“Is that why you care?” she asked slowly.
“Ailsa! Good God — I scarcely know what I’m saying — —”
“I know.”
She stepped back, eyes darkening to deepest violet — retreated, facing him, step by step to the doorway, through it; and left him standing there.
CHAPTER XIII
Berkley’s first letter to her was written during that week of lovely weather, the first week in March. The birds never sang more deliriously, the regimental bands never played more gaily; every camp was astir in the warm sunshine with companies, regiments, brigades, or divisions drilling.
At the ceremonies of guard mount and dress parade the country was thronged with visitors from Washington, ladies in gay gowns and scarfs, Congressmen in silk hats and chokers, apparently forgetful of their undignified role in the late affair at Bull Run — even children with black mammies in scarlet turbans and white wool dresses came to watch a great army limbering up after a winter of inaction.
He wrote to her:
“Dearest, it has been utterly impossible for me to obtain leave of absence and a pass to go as far as the Farm Hospital. I tried to run the guard twice, but had to give it up. I’m going to try again as soon as there seems any kind of a chance.
“We have moved our camp. Why, heaven knows. If our general understood what cavalry is for we would have been out long ago — miles from here — if to do nothing more than make a few maps which, it seems, our august leaders entirely lack.
“During the night the order came: ‘This division will move at four o’clock in the morning with two days’ rations.’ All night long we were at work with axe and hammer, tearing down quarters, packing stores, and loading our waggons.
“We have an absurd number of waggons. There is an infantry regiment camped near us that has a train of one hundred and thirty-six-mule teams to transport its household goods. It’s the 77th New York,
“The next morning the sun rose on our army in motion. You say that I am a scoffer. I didn’t scoff at that spectacle. We were on Flint Hill; and, as far as we could see around us, the whole world was fairly crawling with troops. Over them a rainbow hung. Later it rained, as you know.
“I’m wet, Ailsa. The army for the first time is under shelter tents. The Sibley wall tents and wedge tents are luxuries of the past for officers and men alike.
“The army — that is, the bulk of it — camped at five. We — the cavalry — went on to see what we could see around Centreville; but the rebels had burned it, so we came back here where we don’t belong — a thousand useless men armed with a thousand useless weapons. Because, dear, our lances are foolish things, picturesque but utterly unsuited to warfare in such a country as this.
“You see, I’ve become the sort of an ass who is storing up information and solving vast and intricate problems in order to be kind to my superiors when, struck with panic at their own tardily discovered incapacity, they rush to me in a body to ask me how to do it.
“Rush’s Lancers are encamped near you now; our regiment is not far from them. If I can run the guard I’ll do it. I’m longing to see you, dear.
“I’ve written to Celia, as you know, so she won’t be too much astonished if I sneak into the gallery some night.
“I’ve seen a lot of Zouaves, the 5th, 9th, 10th, and other regiments, but not the 3rd. What a mark they make of themselves in their scarlet and blue. Hawkins’ regiment, the 9th, is less conspicuous, wearing only the red headgear and facings, but Duryea’s regiment is a sight! A magnificent one from the spectacular stand-point, but the regiments in blue stand a better chance of being missed by the rebel riflemen. I certainly wish Colonel Craig’s Zouaves weren’t attired like tropical butterflies. But for heaven’s sake don’t say this to Celia.
“Well, you see, I betray the cloven hoof of fear, even when I write you. It’s a good thing that I know I am naturally a coward; because I may learn to be so ashamed of my legs that I’ll never run at all, either way.
“Dear, I’m too honest with you to make promises, and far too intelligent not to know that when people begin shooting at each other somebody is likely to get hit. It is instinctive in me to avoid mutilation and extemporary death if I can do it. I realise what it means when the air is full of singing, buzzing noises; when twigs and branches begin to fall and rattle on my cap and saddle; when weeds and dead grass are snipped off short beside me; when every mud puddle is starred and splashed; when whack! smack! whack! on the stones come flights of these things you hear about, and hear, and never see. And — it scares me.
