Day after day the city's multi-coloured militia3 regiments5 passed through its echoing streets; day after day Broadway resounded7 with the racket of their drums. Rifles, chasseurs, zouaves, foot artillery8, pioneers, engineers, rocket batteries, the 79th Highlanders, dismounted lancers of the 69th and dragoons of the 8th—every heard-of and unheard-of unnecessary auxiliary9 to a respectable regiment4 of state infantry10, mustered11 for inspection12 and marched away in polychromatic magnificence. Park, avenue, and square shrilled13 with their windy fifes; the towering sides of the transports struck back the wild music of their bands; Castle William and Fort Hamilton saluted14 them from the ferries to the Narrows; and, hoarse15 with cheering, the people stared through dim eyes till the last stain of smoke off Sandy Hook vanished seaward. All of which immensely diverted Berkley.
The city, too, had become a thoroughfare for New England and Western troops hurrying pell-mell toward the capital and that unknown bourne so vaguely16 defined as the "seat of war." Also all avenues were now dotted with barracks and recruiting stations, around which crowds clamoured. Fire Zouaves, Imperial Zouaves, National Zouaves, Billy Wilson's Zouaves appropriated without ceremony the streets and squares as drill grounds. All day long they manoeuvred and double-quicked; all day and all night herds17 of surprised farm horses destined18 for cavalry19, light artillery, and glory, clattered20 toward the docks; files of brand-new army waggons21, gun-carriages, smelling of fresh paint, caissons, forges, ambulances bound South checked the city traffic and added to the city's tumult22 as they jolted23 in hundreds and hundreds toward the wharves—materially contributing to Berkley's entertainment.
Beginning with the uproarious war meeting in union Square, every day saw its crowds listening to the harangue24 of a somebody or a nobody. Sometimes short, ugly demonstrations25 were made against an unpopular newspaper office or the residence of an unpopular citizen; the police were rough and excitable, the nerves of the populace on edge, the city was now nearly denuded26 of its militia, and everybody was very grateful for the temporary presence of volunteer regiments in process of formation.
As yet the tension of popular excitement had not jaded27 the capacity of the city for pleasure. People were ready for excitement, welcomed it after the dreadful year of lethargy. Stocks fell, but the theatres were the fuller; Joseph Jefferson at Winter Garden, Wallack at his own theatre, "The Seven Sisters" at Laura Keene's, drew unsatisfied crowds, galloping29 headlong on the heels of pleasure.
Philharmonics, plays, burlesques30, concerts, minstrel entertainments, never lacked audiences, especially when the proceeds were destined for the union Defence Committee; the hotels, Bancroft, St. Nicholas, Metropolitan31, New York, Fifth Avenue, were all brilliantly thronged32 at night; cafes and concert halls like the Gaieties, Canterbury, and American, flourished and flaunted33 their advertisements; grills34, restaurants, saloons, multiplied. There were none too many for Berkley's amusement.
As yet no battle lightning flickered35 along the Southern horizon to sober folk with premonition; but the nightly illumination of the metropolis36 was becoming tinged37 with a more sinister38 reflection where licence had already begun to lift a dozen hydra-heads from certain lurid39 resorts hitherto limited in number and in impudence40.
It was into the streets of such a city, a meaner, dirtier, uglier, noisier, perhaps more vicious edition of the French metropolis of the Third Empire, thronged with fantastic soldiery and fox-eyed contractors41, filled already with new faces—faces of Western born, Yankee born, foreign born; stupid faces, crafty42 faces, hard faces, bedizened faces—it was into the streets of such a city that Berkley sauntered twice a day to and fro from his office, regretting only that his means did not permit him to go to the devil like a gentleman.
And one day, out of the hurly-burly, and against all laws of probability and finance, an incredible letter was handed to him. And he read it, standing43 by his window, and calmly realised that he was now no longer penniless.
Some inspired idiot had become a credulous44 market for his apparently45 unmarketable securities. Who this person was his brokers46 did not say; but, whoever it was, had bought every rotten share he held; and there was money for him in the world to help him out of it.
As he stood there, the letter in his hands, drums sounded across the street, and Stephen came in from the outer office.
"Another regiment," he said. "Do you know where they come from?"
