Part 30 (1/2)
A living fever was on her night and day; disordered memories of him haunted her, waking; defied her, sleeping; and her hatred for what he had awakened in her grew as her blind, childish longing to see him grew, leaving no peace for her.
What kind of love was that?-founded on nothing, nurtured on nothing, thriving on nothing except what her senses beheld in him. Nothing higher, nothing purer, nothing more exalted had she ever learned of him than what her eyes saw; and they had seen only a man in his ripe youth, without purpose, without ideals, taking carelessly of the world what he would one day return to it-the material, born in corruption, and to corruption doomed.
It was night she feared most. By day there were duties awaiting, or to be invented. Also, sometimes, standing on her steps, she could hear the distant sound of drums, catch a glimpse far to the eastward of some regiment bound South, the long rippling line of bayonets, a flutter of colour where the North was pa.s.sing on G.o.d's own errand. And love of country became a pa.s.sion.
Stephen came sometimes, but his news of Berkley was always indefinite, usually expressed with a shrug and emphasised in silences.
Colonel Arran was still in Was.h.i.+ngton, but he wrote her every day, and always he asked whether Berkley had come. She never told him.
Like thousands and thousands of other women in New York she did what she could for the soldiers, contributing from her purse, attending meetings, making havelocks, ten by eight, for the soldiers' caps, rolling bandages, sc.r.a.ping lint in company with other girls of her acquaintance, visiting barracks and camps and ”soldiers' rests,” sending endless batches of pies and cakes and dozens of jars of preserves from her kitchen to the various distributing depots.
Sainte Ursula's Church sent out a call to its paris.h.i.+oners; a notice was printed in all the papers requesting any women of the congregation who had a knowledge of nursing to meet at the rectory for the purpose of organisation. And Ailsa went and enrolled herself as one who had had some hospital experience.
Sickness among the thousands of troops in the city there already was, also a few cases of gunshots in the accident wards incident on the carelessness or ignorance of raw volunteers. But as yet in the East there had been no soldier wounded in battle, no violent death except that of the young colonel of the 1st Fire Zouaves, shot down at Alexandria.
So there was no regular hospital duty asked of Ailsa Paige, none required; and she and a few other women attended a cla.s.s of instruction conducted by her own physician, Dr. Benton, who explained the simpler necessities of emergency cases and coolly predicted that there would be plenty of need for every properly instructed woman who cared to volunteer.
So the ladies of Sainte Ursula's listened very seriously; and some had enough of it very soon, and some remained longer, and finally only a small residue was left-quiet, silent, attentive women of various ages who came every day to hear what Dr. Benton had to tell them, and write it down in their little morocco notebooks. And these, after a while, became the Protestant sisterhood of Sainte Ursula, and wore, on duty, the garb of gray with the pectoral scarlet heart.
May went out with the booming of shotted guns beyond the, Southern horizon, amid rumours of dead zouaves and cavalrymen somewhere beyond Alexandria. And on that day the 7th Regiment returned to garrison the city, and the anxious city cheered its return, and people slept more soundly for it, though all day long the streets echoed with the music of troops departing, and of regiments parading for a last inspection before the last good-byes were said.
Berkley saw some of this from his window. Never perfectly sober now, he seldom left his rooms except at night; and all day long he read, or brooded, or lay listless, or as near drunk as he ever could be, indifferent, neither patient nor impatient with a life he no longer cared enough about to either use or take.
There were intervals when the deep despair within him awoke quivering; instants of fierce grief instantly controlled, throttled; moments of listless relaxation when some particularly contemptible trait in Burgess faintly amused him, or some attempted invasion of his miserable seclusion provoked a sneer or a haggard smile, or perhaps an uneasiness less ign.o.ble, as when, possibly, the brief series of letters began and ended between him and the dancing girl of the Canterbury.
”DEAR MR. BERKLEY: ”Could you come for me after the theatre this evening?
”LEt.i.tIA LYNDEN.”
”DEAR LETTY: ”I'm afraid I couldn't.
”Very truly yours, ”P. O. BERKLEY.”
”DEAR MR. BERKLEY: ”Am I not to see you again? I think perhaps you might care to hear that I have been doing what you wished ever since that night. I have also written home, but n.o.body has replied. I don't think they want me now. It is a little lonely, being what you wish me to be. I thought you might come sometimes. Could you?
”LEt.i.tIA LYNDEN.”
”DEAR LEt.i.tIA: ”I seem to be winning my bet, but n.o.body can ever tell. Wait for a while and then write home again.
Meantime, why not make bonnets? If you want to, I'll see that you get a chance.
”P. O. BERKLEY.”
”DEAR MR. BERKLEY: ”I don't know how. I never had any skill. I was a.s.sistant in a physician's office-once. Thank you for your kind and good offer-for all your goodness to me.
I wish I could see you sometimes. You have been better to me than any man. Could I?
”LETTY.”
”DEAR LETTY: ”Why not try some physician's office?”
”DEAR MR. BERKLEY: ”Do you wish me to? Would you see me sometimes if I left the Canterbury? It is so lonely-you don't know, Mr. Berkley, how lonely it is to be what you wish me to be. Please only come and speak to me.
”LETTY.”
”DEAR LETTY: ”Here is a card to a nice doctor, Phineas Benton, M.D. I have not seen him in years; he remembers me as I was. You will not, of course, disillusion him. I've had to lie to him about you-and about myself. I've told him that I know your family in Philadelphia, that they asked me about the chances of a position here for you as an a.s.sistant in a physician's office, and that now you had come on to seek for such a position. Let me know how the lie turns out.
”P. O. BERKLEY.”
A fortnight later came her last letter: