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 regiments of Lancers enlisted in the service of the United States between 1861 and 1865 it will be useless for the reader to look for any record of the 3d Zouaves or of the 8th Lancers. The red breeches and red fezzes of the Zouaves clothed many a dead man on Southern battle-fields; the scarlet swallow-tailed pennon of the Lancers fluttered from many a lance-tip beyond the Potomac; the histories of these sixty-five regiments are known. But no history of the 3d Zouaves or of the 8th Lancers has ever been written save in this narrative; and historians and veterans would seek in vain for any records of these two regiments — regiments which might have been, but never were.
AILSA PAIGE
CHAPTER I
The butler made an instinctive movement to detain him, but he flung him aside and entered the drawing-room, the servant recovering his equilibrium and following on a run. Light from great crystal chandeliers dazzled him for a moment; the butler again confronted him but hesitated under the wicked glare from his eyes. Then through the brilliant vista, the young fellow caught a glimpse of a dining-room, a table where silver and crystal glimmered, and a great gray man just lowering a glass of wine from his lips to gaze at him with quiet curiosity.
The next moment he traversed the carpeted interval between them and halted at the table’s damask edge, gazing intently across at the solitary diner, who sat leaning back in an arm-chair, heavy right hand still resting on the stem of a claret glass, a cigar suspended between the fingers of his left hand.
“Are you Colonel Arran?”
“I am,” replied the man at the table coolly. “Who the devil are you?”
“By God,” replied the other with an insolent laugh, “that’s what I came here to find out!”
The man at the table laid both hands on the edge of the cloth and partly rose from his chair, then fell back solidly, in silence, but his intent gaze never left the other’s bloodless face.
“Send away your servants, Colonel Arran!” said the young man in a voice now labouring under restraint. “We’ll settle this matter now.”
The other made as though to speak twice; then, with an effort, he motioned to the butler.
What he meant by the gesture perhaps he himself scarcely realised at the moment.
The butler instantly signalled to Pim, the servant behind Colonel Arran’s chair, and started forward with a furtive glance at his master; 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 very careful.”
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 young
Berkley, then were cautiously lowered.
“Very well, sir,” he said.
“Close the drawing-room doors. No — this way. Go out through the pantry. 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 or anything. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The great mahogany folding doors slid smoothly together, closing out the brilliant drawing-room; the door of the butler’s pantry clicked.
Colonel Arran slowly wheeled in his place and surveyed his unbidden guest:
“Well, sir,” he said, “continue.”
“I haven’t yet begun.”
“You are mistaken, Berkley; you have made a very significant beginning. 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 have already managed to attain bankruptcy.”
“Perfectly correct. What other items have you collected concerning me?”
“You can retrace your own peregrinations if you care to. I believe they follow a vicious circle bisecting the semi-fashionable world, and the — other. Shall we say that the expression, unenviable notoriety, summarises the reputation you have acquired?”
“Exactly,” he said; “both kinds of vice, Colonel Arran — respectable and disreputable.”
“Oh! And am I correct in concluding that, at this hour, you stand there 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 chin on the knuckles of his clasped hands, examined the older man with insolent, 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 evidently seen 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 an unpleasant 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 this morning Illinois Central had fallen three more points, and I had no further interest in the market. Then one of your brokers—” He leaned farther forward on the table and stared brightly at the older man, showing an edge of even teeth, under the receding upper lip:
“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 at length he spoke, he spoke more calmly than before and his mobile features were in pallid repose.
“One of your brokers — Cone — stopped me. I was too confused to understand what he wanted of me. I went with him to your attorneys—” Like lightning the snarl twitched his mouth again; he made as though to rise, and controlled himself in the act.
“Where are the originals of those letters?” he managed to say at last.
“In this house.”
“Am I to have them?”
“I think so.”
“So do I,” said the young man with a ghastly smile. “I’m quite sure 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 claret splashed and trembling crystal rang.
“That’s all I want of you!” he said. “Do you understand what you’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 for anybody in the world except my mother. If what your lawyers tell me is true—” His voice choked; he stood swaying a moment, face covered by his hands,
“Berkley!”
The young man’s hands fell; he faced the other, who had risen to his heavy six-foot height, confronting him across the table.
“Berkley, whatever claim you have on me — and I’m ignoring the chance that you have none — —”
“By God, I tell you I have none! I want none! What you have done to her you have done to me! What you and your conscience and your cruelty and your attorneys did to her twenty-four years ago, you have done this day to me! As surely as you outlawed her, so have you outlawed me to-day. That is what I now am, an outlaw!”
“It was insulted civilisation that punished, not I, Berkley — —”
“It was you! You took your shrinking pound of flesh. I know your sort. Hell is full of them singing psalms!”
Colonel Arran sat silently stern a moment. Then the congested muscles, habituated to control, relaxed again. He said, under perfect self-command:
“You’d better know the truth. It is too late now to discuss whose fault it was that the trouble arose between your mother and me. We lived together only a few weeks. She was in love with her cousin; she didn’t realise it until she’d married me. I have nothing more to say on that score; she tried to be faithful, I believe she was; but he was a scoundrel. And she ended by thinking me one.
“Even before I married her I was made painfully aware that our dispositions and temperaments were not entirely compatible. I think,” he added grimly, “that in the letters read to you this afternoon she used the expression, ‘ice and fire,’ in referring to herself and me.”
Berkley only looked at him.
“There is now nothing to be gained in reviewing that unhappy affair,” continued the other. “Your mother’s family are headlong, impulsive, fiery, unstable, emotional. There was a last shameful and degrading scene. I offered her a separation; but she was unwisely persuaded to sue for divorce.”
Colonel Arran bent his head and touched his long gray moustache with bony fingers.