Berkley shook his head, and they went to the windows; below them surged the flood of dead wood driven before the oncoming waves—haggard men, ragged47 men, small boys, darkies, Bowery b'hoys, stray red-shirted firemen, then the police, then solid double ranks of drums battered48 by flashing, brass-bound drumsticks, then line after line of blue and steel, steadily49 flowing through the streets and away, away into the unknown.
"How young they are!" muttered Farren, the gray-haired cashier, standing behind Stephen's shoulders. "God bless me, they're children!"
"It's a Vermont regiment," said Berkley; "they're filing out of the Park Barracks. What a lot of hawk-nosed, hatchet-faced, turkey-necked cow milkers!—all heroes, too, Steve. You can tell that because they're in uniform and carry guns."
Stephen watched the lank50 troops, fascinated by the long, silent, almost gliding51 stride of officers and men loaded down with knapsack, blanket, and canteen, their caps pushed high on their red and sweating foreheads. There was a halt; big hands, big red knuckles52, big feet, and the delicate curve of the hawk's beak53 outlining every Yankee nose, queer, humourous, restless glances sweeping54 Gotham streets and windows where Gotham crowded to gaze back at the halted youngsters in blue; then a far tenor55 cry, nasal commands, thin voices penetrating56 from out of the crowded distance; a sudden steadying of ranks; the level flash of shouldered steel; a thousand men marking time; and at last the drums' quick outbreak; and the 1st Vermont Infantry passed onward57 into the unknown.
"I'd rather like to go there—to see what there is there," observed
Berkley.
"Where?"
"Where they're going—wherever that may be—and I think I know."
He glanced absently at his letter again.
"I've sold some stock—all I had, and I've made a lot of money," he said listlessly.
Stephen dropped an impulsive58 hand on his shoulder.
"I'm terribly glad, Berkley! I'm delighted!" he said with a warmth that brought a slight colour into Berkley's face.
"That's nice of you, Stephen. It solves the immediate59 problem of how to go there."
"Go where?"
"Why—where all our bright young men are going, old fellow," said
Berkley, laughing. "I can go with a regiment or I can go alone.
But I really must be starting."
"You mean to enlist60?"
"Yes, it can be done that way, too. Or—other ways. The main thing is to get momentum61. . . . I think I'll just step out and say good-bye and many thanks to your father. I shall be quite busy for the rest of my career."
"You are not leaving here?"
"I am. But I'll pay my rent first," said Berkley, laughing.
And go he did that very afternoon; and the office of Craig & Son knew him no more.
A few days later Ailsa Paige returned to New York and reoccupied her own house on London Terrace.
A silk flag drooped62 between the tall pilasters. Under it, at the front door stood Colonel Arran to welcome her. It had been her father's house; he had planted the great catalpa trees on the grassy63 terrace in front. Here she had been born; from here she had gone away a bride; from here her parents had been buried, both within that same strange year that left her widowed who had scarcely been a wife. And to this old house she had returned alone in her sombre weeds—utterly64 alone, in her nineteenth year.
This man had met her then as he met her now; she remembered it, remembered, too, that after any absence, no matter how short, this old friend had always met her at her own door-sill, standing aside with head bent65 as she crossed the sill.
Now she gave him both hands.
"It is so kind of you, dear Colonel Arran! It would not be a home-coming without you—" And glancing into the hall, nodded radiantly to the assembled servants—her parents' old and privileged and spoiled servants gathered to welcome the young mistress to her own.
"Oh—and there's Missy!" she said, as an inquiring "meow!" sounded close to her skirts. "You irresponsible little thing—I suppose you have more kittens. Has she, Susan?"
"Five m'm," said Susan drily.
"Oh, dear, I suppose it can't be avoided. But we mustn't drown any, you know." And with one hand resting on Colonel Arran's arm she began a tour of the house to inspect the new improvements.
Later they sat together amid the faded splendours of the southern drawing-room, where sunshine regilded cornice and pier67 glass, turned the lace curtains to nets of gold, and streaked69 the red damask hangings with slanting70 bars of fire.
Shiftless old Jonas shuffled71 in presently with the oval silver tray, ancient decanters, and seedcakes.
And here, over their cakes and Madeira, she told him about her month's visit to the Craigs'; about her life in the quaint72 and quiet city, the restful, old-fashioned charm of the cultivated circles on Columbia Heights and the Hill; the attractions of a limited society, a little dull, a little prim73, pedantic74, perhaps provincially75 simple, but a society caring for the best in art, in music, in literature, instinctively76 recognising the best although the best was nowhere common in the city.
