly, Holiest, Pure, when apure man dies where does his soul dwell during that night?'

  "Then answered Ahura-Mazda: 'Near his head it sits itself down. Onthis night his soul sees as much joy as the living world possesses.'

  "And Zarathustra asked: 'Where dwells the soul throughout thesecond night after the body's death?'

  "Then answered Ahura-Mazda: 'Near to his head it sits itself down.'

  "Zarathustra spake: 'Where stays the soul of a pure roan throughoutthe third night, O Heavenly, Holiest, Pure?'

  "And thus answered Ahura-Mazda, Purest, Heavenly: 'When the ThirdNight turns Itself to Light, the soul arises and goes forward; anda wind blows to meet it; a sweet-scented one, more sweet-scentedthan other winds.'

  "And in that wind there cometh to meet him His Own Law in the bodyof a maid, one beautiful, shining, with shining arms; one powerful,well-grown, slender, with praiseworthy body; one noble, withbrilliant face, as fair in body as the loveliest.

  "And to her speaks the soul of the pure man, questioning her whoshe might truly be. And thus replies to him His Own Law, shining,dove-eyed, loveliest: 'I am thy thoughts and works; I am thine ownLaw of thine own Self. Thou art like me, and I am like thee ingoodness, in beauty, in all that I appear to thee. Beloved, come!'

  "And the soul of the pure man takes one step and is in the FirstParadise, Humata; and takes a second step, and is in the SecondParadise, Hukhta; and takes a third step, and is in the ThirdParadise, Hvarsta.

  "And takes one last step into the Eternal Lights for ever."

  His haggard eyes were still fixed vacantly on the printed page, buthe saw nothing now. Something in the still air of the room hadarrested his attention--something faintly fresh--an evanescent hintof perfume.

  Suddenly the blood surged up in his face; he half rose, turnedwhere he lay and looked back at the letter on the floor. "Damnit," he said. And rising heavily, he went to it, picked it up, andbroke the scented seal.

  "Will you misunderstand me, Mr. Berkley? They say that the pagesof friendship are covered with records of misunderstandings.

  "We _were_ friends. Can it not be so again? I have thought solong and so steadily about it that I no longer exactly know whetherI may venture to write to you or whether the only thing decentlyleft me is silence, which for the second time I am breaking now,because I cannot believe that I offered my friendship to such a manas you have said you are. It is not in any woman to do it.Perhaps it is self-respect that protests, repudiates, denies whatyou have said to me of yourself; and perhaps it is a sentiment lessaustere. I can no longer judge.

  "And now that I have the courage--or effrontery--to write you oncemore, will you misconstrue my letter--and my motive? If I cannotbe reconciled to what I hear of you--if what I hear pains,frightens me out of a justifiable silence which perhaps you mightrespect, will you respect my motive for breaking it the less? I donot know. But the silence is now broken, and I must endure theconsequences.

  "Deep unhappiness I have never known; but I recognise it in otherswhen I see it, and would aid always if I could. Try to understandme.

  "But despair terrifies me--I who never have known it--and I do notunderstand how to meet it, how to cope with it in others, what tosay or do. Yet I would help if help is possible. Is it?

  "I think you have always thought me immature, young in experience,negligible as to wisdom, of an intellectual capacityinconsequential.

  "These are the facts: I was married when I was very young, and Ihave known little of such happiness; but I have met sorrow and haveconquered it, and I have seen bitter hours, and have overcome them,and I have been tempted, and have prevailed. Have you done thesethings?

  "As for wisdom, if it comes only with years, then I have everythingyet to learn. Yet it seems to me that in the charity wards ofhospitals, in the city prisons, in the infirmary, the asylum--eventhe too brief time spent there has taught me something of humanfrailty and human sorrow. And if I am right or wrong, I do notknow, but to me sin has always seemed mostly a sickness of themind. And it is a shame to endure it or to harshly punish it ifthere be a cure. And if this is so, what you may have done, andwhat others may have done to you, cannot be final.

  "My letter is longer than I meant it, but I had a great need tospeak to you. If you still think well of me, answer me. Answer inthe way it pleases you best. But answer--if you still think wellof me.

  "AILSA PAIGE."

  A touch of rose still tinted the sky overhead, but already the lamplighters were illuminating the street lamps as he came to LondonTerrace--that quaint stretch of old-time houses set back from thestreet, solemnly windowed, roofed, and pilastered; decorouslyscreened behind green trees and flowering bushes ringed by littlelawns of emerald.

  For a moment, after entering the iron gateway and mounting thesteps, he stood looking up at her abode. Overhead the silken foldsof the flag hung motionless in the calm evening air; and all theplace about him was sweet with the scent of bridal-wreath and earlyiris.

