Ailsa Paige. Robert W. Chambers

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."

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

      "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, he is to be admitted, and his orders are to be obeyed by every servant in 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's undying—compliments," he said, and went blindly out into the April night, 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; then tiptoed toward the hallway and entered the dining-room with velvet tread.

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

      The Colonel shook his head.

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