She spoke77 of the agreeable people she had met—unobtrusive, gentle-mannered folk whose homes may have lacked such Madeira and silver as this, but lacked nothing in things of the mind.
She spoke of her very modest and temporary duties in church work there, and in charities; told of the advent78 of the war news and its effect on the sister city.
And at last, casually79, but without embarrassment80, she mentioned
Berkley.
Colonel Arran's large hand lay along the back of the Virginia sofa, fingers restlessly tracing and retracing81 the carved foliations supporting the horns of plenty. His heavy, highly coloured head was lowered and turned aside a little as though to bring one ear to bear on what she was saying.
"Mr. Berkley seems to be an—unusual man," she ventured. "Do you happen to know him, Colonel Arran?"
"Slightly."
"Oh. Did you know his parents?"
"His mother."
"She is not living, I believe."
"No."
"Is his father living?"
"I—don't know."
"You never met him?"
Colonel Arran's forefinger82 slowly outlined the deeply carved horn of plenty.
"I am not perfectly83 sure that I ever met Mr. Berkley's father."
She sat, elbows on the table, gazing reflectively into space.
"He is a—curious—man."
"Did you like him?" asked Colonel Arran with an effort.
"Yes," she said, so simply that the Colonel's eyes turned directly toward her, lingered, then became fixed84 on the sunlit damask folds behind her.
"What did you like about Mr. Berkley, Ailsa?"
She considered.
"I—don't know—-exactly."
"Is he cultivated?"
"Why, yes—I suppose so."
"Is he well bred?"
"Oh, yes; only—" she searched mentally—"he is not—may I say, conventional? formal?"
"It is an age of informality," observed Colonel Arran, carefully tracing out each separate grape in the horn of plenty.
Ailsa assented85; spoke casually of something else; but when Colonel Arran brought the conversation around again to Berkley, she in nowise seemed reluctant.
"He is unusually attractive," she said frankly86; "his features, at moments, are almost beautiful. I sometimes wonder whether he resembles his mother. Was she beautiful?"
"Yes."
"I thought she must have been. He resembles her, does he not?"
"Yes."
"His father was—is—" She hesitated, looked curiously87 at Colonel
Arran, then smiled.
"There was something I never thought of when I first met Mr. Berkley, but now I understand why his features seemed to me not entirely88 unfamiliar89. I don't know exactly what it is, but there seems to be something about him that recalls you."
Colonel Arran sat absolutely still, his heavy hand gripping the horn of plenty, his face so gray that it was almost colourless.
Ailsa, glancing again at his profile, saw nothing now in it resembling Berkley; and, as he made no response, thought him uninterested. But when again she would have changed the subject, the Colonel stirred, interrupting:
"Does he seem—well?"
"Well?" she repeated. "Oh, yes."
"He—seems well . . . and in good spirits? Contented90? Is he that type of young man? Happy?"
"I don't think he is really very happy, though he is cheerful and—and amusing. I don't see how he can be very light-hearted."
"Why?"
She shook her head:
"I believe he—I know he must be in painfully straightened circumstances."
"I have heard so," nodded Colonel Arran.
"Oh, he certainly is!" she said with decision. "He lost everything in the panic, and he lives in a most wretched neighbourhood, and he hasn't any business except a very little now and then. It made me quite unhappy," she added naively91.
"And you find him personally agreeable?"
"Yes, I do. I didn't at first—" She checked herself—"I mean I did at the very first—then I didn't—then I did again, then I—didn't—" The delicate colour stole into her cheeks; she lifted her wineglass, looked into it pensively92, set it back on the table. "But I understand him better now, I think."
"What, in him, do you understand better now?"
"I—don't—know."
"Is he a better kind of a man than you thought him at first?"
"Y-es. He has it in him to be better, I mean. . . . Yes, he is a better man than I thought him—once."
"And you like him——"
"Yes, I do. Colonel Arran."
"Admire him?"
She flushed up. "How do you mean?"
"His qualities?"
"Oh. . . . Yes, he has qualities."
"Admirable?"
"He is exceedingly intelligent."
"Intellectual?"
"I don't exactly know. He pretends to make fun of so many things. It is not easy to be perfectly sure what he really believes; because he laughs at almost everybody and everything. But I am quite certain that he really has beliefs."
"Religious?"
She looked grave. "He does not go to church."