“But I’m trying to figure out that, first, I am safer if I do what my superiors tell me to do; second, that it’s a dog’s life anyway; third, that it’s good enough for me, so why run away from it?
“Some day some of these Johnnies will scare me so that I’ll start after them. There’s no fury like a man thoroughly frightened.
“Nobody has yet been hurt in any of the lancer regiments except one of Rush’s men, who got tangled up in the woods and wounded himself with his own lance.
“Oh, these lances! And oh, the cavalry! And, alas! a general who doesn’t know how to use his cavalry.
“No sooner does a cavalry regiment arrive than, bang! it’s split up into troops — a troop to escort General A., another to gallop after General B., another to sit around headquarters while General C. dozes after dinner! And, if it’s not split up, it’s detailed bodily on some fool’s job instead of being packed off under a line officer to find out what is happening just beyond the end of the commander’s nose.
“The visitors like to see us drill — like to see us charge, red pennons flying, lances at rest. I like to see Rush’s Lancers, too. But, all the same, sometimes when we go riding gaily down the road, some of those dingy, sunburnt Western regiments who have been too busy fighting to black their shoes line up along the road and repeat, monotonously:
“‘Who-ever-saw-a-dead-cavalryman?’
“It isn’t what they say, Ailsa, it’s the expression of their dirty faces that turns me red, sometimes, and sometimes incites me to wild mirth.
“I’m writing this squatted under my ‘tente d’abri.’ General McClellan, with a preposterous staff the size of a small brigade, has just passed at a terrific gallop — a handsome, mild-eyed man who has made us into an army, and who ornaments headquarters with an entire squadron of Claymore’s 20th Dragoons and one of our own 8th Lancers. Well, some day he’ll come to me and say: ‘Ormond, I understand that there is only one man in the entire army fit to command it. Accept this cocked hat.’
“That detail would suit me, dear. I could get behind the casemates of Monroe and issue orders. I was cut out to sit in a good, thick casemate and bring this cruel war to an end.
“A terribly funny thing happened at Alexandria. A raw infantry regiment was camped near the seminary, and had managed to flounder through guard mount. The sentinels on duty kept a sharp lookout and turned out the guard every time a holiday nigger hove in sight; and sentinels and guard and officer were getting awfully tired of their mistakes; and the day was hot, and the sentinels grew sleepy.
“Then one sentry, dozing awake, happened to turn and glance toward the woods; and out of it, over the soft forest soil, and already nearly on top of him, came a magnificent cavalcade at full gallop — the President, and Generals McClellan and Benjamin Butler leading.
“Horror paralyzed him, then he ran toward the guard house, shrieking at the top of his lungs:
“‘Great God! Turn out the guard! Here comes Old Abe and Little
Mac and Beast Butler!’
“And that’s all the camp gossip and personal scandal that I have to relate to you, dear.
“I’ll run the guard if I can, so help me Moses!
“And I am happier than I have ever been in all my life. If I don’t run under fire you have promised not to stop loving me. That is the bargain, remember.
“Here comes your late lamented. I’m no favorite of his, nor he of mine. He did
me a silly trick the other day — had me up before the Colonel because he said that it had been reported to him that I had enlisted under an assumed name.
“I had met the Colonel. He looked at me and said:
“‘Is Ormond your name?’
[Illustration: “‘Is Ormond your name?’”]
“I said: ‘It is, partly.’
“He said: ‘Then it is sufficient to fight under.’
“Ailsa, I am going to tell you something. It has to do with me, as you know me, and it has to do with Colonel Arran.
“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you; but I’m also afraid it will be necessary.
“Colonel Arran is your friend. But, Ailsa, I am his implacable enemy. Had I dreamed for one moment that the Westchester Horse was to become the 10th troop of Arran’s Lancers, I would never have joined it.