  Then, at his tardy summons, the door of her house opened to him.He went in and stood in the faded drawing-room, where the damaskcurtain folds were drawn against the primrose dusk and a singlelight glimmered like a star high among the pendant prisms of thechandelier.

  Later a servant came and gave the room more light. Then he waitedfor a long while. And at last she entered.

  Her hands were cold--he noticed it as the fingers touched his,briefly, and were withdrawn. She had scarcely glanced at him, andshe had not yet uttered a word when they were seated. It lay withhim, entirely, so far.

  "What a lazy hound I have been," he said, smiling; "I have noexcuses to save my hide--no dogs ever have. Are you well, Ailsa?"

  She made the effort: "Yes, perfectly. I fear--" Her eyes rested onhis marred and haggard face; she said no more because she could not.

  He made, leisurely, all proper and formal inquiries concerning theCraigs and those he had met there, mentioned pleasantly his changedfortunes; spoke of impending and passing events, of the war, of themovement of troops, of the chances for a battle, which the papersdeclared was imminent.

  Old Jonas shuffled in with the Madeira and a decanter of brandy, itbeing now nearly eight o'clock.

  Later, while Berkley was still carelessly bearing the burden ofconversation, the clock
struck nine times; and in anotherincredibly brief interval, it struck ten.

  He started to rise, and encountered her swiftly lifted eyes. And aflush grew and deepened on his face, and he resumed his place insilence. When again he was seated she drew, unconsciously, a long,deep breath, and inclined her head to listen. But Berkley had nomore to say to her--and much that he must not say to her. And shewaited a long while, eyes bent steadily on the velvet carpet at herfeet.

  The silence endured too long; she knew it, but could not yet breakit, or the spell which cradled her tired heart, or the blessedsurcease from the weariness of waiting.

  Yet the silence was lasting too long, and must be broken quickly.

  She looked up, startled, as he rose to take his leave. It was theonly way, now, and she knew it. And, oh, the time had sped toofast for her, and her heart failed her for all the things thatremained unsaid--all the kindness she had meant to give him, allthe counsel, the courage, the deep sympathy, the deeper friendship.

  But her hand lay limply, coldly in his; her lips were mute,tremulously curving; her eyes asked nothing more.

  "Good night, Ailsa."

  "Good night."

  There was colour, still, in his marred young face, grace, still, inhis body, in the slightly lowered head as he looked down at her.

  "I must not come again, Ailsa."

  Then her pulses died. "Why?"

  "Because--I am afraid to love you."

  It did not seem that she even breathed, so deathly still she stood.

  "Is that---your reason?"

  "Yes. I have no right to love you."

  She could scarcely speak. "Is--friendship not enough, Mr. Berkley?"

  "It is too late for friendship. You know it."

  "That cannot be."

  "Why, Ailsa?"

  "Because it is friendship--mistaken friendship that moves you nowin every word you say." She raised her candid gaze. "Is there noend to your self-murder? Do you still wish to slay yourself beforemy very eyes?"

  "I tell you that there is nothing good left living in me:

  "And if it were true; did you never hear of a resurrection?"

  "I--warn you!"

  "I hear your warning."

  "You dare let me love you?"

  Dry-lipped, voices half stifled by their mounting emotion, theystood closely confronted, paling under the effort of self-mastery.And his was giving way, threatening hers with every breath.

  Suddenly in his altered face she saw what frightened her, and herhand suddenly closed in his; but he held it imprisoned.

  "Answer me, Ailsa!"

  "Please--" she said--"if you will let me go--I will answer--you----"

  "What?"

  "What you--ask."

  Her breath was coming faster; her face, now white as a flower, nowflushed, swam before him. Through the surging passion envelopinghim he heard her voice as at a distance:

  "If you will--let me go--I can tell you----"

  "Tell me now!"

  "Not--this way. . . . How can you care for me if----

  "I warned you, Ailsa! I told you that I am unfit to love you. Nowoman could ever marry _me_! No woman could even love me if sheknew what I am! You understood that. I told you. And now--goodGod!--I'm telling you I love you--I can't let you go!--yourhands:--the sweetness of them--the----"

  "I--oh, it must not be--this way----"

  "It _is_ this way!"

  "I know--but please try to help.--I--I am not afraid to--loveyou------"

  Her slender figure trembled against him; the warmth of her set himafire. There was a scent of tears in her breath--a fragrance asher body relaxed, yielded, embraced; her hands, her lids, her:hair, her mouth, all his now, for the taking, as he took her intohis arms. But he only stared down at what lay there; and,trembling, breathless, her eyes unclosed and she looked up blindlyinto his flushed face.

  "Because I--love you," she sighed, "I believe in all that--that Ihave--never--seen--in you."

  He looked back into her eyes, steadily:

  "I am going mad over you, Ailsa. There is only destruction for youin that madness. . . . Shall I let you go?"