"Does he—does he strike you as being—well, say, irresponsible—perhaps I may even say reckless?"
She did not answer; and Colonel Arran did not ask again. He remained silent so long that she presently drifted off into other subjects, and he made no effort to draw her back.
But later, when he took his leave, he said in his heavy way:
"When you see Mr. Berkley, say to him that Colonel Arran remembers him. . . . Say to him that it would be my—pleasure—to renew our very slight acquaintance."
"He will be glad, I know," she said warmly.
"Why do you think so?"
"Why? Because I like you!" she explained with a gay little laugh. "And whoever I like Mr. Berkley must like if he and I are to remain good friends."
The Colonel's smile was wintry; the sudden animation93 in his face had subsided94.
"I should like to know him—if he will," he said absently. And took his leave of Ailsa Paige.
Next afternoon he came again, and lingered, though neither he nor Ailsa spoke of Berkley. And the next afternoon he reappeared, and sat silent, preoccupied95, for a long time, in the peculiar96 hushed attitude of a man who listens. But the door-bell did not ring and the only sound in tile house was from Ailsa's piano, where she sat idling through the sunny afternoon.
The next afternoon he said:
"Does he never call on you?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Berkley."
"I—asked him," she replied, flushing faintly.
"He has not come, then?"
"Not yet. I suppose—business——"
The Colonel said, ponderously97 careless: "I imagine that he is likely to come in the late afternoon—when he does come."
"I don't know. He is in business."
"It doesn't keep him after three o'clock at his office."
She looked up surprised: "Doesn't it?" And her eyes asked instinctively: "How did you know?" But the Colonel sat silent again, his head lowered and partly averted98 as though to turn his good ear toward her. Clearly his mind already dwelt on other matters, she was thinking; but she was mistaken.
"When he comes," said Colonel Arran slowly, "will you have the kindness to say to him that Colonel Arran will be glad to renew the acquaintance?"
"Yes. . . . Perhaps he has forgotten the street and number. I might write to him—to remind him?" Colonel Arran made no answer.
She wrote that night:
"DEAR MR. BERKLEY:
"I am in my own house now and am very contented—which does not mean that I did not adore being with Celia Craig and Estcourt and the children.
"But home is pleasant, and I am wondering whether you might care to see the home of which I have so often spoken to you when you used to come over to Brooklyn to see me [me erased99 and us neatly100 substituted in long, sweeping characters].
"I have been doing very little since I last saw you—it is not sheer idleness, but somehow one cannot go light-heartedly to dinners and concerts and theatres in times like these, when traitors101 are trampling102 the nag103 under foot, and when thousands and thousands of young men are leaving the city every day to go to the defence of our distracted country.
"I saw a friend the other day—a Mrs. Wells—and three of her boys, friends of mine, have gone with the 7th, and she is so nervous and excited that she can scarcely speak about it. So many men I know have gone or are going. Stephen was here yesterday, wild to go with the 8d Zouaves, but I promised his father to use my influence—and he is too young—although it is very fine and chivalrous104 of him to wish to go.
"I thought I would write you a little note, to remind you that I am at home, and already it has become a letter. Please remember—when you think of it at all—that it would give me pleasure to receive you.
"Sincerely yours,
"AILSA PAIGE."
Toward the end of the week she received a heart-broken note from Celia Craig, which caused her to hasten over to Brooklyn. She arrived late; the streets were continually blocked by departing troops, and the omnibus took a circuitous105 course to the ferry, going by way of Fourth Avenue and the Bowery.
"Honey-bee! O Honey-bell!" whispered her sister-in-law, taking Ailsa into her arms, "I could have behaved myse'f better if Curt68 were on the side of God and Justice!—But to have to let him go this way—to know the awful danger—to know he is going against my own people, my own home—against God and the Right!—O Honey-bird! Honey-bud! And the Charleston Mercury says that the South is most bitter against the Zouaves——"
"Curt! With the Zouaves!"
"Oh yes, yes, Honey-bee! The Third Regiment. And he—some wicked old men came here yesterday and read a speech—right befo' me—here in this ve'y room—and began to say that they wished him to be colonel of the 3d Zouaves, and that the Governor wished it and—other fools! And I rose straight up f'om my chair and I said, 'Curt!' And he gave me one look. Oh, Honey-bud! His face was changed; there was that same thing in it that I saw the night the news came about Sumter! And he said: 'Gentlemen, my country educated me; now it honours me.' And I tried to speak again and my lips were stiff; and then he said: 'I accept the command you offer——'"
"Oh, Celia!"