“It was a bitter dose for me to swallow when my company was sworn into the United States service under this man.
“Since, I have taken the matter philosophically. He has not annoyed me, except by being alive on earth. He showed a certain primitive decency in not recognizing me when he might have done it in a very disagreeable fashion. I think he was absolutely astonished to see me there; but he never winked an eyelash. I give the devil his due.
“All this distresses you, dear. But I cannot help it; you would have to know, sometime, that Colonel Arran and I are enemies. So let it go at that; only, remembering it, avoid always any uncomfortable situation which must result in this man and myself meeting under your roof.”
His letter ended in lighter vein — a gay message to Celia, a cordial one to Letty, and the significant remark that he expected to see her very soon.
The next night he tried to run the guard, and failed.
She had written to him, begging him not to; urging the observance of discipline, while deploring their separation — a sweet, confused letter, breathing in every line her solicitation for him, her new faith and renewed trust in him.
Concerning what he had told her about his personal relations with Colonel Arran she had remained silent — was too unhappy and astonished to reply. Thinking of it later, it recalled to her mind Celia’s studied avoidance of any topic in which Colonel Arran figured. She did not make any mental connection between Celia’s dislike for the man and Berkley’s — the coincidence merely made her doubly unhappy.
And, one afternoon when Letty was on duty and she and Celia were busy with their mending in Celia’s room, she thought about Berkley’s letter and his enmity, and remembered Celia’s silent aversion at the same moment.
“Celia,” she said, looking up, “would you mind telling me what it is that you dislike about my old and very dear friend, Colonel Arran?”
Celia continued her needlework for a few moments. Then, without raising her eyes, she said placidly:
“You have asked me that befo’, Honey-bird.”
“Yes, dear. . . . You know it is not impertinent curiosity — —”
“I know what it is, Honey-bee. But you can not he’p this gentleman and myse’f to any ground of common understanding.”
“I am so sorry,” sighed Ailsa, resting her folded hands on her work and gazing through the open window.
Celia continued to sew without glancing up. Presently she said:
“I reckon I’ll have to tell you something about Colonel Arran after all. I’ve meant to for some time past. Because — because my silence condemns him utterly; and that is not altogether just.” She bent lower over her work; her needle travelled more slowly as she went on speaking:
“In my country, when a gentleman considers himse’f aggrieved, he asks fo’ that satisfaction which is due to a man of his quality. . . . But Colonel Arran did not ask. And when it was offered, he refused.” Her lips curled. “He cited the Law,” she said with infinite contempt.
“But Colonel Arran is not a Southerner,” observed Ailsa quietly.
“You know how all Northerners feel — —”
“It happened befo’ you were born, Honey-bud. Even the No’th recognised the code then.”
“Is that why you dislike Colonel Arran? Because he refused to challenge or be challenged when the law of the land forbade private murder?”
Celia’s cheeks flushed deeply; she tightened her lips; then:
“The law is not made fo’ those in whom the higher law is inherent,” she said calmly. “It is made fo’ po’ whites and negroes.”
“Celia!”
“It is true, Honey-bird. When a gentleman breaks the law that makes him one, it is time fo’ him to appeal to the lower law. And Colonel Arran did so.”
“What was his grievance?”
“A deep one, I reckon. He had the right on his side — and his own law to defend it, and he refused. And the consequences were ve’y dreadful.”
“To — him?”
“To us all. . . . His punishment was certain.”
“Was he punished?”
“Yes. Then, in his turn, he punished — terribly. But not as a gentleman should. Fo’ in that code which gove’ns us, no man can raise his hand against a woman. He must endure all things; he may not defend himse’f at any woman’s expense; he may not demand justice at the expense of any woman. It is the privilege of his caste to endure with dignity what cannot be remedied or revenged except through the destruction of a woman. . . . And Colonel Arran invoked the lower law; and the justice that was done him destroyed — a woman.”
She looked up steadily into Ailsa’s eyes.
