Ailsa Paige: A Novel

by Robert W. Chambers

  Produced by Al Haines

  AILSA PAIGE

  A NOVEL

  BY

  ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

  "It is at best but a mixture of a little good with much evil and a little pleasure with much pain; the beautiful is linked with the revolting, the trivial with the solemn, bathos with pathos, the commonplace with the sublime."

  ILLUSTRATED

  D. APPLETON AND COMPANYNEW YORK AND LONDON1910

  COPTRIGHT, 1910, BY

  ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

  Copyright, 1910, by The Curtis Publishing Company

  Published August, 1910

  TO THE CONQUERORSWHO WON IMMORTAL VICTORY

  "Arm yourselves and be Valiant Men, and see that ye rise upin readiness against the Dawn, that ye may do Battle with Thesethat are Assembled against us. . . .

  "For it is better to die in Battle than live to behold theCalamities of our own People. . . ."

  "Lord, we took not the Land into Possession by our own Swords;neither was it our own Hands that helped us; but Thy Hand wasa Buckler; and Thy right Arm a Shield, and the Light of ThyCountenance hath conquered forever."

  AND TO THE VANQUISHED WHO WON IMMORTALITY

  "We are the fallen, who, with helpless faces Low in the dust, in stiffening ruin lay, Felt the hoofs beat, and heard the rattling traces As o'er us drove the chariots of the fray.

  "We are the fallen, who by ramparts gory, Awaiting death, heard the far shouts begin, And with our last glance glimpsed the victor's glory For which we died, but dying might not win.

  "We were but men. Always our eyes were holden, We could not read the dark that walled us round, Nor deem our futile plans with Thine enfolden-- We fought, not knowing God was on the ground.

  "Aye, grant our ears to bear the foolish praising Of men--old voices of our lost home-land, Or else, the gateways of this dim world, raising, Give us our swords again, and hold Thy hand."

  --W. H. WOODS.

  PREFACE

  Among the fifty-eight regiments of Zouaves and the seven regimentsof Lancers enlisted in the service of the United States between1861 and 1865 it will be useless for the reader to look for anyrecord of the 3d Zouaves or of the 8th Lancers. The red breechesand red fezzes of the Zouaves clothed many a dead man on Southernbattle-fields; the scarlet swallow-tailed pennon of the Lancersfluttered from many a lance-tip beyond the Potomac; the historiesof these sixty-five regiments are known. But no history of the3d Zouaves or of the 8th Lancers has ever been written save in thisnarrative; and historians and veterans would seek in vain for anyrecords of these two regiments--regiments which might have been,but never were.

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  "'It is there, in you--all that I believed'"

  "What an insolently reckless head it was!"

  "'I won it fairly, and I'm going to stake it all on one last bet'"

  "'Is Ormond your name?'"

  "'_Must_ you go so soon? So soon?'"

  "He dismounted and clutched the senseless carbineer"

  "She dropped on her knees at his bedside and hid her faceon his hands"

  "'Phillip--Phillip--my lover, my country, my God--worshippedand adored of men!'"

  AILSA PAIGE

  CHAPTER I

  The butler made an instinctive movement to detain him, but he flunghim aside and entered the drawing-room, the servant recovering hisequilibrium and following on a run. Light from great crystalchandeliers dazzled him for a moment; the butler again confrontedhim but hesitated under the wicked glare from his eyes. Thenthrough the brilliant vista, the young fellow caught a glimpse of adining-room, a table where silver and crystal glimmered, and agreat gray man just lowering a glass of wine from his lips to gazeat him with quiet curiosity.

  The next moment he traversed the carpeted interval between them andhalted at the table's damask edge, gazing intently across at thesolitary diner, who sat leaning back in an arm-chair, heavy righthand still resting on the stem of a claret glass, a cigar suspendedbetween the fingers of his left hand.

  "Are you Colonel Arran?"

  "I am," replied the man at the table coolly. "Who the devil areyou?"

  "By God," replied the other with an insolent laugh, "that's what Icame here to find out!"

  The man at the table laid both hands on the edge of the cloth andpartly rose from his chair, then fell back solidly, in silence, buthis intent gaze never left the other's bloodless face.

  "Send away your servants, Colonel Arran!" said the young man in avoice now labouring under restraint. "We'll settle this matternow."

  The other made as though to speak twice; then, with an effort, hemotioned to the butler.

  What he meant by the gesture perhaps he himself scarcely realisedat the moment.

  The butler instantly signalled to Pim, the servant behind ColonelArran's chair, and started forward with a furtive glance at hismaster; and the young man turned disdainfully to confront him.