"Yes, he said it, darling! I stood there, frozen—in a corner of my heart I had been afraid—such a long time!—but to have it come real—'this terror!—to have this thing take my husband—come into our own home befo' I knew—befo' I dreamed—and take Curt!—take —my—Curt!"
"Where is he?"
"With—them. They have a camp near Fort Hamilton. He went there this morning."
"When is he coming back?"
"I don't know. Stephen is scaring me most to death; he is wild to go, too. And, oh—do you believe it? Captain Lent has gone with Curt to the camp, and Curt means to recommend him for his major. What a regiment!—all the soldiers are mere106 boys, they say—wilful, reckless, hair-brained boys who don't know—can't know—where they're going. . . . And Curt is so blind without his glasses, and Captain Lent is certainly a little mad, and I'm most distracted myse'f——"
"Darling—darling—don't cry!"
"Cry? Oh, I could die, Ailsa. Yet, I'm Southern enough to choke back eve'y tear and let them go with a smile if they had to go fo' God and the Right! But to see my Curt go this way—and my only son crazy to join him—Oh, it is ha'd, Honey-bee, ve'y, ve'y ha'd."
"Dearest!"
"O Honey-bud! Honey-bud!"
And the two women mourned, uncomforted.
Ailsa remained for three unhappy days in Fort Greene Place, then fled to her own house. A light, amusing letter from Berkley awaited her. It was so like him, gay, cynical107, epigrammatic, and inconsequent, that it cheered her. Besides, he subscribed108 himself very obediently hers, but on re-examining the letter she noticed that he had made no mention of coming to pay his respects to her.
So she lived her tranquil109 life for another week; and Colonel Arran came every day and seemed always to be waiting for something—always listening—gray face buried in his stock. And at the week's end she answered Berkley's letter—although, in it, he had asked no question.
"DEAR MR. BERKLEY:
"Such sad news from the Craigs. Estcourt has accepted the command of one of the new zouave regiments—the 3d, in camp near Fort Hamilton. But, being in his office, I suppose you have heard all about it from Stephen. Poor Celia Craig! It is peculiarly distressing110 in her case; all her sympathies are with her native state, and to have her husband go under such unusually tragic111 circumstances seems too dreadful. Celia is convinced that he will never return; she reads some Southern paper which breathes awful threats against the Zouaves in particular. Besides, Stephen is perfectly determined112 to enlist in his father's regiment, and I can see that they can't restrain him much longer. I have done my best; I have had him here and talked to him and argued with him, but I have made no headway. No appeal moves him; he says that the land will need every man sooner or later, and that the quicker he begins the sooner he will learn how to look out for himself in battle.
"The regiment is almost full; to-day, the first six companies are to be mustered into the United States service for three years or for the war. Captain Barris of the regular army is the mustering113 officer. And on their departure I am to present a set of colours to the regiment. It is to be quite solemn. I have already bought the lances, and they are beautiful; the spears are silver gilt114, the rings gilded66, too, and the flags are made of the most beautiful silk with tassels115 and fringe of gold bullion117. There are three flags: the national colours, the state flag, and a purple regimental flag lettered in gold: '3d Regt. N. Y. Zouaves,' and under it their motto: 'Multorum manibus grande levatur onus118.' I hope it is good Latin, for it is mine. Is it?
"AILSA PAIGE."
To this letter he made no reply, and, after a week, his silence hurt her.
One afternoon toward the middle of May Stephen was announced; and with a sudden sense of foreboding she hastened down to the drawing-room.
"Oh!" she cried. "You—Stephen!"
But the boy in his zouave uniform was beside himself with excitement and pride, and he embraced her, laughing, and then began to walk up and down the room gesticulating.
"I couldn't stand it any longer, and they let me go. I'm sorry for mother, but look at other men's mothers! They're calling for more and more troops every week! I knew everybody would have to go, and I'm mighty119 fortunate to get into father's regiment—And O Ailsa! It is a fine regiment! We're drilling every minute, and now that we've got our uniforms it won't be long before our orders come——"
"Stephen—does your mother——"
"Mother knows I can't help it. I do love her; she knows that perfectly well. But men have got to settle this thing——"
"Two hundred thousand are getting ready to settle it! Are there hot enough without you?—your mother's only son——"
"Suppose everybody thought that way, where would our army be?"