“She was only a young girl, Honey-bud — too young to marry anybody, too inexperienced to know her own heart until it was too late.
“And Colonel Arran came; and he was ve’y splendid, and handsome, and impressive in his cold, heavy dignity, and ve’y certain that the child must marry him — so certain that she woke up one day and found that she had done it. And learned that she did not love him.
“There was a boy cousin. He was reckless, I reckon; and she was ve’y unhappy; and one night he found her crying in the garden; and there was a ve’y painful scene, and she let him kiss the hem of her petticoat on his promise to go away fo’ ever. And — Colonel Arran caught him on his knees, with the lace to his lips — and the child wife crying. . . . He neither asked nor accepted satisfaction; he threatened the — law! And that settled him with her, I reckon, and she demanded her freedom, and he refused, and she took it.
“Then she did a ve’y childish thing; she married the boy — or supposed she did — —”
Celia’s violet eyes grew dark with wrath:
“And Colonel Arran went into co’t with his lawyers and his witnesses and had the divorce set aside — and publicly made this silly child her lover’s mistress, and their child nameless! That was the justice that the law rendered Colonel Arran. And now you know why I hate him — and shall always hate and despise him.”
Ailsa’s head was all awhirl; lips parted, she stared at Celia in stunned silence, making as yet no effort to reconcile the memory of the man she knew with this cold, merciless, passionless portrait.
Nor did the suspicion occur to her that there could be the slightest connection between her sister-in-law’s contempt for Colonel Arran and Berkley’s implacable enmity.
All the while, too, her clearer sense of right and justice cried out in dumb protest against the injury done to the man who had been her friend, and her parents’ friend — kind, considerate, loyal, impartially just in all his dealings with her and with the world, as far as she had ever known.
From Celia’s own showing the abstract right and justice of the matter had been on his side; no sane civilisation could tolerate the code that Celia cited. The day of private vengeance was over; the era of duelling was past in the North — was passing in the South. And, knowing Colonel Arran, she knew also that twenty odd years ago his refusal to challenge had required a higher form of courage than to face the fire of a foolish boy’s pistol.
And now, collecting her disordered thoughts, she began to understand wh
at part emotion and impulse had played in the painful drama — how youthful ignorance and false sentiment had combined to invest a silly but accidental situation with all the superficial dignity of tragedy.
What must it have meant to Colonel Arran, to this quiet, slow, respectable man of the world, to find his girl wife crying in the moonlight, and a hot-headed boy down on his knees, mumbling the lace edge of her skirts?
What must it have meant to him — for the chances were that he had not spoken the first word — to be confronted by an excited, love-smitten, reckless boy, and have a challenge flung in his face before he had uttered a word.
No doubt his calm reply was to warn the boy to mind his business under penalty of law. No doubt the exasperated youth defied him — insulted him — declared his love — carried the other child off her feet with the exaggerated emotion and heroics. And, once off their feet, she saw how the tide had swept them together — swept them irrevocably beyond reason and recall.
Ailsa rose and stood by the open window, looking out across the hills; but her thoughts were centred on Colonel Arran’s tragedy, and the tragedy of those two hot-headed children whom his punishment had out-lawed.
Doubtless his girl wife had told him how the boy had come to be there, and that she had banished him; but the clash between maturity and adolescence is always inevitable; the misunderstanding between ripe experience and Northern logic, and emotional inexperience and Southern impulse was certain to end in disaster.
Ailsa considered; and she knew that now her brief for Colonel Arran was finished, for beyond the abstract right she had no sympathy with the punishment he had dealt out, even though his conscience and civilisation and the law of the land demanded the punishment of these erring’ ones.
No, the punishment seemed too deeply tainted with vengeance for her to tolerate.
A deep unhappy sigh escaped her. She turned mechanically, seated herself, and resumed her sewing.
“I suppose I ought to be asleep,” she said. “I am on duty to-night, and they’ve brought in so many patients from the new regiments.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 499