  "Will you retire peaceably, sir?"

  "No, but you will retire permanently if you touch me. Be verycareful."

  Colonel Arran leaned forward, hands still gripping the table's edge:

  "Larraway!"

  "Sir?"

  "You may go."

  The small gray eyes in the pock-pitted face stole toward youngBerkley, then were cautiously lowered.

  "Very well, sir," he said.

  "Close the drawing-room doors. No--this way. Go out through thepantry. And take Pim with you."

  "Very well, sir."

  "And, Larraway!"

  "Sir?"

  "When I want you I'll ring. Until then I don't want anybody oranything. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "That is all."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The great mahogany folding doors slid smoothly together, closingout the brilliant drawing-room; the door of the butler's pantryclicked.

  Colonel Arran slowly wheeled in his place and surveyed his unbiddenguest:

  "Well, sir," he said, "continue."

  "I haven't yet begun."

  "You are mistaken, Berkley; you have made a very significantbeginning. I was told that you are this kind of a young man."

  "I _am_ this kind of a young man. What else have you been told?"

  Colonel Arran inspected him through partly closed and heavy eyes;"I am further informed," he said, that at twenty-four you havealready managed to attain bankruptcy."

  "Perfectly correct. What other items have you collected concerningme?"

  "You can retrace your own peregrinations if you care to. I believethey follow a vicious circle bisecting the semi-fashionable world,and the--other. Shall we say that the expression, unenviablenotoriety, summarises the reputation you have acquired?"

  "Exactly," he said; "both kinds of vice, Colonel Arran--respectableand disreputable."

  "Oh! And am I correct in concluding that, at this hour, you standthere a financially ruined man--at twenty-four years of age----"

  "I do stand here; but I'm going to sit down."

  He did so, dropped both elbows on the cloth, and balancing his chinon the knuckles of his clasped hands, examined the older man withinsolent, unchanging gaze.

  "Go on," he said coolly, "what else do you conclude me to be?"

  "What else is there to say to you, Berkley? You have evidentlyseen my attorneys."

  "I have; the fat shyster and the bow-legged one." He reached over,poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter, then, with anunpleasant laugh, set it aside untasted.

  "I beg your pardon. I've had a hard day of it. I'm not myself,"he said with an insolent shrug of excuse. "At eleven o'clock thismorning Illinois Central had fallen three more points, and I had nofurther interest in
the market. Then one of your brokers--" Heleaned farther forward on the table and stared brightly at theolder man, showing an edge of even teeth, under the receding upperlip:

  "How long have your people been watching me?"

  "Long enough to give me what information I required."

  "Then you really _have_ had me watched?"

  "I have chosen to keep in touch with your--career, Berkley."

  Berkley's upper lip again twitched unpleasantly; but, when atlength he spoke, he spoke more calmly than before and his mobilefeatures were in pallid repose.

  "One of your brokers--Cone--stopped me. I was too confused tounderstand what he wanted of me. I went with him to yourattorneys--" Like lightning the snarl twitched his mouth again; hemade as though to rise, and controlled himself in the act.

  "Where are the originals of those letters?" he managed to say atlast.

  "In this house."

  "Am I to have them?"

  "I think so."

  "So do I," said the young man with a ghastly smile. "I'm quitesure of it."

  Colonel Arran regarded him in surprise.

  "There is no occasion for violence in this house, Berkley."

  "Where are the letters?"

  "Have you any doubts concerning what my attorneys have told you?The originals are at your immediate disposal if you wish."

  Then Berkley struck the table fiercely, and stood up, as claretsplashed and trembling crystal rang.

  "That's all I want of _you_!" he said. "Do you understand whatyou've done? You've killed the last shred of self-respect in me!Do you think I'd take anything at _your_ hands? I never cared foranybody in the world except my mother. If what your lawyers tellme is true--" His voice choked; he stood swaying a moment, facecovered by his hands,

  "Berkley!"

  The young man's hands fell; he faced the other, who had risen tohis heavy six-foot height, confronting him across the table.

  "Berkley, whatever claim you have on me--and I'm ignoring thechance that you have none----"

  "By God, I tell you I have none! I want none! What you have doneto her you have done to me! What you and your conscience and yourcruelty and your attorneys did to her twenty-four years ago, youhave done this day to me! As surely as you outlawed her, so haveyou 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 yoursort. Hell is full of them singing psalms!"