"But there are hundreds of regiments forming here—getting ready, drilling, leaving on boats and trains every day——"
"And every regiment is composed of men exactly like me! They go because the Nation's business is everybody's business. And the Nation's business comes first. There's no use talking to me, Ailsa. I've had it but with father. He saw that he couldn't prevent me from doing what he has done. And old Lent is our major! Lord, Ailsa, what a terrible old man for discipline! And father is—well he is acting120 as though we ought to behave like West Pointers. They're cruelly hard on skylarkers and guard runners, and they're fairly kicking discipline into us. But I'm willing. I'm ready to stand anything as long as we can get away!"
He was talking in a loud, excited voice, pacing restlessly to and fro, pausing at intervals121 to confront Ailsa where she sat, limp and silent, gazing up at this slender youth in his short blue jacket edged with many bell-buttons, blue body sash, scarlet122 zouave trousers and leather gaiters.
Presently old Jonas shuffled in with Madeira, cakes, and sandwiches, and Stephen began on them immediately.
"I came over so you could see me in my uniform," he explained; "and
I'm going back right away to see mother and Paige and Marye and
Camilla." He paused, sandwich suspended, then swallowed what he
had been chewing and took another bite, recklessly.
"I'm very fond of Camilla," he said condescendingly. "She's very nice about my going—the only one who hasn't snivelled. I tell you, Ailsa, Camilla is a good deal of a girl. . . . And I've promised to look out for her uncle—keep an eye on old Lent, you know, which seems to comfort her a good deal when she begins crying——
"Oh. . . I thought Camilla didn't cry."
"She cries a little—now and then."
"About her uncle?"
"Certainly."
Ailsa looked down at her ringless fingers. Within the week she had laid away both rings, meaning to resume them some day.
"If you and your father go, your office will be closed, I suppose."
"Oh, no. Farren will run it."
"I see. . . . And Mr. Berkley, too, I suppose."
Stephen looked up from his bitten seedcake.
"Berkley? He left long ago."
"Left—where?" she asked, confused.
"Left the office. It couldn't be helped. There was nothing for him to do. I was sorry—I'm sorrier now——"
He checked himself, hesitated, turned his troubled eyes on Ailsa.
"I did like him so much."
"Don't you like him—still?"
"Yes—I do. I don't know what was the matter with that man. He went all to pieces."
"W-what!"
"Utterly. Isn't it too bad."
She sat there very silent, very white. Stephen bit into another cake, angrily.
"It's the company he keeps," he said—"a lot of fast men—fast enough to be talked about, fashionable enough to be tolerated—Jack Casson is one of them, and that little ass6, Arthur Wye. That's the crowd—a horse-racing, hard-drinking, hard-gambling crew."
"But—he is—Mr. Berkley's circumstances—how can he do such things——"
"Some idiot—even Berkley doesn't know who—took all those dead stocks off his hands. Wasn't it the devil's own luck for Berkley to find a market in times like these?"
"But it ended him. . . . Oh, I was fond of him, I tell you, Ailsa!
I hate like thunder to see him this way——"
"What way!"
"Oh, not caring for anybody or anything. He's never sober. I don't mean that I ever saw him otherwise—he doesn't get drunk like an ordinary man: he just turns deathly white and polite. I've met him—and his friends—several times. They're too fast a string of colts for me. But isn't it a shame that a man like Berkley should go to the devil—and for no reason at all?"
"Yes," she said.
When Stephen, swinging his crimson123 fez by the tassel116, stood ready to take his leave, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
After he departed Colonel Arran came, and sat, as usual, silent, listening.
Ailsa was very animated124; she told him about Stephen's enlistment125, asked scores of questions about military life, the chances in battle, the proportion of those who went through war unscathed.
And at length Colonel Arran arose to take his departure; and she had not told what was hammering for utterance126 in every heart beat; she did not know how to tell, what to ask.
Hat in hand Colonel Arran bent over her hot little hand where it lay in his own.
"I have been offered the colonelcy of a volunteer regiment now forming," he said without apparent interest.
"You!"
"Cavalry," he explained wearily.
"But—you have not accepted!"
He gave her an absent glance. "Yes, I have accepted. . . . I am going to Washington to-night."