  "W-what?"

  But the white passion in his face was enough; and, involuntarilyher lids shut it out. But she did not stir.

  "I--warned you," he said again.

  "I know. . . . Is it in you to--destroy--me?"

  "God knows. . . . Yes, it is."

  She scarcely breathed; only their hearts battled there in silence.Then he said harshly:

  "What else is there for us? You would not marry me."

  "Ask me."

  "You would not marry me if I told you----"

  "What?"

  "I will _not_ tell you!"

  "Are you--married?"

  "No!"

  "Then _tell_ me!"

  "G-od! _No_! I can't throw _this_ hour away. I can't throw loveaway! I want you anyway--if you have the--courage!"

  "Tell me. I promise to marry you anyway. I promise it, whateveryou are! Tell me."

  "I--" An ugly red-stained neck and forehead; his embrace suddenlyhurt her so that she cried out faintly, but her hand closed on his.

  "Tell me, tell me, _tell_ me!" she pleaded; "I know you are halfcrazed by something--some dreadful thing that has been done toyou--" and ceased, appalled at the distorted visage he turned onher. His arms relaxed and fell away from her.

  Released, she stood swaying as though stunned, pressed both handsto her eyes, then let her arms fall, inert.

  For a moment they confronted one another; then he straightened up,squared his shoulders with a laugh that terrified her.

  "No," he said, "I _won't_ tell you! You go on caring for me. I'mbeast enough to let you. Go on caring! Love me--if you're braveenough. . . . And I warn you now that I love you, and I don't carea damn how I do it! . . . Now you _are_ frightened! . . . Verywell--I----"

  He swayed a little, swung blindly on his heel, and lurched out intothe hall.

  Mechanically she followed, halting in the doorway and restingagainst it, for it seemed as though her knees were giving way.

  "Is that--to be the--end?" she whispered.

  He turned and came swiftly back, took her in his arms, crushed herto him, kissed her lips again and again, fiercely.

  "The end will be when you make an end," he said. "Make it now ornever!"

  His heart was beating violently against hers; her head had fallen alittle back, lips slightly parted, unresponsive under his kiss, yetenduring--and at last burning and trembling to the verge ofresponse----

  And suddenly, passion-swept, breathless, she felt her self-controlgoing, and she opened her eyes, saw hell in his, tore herself fromhis arms, and shrank, trembling, against the wall. He turnedstupidly and opened the door, making his way out into the night.But she did not see him, for her burning face was hidden in herhands.

  Drunk as though drugged, the echoes of passion still stirred hisdarker self, and his whirling thoughts pierced his heart likenames, whispering, urging him to go back and complete thedestruction he had begun--take her once more into his arms and keepher there through life, through death, till the bones of theblessed and the damned alike stirred in their graves at the lastreveille.

  To know that she, too, had been fighting herself--that she, too,feared passion, stirred every brutal fibre in him to a fiercerrecklessness that halted him in his tracks under the calm stars.But what held him there was something else, perhaps what hebelieved had died in him; for he did not even turn again. And atlast, through the dark and throbbing silence he moved on again atrandom, jaws set.

  The mental strain was beginning to distort everything. Once ortwice he laughed all to himself, nodding mysteriously, his tensewhite face stamped with a ghastly grimace of self-contempt. Thenan infernal, mocking curiosity stirred him:

  What kind of a thing _was_ he anyway? A moment since he had loosedthe brute in himself, leaving it to her to re-chain or let it carryher with him to destruction. A
nd yet he was too fastidious tomarry her under false pretences!

  "Gods of Laughter! What in hell--what sort of thing am I?" heasked aloud, and lurched on, muttering insanely to himself,laughing, talking under his breath, hearing nothing, seeing nothingbut her wistful eyes, gazing sorrowfully out of the night.

  At a dark crossing he ran blindly into a moving horse; was pushedaside by its cloaked rider with a curse; stood dazed, while hissenses slowly returned--first, hearing--and his ears were filledwith the hollow trample of many horses; then vision, and in thedark street before him he saw the column of shadowy horsemen ridingslowly in fours, knee to knee, starlight sparkling on spur and bitand sabre guard.

  Officers walked their lean horses beside the column. One amongthem drew bridle near him, calling out:

  "Have you the right time?"

  Berkley looked at his watch.

  "Midnight."

  "Thank you, friend."

  Berkley stepped to the curb-stone: "What regiment is that?"

  "Eighth New York."

  "Leaving?"

  "Going into camp. Yorkville."

  Berkley said: "Do you want a damned fool?"

  "The companies are full of fools. . . . We can stand a fewfirst-class men. Come up to camp to-morrow, friend. If you canpass the surgeons I guess it will be all right."

  And he prodded his tired horse forward along the slowly movingcolumn of fours.