  Colonel Arran sat silently stern a moment. Then the congestedmuscles, habituated to control, relaxed again. He said, underperfect self-command:

  "You'd better know the truth. It is too late now to discuss whosefault it was that the trouble arose between your mother and me. Welived 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 moreto 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 ourdispositions and temperaments were not entirely compatible. Ithink," he added grimly, "that in the letters read to you thisafternoon she used the expression, 'ice and fire,' in referring toherself and me."

  Berkley only looked at him.

  "There is now nothing to be gained in reviewing that unhappyaffair," continued the other. "Your mother's family are headlong,impulsive, fiery, unstable, emotional. There was a last shamefuland degrading scene. I offered her a separation; but she wasunwisely persuaded to sue for divorce."

  Colonel Arran bent his head and touched his long gray moustachewith 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 nextday. . . . And then I did my duty by civilisation."

  Still Berkley never stirred. The older man looked down at thewine-soiled cloth, traced the outline of the crimson stain withunsteady finger. Then, lifting his head:

  "I had that infamous decree set aside," he said grimly. "It was amatter of duty and of conscience, and I did it withoutremorse. . . . They were on what they supposed to be a wedding trip.But I had warned her." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "If theywere not over-particular they were probably happy. Then he brokehis 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 answerto my letters was to have you christened under the name you bearto-day, Philip Ormond Berkley. And then, to force matters, I madeher status clear to her. Maybe--I don't know--but my punishment ofher may have driven her to a hatred of me--a desperation thataccepted everything--even _you_!"

  Berkley lifted a countenance from which every vestige of colour hadfled.

  "Why did you tell me this?"

  "Because I believe that there is every chance--that you may belegally entitled to my name. Since I have known who you are, I--I_have_ had you watched. I have hesitated--a long while. Mybrokers have watched you for a year, now; my attorneys for muchlonger. To-day you stand in need of me, if ever you have stood inneed 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," repliedColonel Arran coolly.

  "Who are they?"

  "Your mother's relatives, the Paiges, the Berkleys--my family, theArrans, 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, yourmother's maid of honour."

  "Who else?"

  "A sister-in-law of Mrs. Craig, formerly my ward. She is now awidow, a Mrs. Paige, living on London Terrace. She, however, hasno knowledge of the matter in question; nor have the Lents, nor anyone in the Craig family except Mrs. Craig."

  "Who else?"

  "Nobody."

  "I see. . . . And, as I understand it, you are now steppingforward to offer me--on the chance of--of----"

  "I offer you a place in this house as my son. I offer to deal withyou 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 awhile he spoke.

  "Colonel Arran, I had rather than all the happiness on earth, thatyou had left me the memory of my mother. You have chosen not to doso. And now, do you think I am likely to exchange what she and Ireally are, for anything more respectable that you believe you canoffer?

  "How, under God, you could have punished her as you did--how youcould have reconciled your conscience to the invocation of a brutallaw which rehabilitated you at the expense of the woman who hadbeen your wife--how you could have done this in the name of dutyand of conscience, I can not comprehend.

  "I do not believe that one drop of your blood runs in my veins."

  He bent forward, laying his hands flat on the cloth, then grippingit fiercely in clenched fists:

  "All I want of you is what was my mother's. I bear the name shegave me; it pleased her to bestow it; it is good enough for me towear. If it be hers only, or if it was also my father's, I do notknow; but that name, legitimate or otherwise, is not for exchange!I will keep it, Colonel Arran. I am what I am."

  He hesitated, rigid, clenching and unclenching his hands--then drewa deep, agonised breath:

  "I suppose you have meant to be just to me, I wish you might havedealt more
mercifully with my mother. As for what you have done tome--well--if she was illegally my mother, I had rather be herillegitimate son than the son of any woman who ever lived withinthe law. Now may I have her letters?"

  "Is that your decision, Berkley?"

  "It is. I want only her letters from you--and any littlekeepsakes--relics--if there be any----"

  "I offer to recognise you as my son."

  "I decline--believing that you mean to be just--and perhapskind--God knows what you do mean by disinterring the dead for a sonto look back upon----"

  "Could I have offered you what I offer, otherwise?"

  "Man! Man! _You_ have nothing to offer _me_! Your silence wasthe only kindness you could have done me! You have killedsomething in me. I don't know what, yet--but I think it was thebest part of me."

  "Berkley, do you suppose that I have entered upon this matterlightly?"

  Berkley laughed, showing his teeth. "No. It was your damnedconscience; and I suppose you couldn't strangle it. I am sorry youcouldn't. Sometimes a strangled conscience makes men kinder."

  Colonel Arran rang. A dark flush had overspread his forehead; heturned to the butler.

  "Bring me the despatch box which stands on: my study table."

  Berkley, hands behind his back, was pacing the dining-room carpet.