"Oh!" she breathed, "but you are coming back before—before——"
"Yes, child. Cavalry is not made in a hurry. I am to see General Scott—perhaps Mr. Cameron and the President. . . . If, in my absence—" he hesitated, looked down, shook his head. And somehow she seemed to know that what he had not said concerned Berkley.
Neither of them mentioned him. But after Colonel Arran had gone she went slowly to her room, sat down at her desk, sat there a long, long while thinking. But it was after midnight before she wrote to Berkley:
"Have you quite forgotten me? I have had to swallow a little pride to write you again. But perhaps I think our pleasant friendship worth it.
"Stephen has been here. He has enlisted127 as a private in his father's regiment of zouaves. I learned by accident from him that you are no longer associated with Craig & Son in business. I trust this means at least a partial recovery of your fortune. If it does, with fortune recovered responsibilities increase, and I choose to believe that it is these new and exacting128 duties which have prevented me from seeing you or from hearing from you for more than three weeks.
"But surely you could find a moment to write a line to a friend who is truly your very sincere well-wisher, and who would be the first to express her pleasure in any good fortune which might concern you.
"AILSA PAIGE."
Two days passed, and her answer came:
"Ailsa Paige, dearest and most respected, I have not forgotten you for one moment. And I have tried very hard.
"God knows what my pen is trying to say to you, and not hurt you, and yet kill utterly in you the last kindly129 and charitable memory of the man who is writing to you.
"Ailsa, if I had known you even one single day before that night I met you, you would have had of me, in that single day, all that a man dare lay at the feet of the truest and best of women.
"But on that night I came to you a man utterly and hopelessly ruined—morally dead of a blow dealt me an hour before I saw you for the first time.
"I had not lived an orderly life, but at worst it was only a heedless life. I had been a fool, but not a damned one. There was in me something loftier than a desire for pleasure, something worthier130 than material ambition. What else lay latent—if anything—I may only surmise131. It is all dead.
"The blow dealt me that evening—an hour before I first laid eyes on you—utterly changed me; and if there was anything spiritual in my character it died then. And left what you had a glimpse of—just a man, pagan, material, unmoral, unsafe; unmoved by anything except by what appeals to the material senses.
"Is that the kind of man you suppose me? That is the man I am. And you know it now. And you know, now, what it was in me that left you perplexed132, silent, troubled, not comprehending—why it was you would not dance with me again, nor suffer my touch, nor endure me too near you.
"It was the less noble in me—all that the blow had not killed—only a lesser133 part of a finer and perfect passion that might perhaps have moved you to noble response in time.
"Because I should have given you all at the first meeting; I could no more have helped it than I could have silenced my heart and lived. But what was left to give could awake in you no echo, no response, no comprehension. In plainer, uglier words, I meant to make you love me; and I was ready to carry you with me to that hell where souls are lost through love—and where we might lose our souls together.
"And now you will never write to me again."
All the afternoon she bent at her desk, poring over his letter. In her frightened heart she knew that something within her, not spiritual, had responded to what, in him, had evoked134 it; that her indefinable dread28 was dread of herself, of her physical responsiveness to his nearness, of her conscious inclination135 for it.
Could this be she—herself—who still bent here over his written words—this tense, hot-cheeked, tremulous creature, staring dry-eyed at the blurring136 lines which cut her for ever asunder137 from this self-outlawed man!
Was this letter still unburned. Had she not her fill of its brutality138, its wickedness?
But she was very tired, and she laid her arms on the desk and her head between them. And against her hot face she felt the cool letter-paper.
All that she had dreamed and fancied and believed and cared for in man passed dully through her mind. Her own aspirations139 toward ideal womanhood followed—visions of lofty desire, high ideals, innocent passions, the happiness of renunciation, the glory of forgiveness——
She sat erect140, breathing unevenly141; then her eyes fell on the letter, and she covered it with her hands, as hands cover the shame on a stricken face. And after a long time her lips moved, repeating:
"The glory of forgiveness—the glory of forgiveness——"
Her heart was beating very hard and fast as her thoughts ran on.
"To forgive—help him—teach truth—nobler ideals——"
She could not rest; sleep, if it really came, was a ghostly thing that mocked her. And all the next day she roamed about the house, haunted with the consciousness of where his letter lay locked in her desk. And that day she would not read it again; but the next day she read it. And the next.