“The proceeding was farcical; the decree a fraud. I warned her; but she snapped her fingers at me and married her cousin the next day. . . . And then I did my duty by civilisation.”
Still Berkley never stirred. The older man looked down at the wine-soiled cloth, traced the outline of the crimson stain with unsteady finger. Then, lifting his head:
“I had that infamous decree set aside,” he said grimly. “It was a matter of duty and of conscience, and I did it without remorse. . . . They were on what they supposed to be a wedding trip. But I had warned her.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “If they were not over-particular they were probably happy. Then he broke his neck hunting — before you were born.”
“Was he my father?”
“I am taking the chance that he was not.”
“You had reason to believe — —”
“I thought so. But — your mother remained silent. And her answer to my letters was to have you christened under the name you bear to-day, Philip Ormond Berkley. And then, to force matters, I made her status clear to her. Maybe — I don’t know — but my punishment of her may have driven her to a hatred of me — a desperation that accepted everything — even you!”
Berkley lifted a countenance from which every vestige of colour had fled.
“Why did you tell me this?”
“Because I believe that there is every chance — that you may be legally entitled to my name. Since I have known who you are, I — I have had you watched. I have hesitated — a long while. My brokers have watched you for a year, now; my attorneys for much longer. To-day you stand in need of me, if ever you have stood in need of anybody. I take the chance that you have that claim on me; I offer to receive you, provide for you. That is all, Berkley. Now you know everything.”
“Who else — knows?”
“Knows what?”
“Knows what you did to my mother?”
“Some people among the families immediately concerned,” replied
Colonel Arran coolly.
“Who are they?”
“Your mother’s relatives, the Paiges, the Berkleys — my family, the
Arrans, the Lents — —”
“What Lents?” interrupted the young man looking up sharply.
“They live in Brooklyn. There’s a brother and a sister, orphans; and an uncle. Captain Josiah Lent.”
“Oh. . . . Who else?”
“A Mrs. Craig who lives in Brooklyn. She was Celia Paige, your mother’s maid of honour.”
“Who else?”
“A sister-in-law of Mrs. Craig, formerly my ward. She is now a widow, a Mrs. Paige, living on London Terrace. She, however, has no knowledge of the matter in question; nor have the Lents, nor any one in the Craig family except Mrs. Craig.”
“Who else?”
“Nobody.”
“I see. . . . And, as I understand it, you are now stepping forward to offer me — on the chance of — of — —”
“I offer you a place in this house as my son. I offer to deal with you as a father — accepting that belief and every responsibility, and every duty, and every sacrifice that such a belief entails,”
For a long time the young fellow stood there without stirring, pallid, his dark, expressionless eyes, fixed on space. And after a while he spoke.
“Colonel Arran, I had rather than all the happiness on earth, that you had left me the memory of my mother. You have chosen not to do so. And now, do you think I am likely to exchange what she and I really are, for anything more respectable that you believe you can offer?
“How, under God, you could have punished her as you did — how you could have reconciled your conscience to the invocation of a brutal law which rehabilitated you at the expense of the woman who had been your wife — how you could have done this in the name of duty and 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 gripping it fiercely in clenched fists:
“All I want of you is what was my mother’s. I bear the name she gave me; it pleased her to bestow it; it is good enough for me to wear. If it be hers only, or if it was also my father’s, I do not know; 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 drew a deep, agonised breath:
“I suppose you have meant to be just to me, I wish you might have dealt more mercifully with my mother. As for what you have done to me — well — if she was illegally my mother, I had rather be her illegitimate son than the son of any woman who ever lived within the law. Now may I have her letters?”
“Is that your decision, Berkley?”
“It is. I want only her letters from you — and any little keepsakes — relics — if there be any — —”
“I offer to recognise you as my son.”
“I decline — believing that you mean to be just — and perhaps kind — God knows what you do mean by disinterring the dead for a son to look back upon — —”
“Could I have offered you what I offer, otherwise?”
“Man! Man! You have nothing to offer me! Your silence was the only kindness you could have done me! You have killed something in me. I don’t know what, yet — but I think it was the best part of me.”
“Berkley, do you suppose that I have entered upon this matter lightly?”
Berkley laughed, showing his teeth. “No. It was your damned conscience; and I suppose you couldn’t strangle it. I am sorry you couldn’t. Sometimes a strangled conscience makes men kinder.”
Colonel Arran rang. A dark flush had overspread his forehead; he turned 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 low voice.
Berkley wheeled on him with a terrible smile.
“Shall a man drink wine with the slayer of souls?” Then, pallid face horribly distorted, he stretched out a shaking arm. “Not that you 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 from all who have been born within the law, that there is not left alive in me one ideal, one noble impulse, one spiritual conviction. I am what your righteousness has made me — a man without hope; a man with nothing alive in him except the physical brute. . . . Better not arouse that.”
“You do not know what you are saying, Berkley” — Colonel Arran choked; turned gray; then a spasm twitched his features and he grasped 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 the box, and, behind the raised lid, remained invisibly busy for some little time, apparently sorting and re-sorting the hidden contents. He was so very long about it that Berkley stirred at last in his chair; and at the same moment the older man seemed to arrive at an abrupt decision, for he closed the lid and laid two packages on the cloth between them.
“Are these mine?” asked Berkley.
“They are mine,” corrected the other quietly, “but I choose to yield them to you.”
“Thank you,” said Berkley. There was a hint of ferocity in his voice. 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, Colonel
Arran?”
“That lies with you.”
Berkley passed a steady hand across his eyes. “Then, sir, there remain the ceremonies of my leave taking—” he stepped closer, level-eyed— “and my very bitter hatred.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 479