  "Would you accept a glass of wine?" asked Colonel Arran in a lowvoice.

  Berkley wheeled on him with a terrible smile.

  "Shall a man drink wine with the slayer of souls?" Then, pallidface horribly distorted, he stretched out a shaking arm. "Not thatyou ever could succeed in getting near enough to murder _hers_!But you've killed mine. I know now what died in me. It was that!. . . And I know now, as I stand here excommunicated by you fromall who have been born within the law, that there is not left alivein me one ideal, one noble impulse, one spiritual conviction. I amwhat your righteousness has made me--a man without hope; a man withnothing alive in him except the physical brute. . . . Better notarouse that."

  "You do not know what you are saying, Berkley"--Colonel Arranchoked; turned gray; then a spasm twitched his features and hegrasped the arms of his chair, staring at Berkley with burning eyes.

  Neither spoke again until Larraway entered, carrying an inlaid box.

  "Thank you, Larraway. You need not wait."

  "Thank _you_, sir."

  When they were again alone Colonel Arran unlocked and opened thebox, and, behind the raised lid, remained invisibly busy for somelittle time, apparently sorting and re-sorting the hidden contents.He was so very long about it that Berkley stirred at last in hischair; and at the same moment the older man seemed to arrive at anabrupt decision, for he closed the lid and laid two packages on thecloth between them.

  "Are these mine?" asked Berkley.

  "They are mine," corrected the other quietly, "but I choose toyield them to you."

  "Thank you," said Berkley. There was a hint of ferocity in hisvoice. He took the letters, turned around to look for his hat,found it, and straightened up with a long, deep intake of breath.

  "I think there is nothing more to be said between us, ColonelArran?"

  "That lies with you."

  Berkley passed a steady hand across his eyes. "Then, sir, thereremain the ceremonies of my leave taking--" he stepped closer,level-eyed--"and my very bitter hatred."

  There was a pause. Colonel Arran waited a moment, then struck thebell:

  "Larraway, Mr. Berkley has decided to go."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You will accompany Mr. Berkley to the door."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And hand to Mr. Berkley the outer key of this house."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And in case Mr. Berkley ever again desires to enter this house, heis to be admitted, and his orders are to be obeyed by every servantin it."

  "Yes, sir."

  Colonel Arran rose trembling. He and Berkley looked at each other;then both bowed; and the butler ushered out the younger man.

  "Pardon--the latch-key, sir."

  Berkley took it, examined it, handed it back.

  "Return it to Colonel Arran with Mr. Berkley'sundying--compliments," he said, and went blindly out into the Aprilnight, but his senses were swimming as though he were drunk.

  Behind him the door of the house of Arran clanged.

  Larraway stood stealthily peering through the side-lights; thentiptoed toward the hallway and entered the dining-room with velvettread.

  "Port or brandy, sir?" he whispered at Colonel Arran's elbow.

  The Colonel shook his head.

  "Nothing more. Take that box to my study."

  Later, seated at his study table before the open box, he heardLarraway knock; and he quietly laid away the miniature of Berkley'smother which had been lying in his steady palm for hours.

  "Well?"

  "Pardon. Mr. Berkley's key, with Mr. Berkley's compliments, sir."And he laid it upon the table by the box.

  "Thank you. That will be all."

  "Thank _you_, sir. Good night, sir."

  "Good night."

  The Colonel picked up the evening paper and opened it mechanically:

  "By telegraph!" he read, "War inevitable. Postscript! FortSumter! It is now certain that the Government has decided toreinforce Major Andersen's command at all hazards----"

  The lines in the _Evening Post_ blurred under his eyes; he passedone broad, bony hand across them, straightened his shoulders, and,setting the unlighted cigar firmly between his teeth, composedhimself to read. But after a few minutes he had read enough. Hedropped deeper into his arm-chair, groping for the miniature ofBerkley's mother.

  As for Berkley, he was at last alone with his letters and hiskeepsakes, in the lodgings which he inhabited--and now wouldinhabit no more. The letters lay still unopened before him on hiswriting table; he stood looking at the miniatures and photographs,all portraits of his mother, from girlhood onward.

  One by one he took them up, examined them--touched them to hislips, laid each away. The letters he also laid away unopened; hecould not bear to read them now.

  The French clock in his bedroom struck eight. He closed and lockedhis desk, stood looking at it blankly for a moment; then he squaredhis shoulders. An envelope lay open on the desk beside him.

  "Oh--yes," he said aloud, but scarcely heard his own voice.

  The envelope enclosed an invitation from one, Camilla Lent, to atheatre party for that evening, and a dance afterward.