And if it were her desire to see him once again before all ended irrevocably for ever—or if it was what her heart was striving to tell her, that he was in need of aid against himself, she could not tell. But she wrote him:
"It is not you who have written this injury for my eyes to read, but another man, demoralised by the world's cruelty—not knowing what he is saying—hurt to the soul, not mortally. When he recovers he will be you. And this letter is my forgiveness."
Berkley received it when he was not particularly sober; and lighting142 the end of it at a candle let it burn until the last ashes scorched143 his fingers.
"Burgess," he said, "did you ever notice how hard it is for the frailer144 things to die? Those wild doves we used to shoot in Georgia—by God! it took quail146 shot to kill them clean."
"Yes, sir?"
"Exactly. Then, that being the case, you may give me a particularly vigorous shampoo. Because, Burgess, I woo my volatile147 goddess to-night—the Goddess Chance, Burgess, whose wanton and naughty eyes never miss the fall of a card. And I desire that all my senses work like lightning, Burgess, because it is a fast company and a faster game, and that's why I want an unusually muscular shampoo!"
"Yes, sir. Poker148, sir?"
"I—ah—believe so," said Berkley, lying back in his chair and closing his eyes. "Go ahead and rub hell into me—if I'll hold any more."
The pallor, the shadows under eyes and cheeks, the nervous lines at the corners of the nose, had almost disappeared when Burgess finished. And when he stood in his evening clothes pulling a rose-bud stem through the button-hole of his lapel, he seemed very fresh and young and graceful149 in the gas-light.
"Am I very fine, Burgess? Because I go where youth and beauty chase the shining hours with flying feet. Oh yes, Burgess, the fair and frail145 will be present, also the dashing and self-satisfied. And we'll try to make it agreeable all around, won't we? . . . And don't smoke all my most expensive cigars, Burgess. I may want one when I return. I hate to ask too much of you, but you won't mind leaving one swallow of brandy in that decanter, will you? Thanks. Good night, Burgess."
"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."
As he walked out into the evening air he swung his cane150 in glittering circles.
"Nevertheless," he said under his breath, "she'd better be careful. If she writes again I might lose my head and go to her. You can never tell about some men; and the road to hell is a lonely one—damned lonely. Better let a man travel it like a gentleman if he can. It's more dignified151 than sliding into it on your back, clutching a handful of lace petticoat."
He added: "There's only one hell; and it's hell, perhaps, because there are no women there."
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收听单词发音
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1
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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8
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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9
auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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10
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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11
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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15
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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16
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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17
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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18
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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19
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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20
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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23
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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25
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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26
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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27
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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28
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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29
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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30
burlesques
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| n.滑稽模仿( burlesque的名词复数 )；（包括脱衣舞的）滑稽歌舞杂剧v.（嘲弄地）模仿，（通过模仿）取笑( burlesque的第三人称单数 ) | |
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31
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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32
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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34
grills
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| n.烤架( grill的名词复数 )；（一盘）烤肉；格板；烧烤餐馆v.烧烤( grill的第三人称单数 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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35
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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37
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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40
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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41
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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42
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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43
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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44
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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45
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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46
brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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47
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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48
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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49
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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50
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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51
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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52
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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53
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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54
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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55
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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56
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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57
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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58
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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59
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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60
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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61
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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62
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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64
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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65
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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66
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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67
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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68
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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69
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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70
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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71
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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72
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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73
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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74
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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75
provincially
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| adv.外省地，地方地 | |
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76
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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77
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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78
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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79
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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80
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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81
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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82
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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83
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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84
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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85
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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87
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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88
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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89
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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90
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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91
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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92
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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94
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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95
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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96
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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97
ponderously
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98
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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99
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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100
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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101
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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102
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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103
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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104
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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105
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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106
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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107
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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108
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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109
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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110
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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111
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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112
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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113
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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114
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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115
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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116
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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117
bullion
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| n.金条，银条 | |
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118
onus
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| n.负担；责任 | |
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119
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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120
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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121
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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122
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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123
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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124
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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125
enlistment
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| n.应征入伍，获得，取得 | |
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126
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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127
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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128
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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129
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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130
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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131
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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132
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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133
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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134
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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135
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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136
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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137
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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138
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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139
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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140
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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141
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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142
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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143
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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144
frailer
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| 脆弱的( frail的比较级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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145
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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146
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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147
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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148
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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149
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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150
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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151
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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