  He had a vague idea that he had accepted.

  The play was "The Seven Sisters" at Laura, Keene's Theatre. Thedance was somewhere--probably at Delmonico's. If he were going, itwas time he was afoot.

  His eyes wandered from one familiar object to another; he movedrestlessly, and began to roam through the richly furnished rooms.But to Berkley nothing in the world seemed familiar any longer; andthe strangeness of it, and the solitude were stupefying him.

  When he became tired trying to think, he made the tour again in astupid sort of way, then rang for his servant, Burgess, and startedmechanically about his dressing.

  Nothing any longer seemed real, not even pain.

  He rang for Burgess again, but the fellow did not appear. So hedressed without aid. And at last he was ready; and went out, drunkwith fatigue and the reaction from pain.

  He did not afterward remember how he came to the theatre.Presently he found himself in a lower tier box, talking to a Mrs.Paige who, curiously, miraculously, resembled the girlish portraitsof his mother--or he imagined so--until he noticed that her hairwas 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 thathe was able to speak at all.

  "And so you are the wonderful Ailsa Paige," he heard himselfrepeating. "Camilla wrote me that I must beware of my peace ofmind 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 forever."

  "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 issaying 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 acrosshis arm.

  "Isn't Ailsa Paige the most enchanting creature you ever saw? Itold you so! _Isn't_ she?"

  "Except one. I was looking at some pictures of her a half an hourago."

  "She must be very beautiful," sighed Camilla.

  "She was."

  "Oh. . . . Is she dead?"

  "Murdered."

  Camilla looked at the stage in horrified silence. Later shetouched 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 completelyenamoured of her. Did you ever see such a lovely creature in allyour life? And she is very young but very wise. She knows usefuland charitable things--like nursing the sick, and dressinginjuries, and her own hats. And she actually served a whole yearin the horrible city hospital! Wasn't it brave of her!"

  Berkley swayed forward to look at Ailsa Paige. He began to betormented again by the feverish idea that she resembled the girlpictures of his mother. Nor could he rid himself of the fantasticimpression. In the growing unreality of it all, in the distortedoutlines of a world gone topsy-turvy, amid the deadly blurr ofthings material and mental, Ailsa Paige's face alone remainedstrangely clear. And, scarcely knowing what he was saying, heleaned forward to her shoulder again.

  "There was only one other like you," he said. Mrs. Paige turnedslowly and looked at him, but the quiet rebuke in her eyes remainedunuttered.

  "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'tdrive 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 amoment, 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 succeededtableau; "I wish I were in Dixie," was sung, and the popularburlesque ended in the celebrated scene, "The Birth of theButterfly in the Bower of Ferns," with the entire company kissingtheir finger-tips to a vociferous and satiated audience.

  Then it was supper at Delmonico's, and a dance--and at last thewaltz 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 handon his--saw it suddenly alter as the light contact startled both.

  Flushed, she looked up at him like a hurt child, conscious yet onlyof the surprise.

  Dazed, he stared back. Neither spoke; his arm encircled her; bothseemed aware of that; then only of the swaying rhythm of the dance,and of joined hands, and her waist imprisoned. Only the fragranceof her hair seemed real to him; and the long lashes resting oncurved cheeks, and the youth of her yielding to his embrace.

  Neither spoke when it had ended. She turned aside and stoodmotionless a moment, resting against the stair rail as though tosteady herself. Her small head was lowered.

  He managed to say: "You will give me the next?"

  "No."

  "Then the next----"

  "No," she said, not moving.

  A young fellow came up eagerly, cocksure of her, but she shook herhead--and shook her head to all--and Berkley remained standingbeside her. And at last her reluctant head turned slowly, and,slowly, her gaze searched his.

  "Shall we rest?" he said.

  "Yes. I am--tired."

  Her dainty avalanche of skirts filled the stairs as she settledthere in silence; he at her feet, turned sideways so that he couldlook up into the brooding, absent eyes.

  And over them again--over the small space just then allotted themin the world--was settling once more the intangible, indefinablespell awakened by their first light contact. Through its silencehurried their pulses; through its significance her dazed young eyeslooked out into a haze where nothing stirred except a phantomheart, beating, beating the reveille. And the spell lay heavy onthem both.

  "I shall bear your image always. You know it."

  She seemed scarcely to have heard him.

  "There is no reason in what I say. I know it. Yet--I am destinednever to forget you."

  She made no sign.

  "Ailsa Paige," he said mechanically.

  And after a long while, slowly, she looked down at him where he satat her feet, his dark eyes fixed on space.