CHAPTER V
"Burgess!"
"Sir?"
Berkley sat up in bed and viewed his environment with disgust.
"These new lodgings would make a fair kennel, wouldn't they,Burgess?--if a man isn't too particular about his dog."
The servant entered with a nasty smirk. "Yes, sir; I seen a ratlast night."
"He's not the only one, is he, Burgess," yawned Berkley. "Oh,hell! I've got to dress. Did you paint that bathtub? I guess youdid, the place reeks like a paint shop. Anyway, it kills lessdesirable aromas. Where's the water?"
He swung his symmetrical body to the bed's edge, dropped lightly tothe carpet, unloosed his night robe, and stretched himself.
"Was I very drunk, Burgess?"
"No, sir; you just went to sleep. You haven't got no headache,have you?"
"No--but it was only corn whisky. I didn't remember what I didwith it. Is there any left?"
"Not much, sir."
The servant, ugly to the verge of deformity, and wearing invariablythe abominable smirk that disgusted others but amused Berkley, wentabout his duties.
Berkley blinked at him reflectively, then bathed, dressed, and satdown to a bowl of chocolate and a bit of bread.
"What the devil was all that row this morning, Burgess?"
"War, sir. The President has called for seventy-five thousand men.Here it is, sir." And he laid a morning paper beside the cup ofchocolate, which Berkley studied between sips, commentingoccasionally aloud:
"Heavens, Burgess, why, we're a race of patriots! Now who on earthcould have suspected that. . . . Why, we seem to be heroes, too!What do you think of that, Burgess? You're a hero; I'm a hero;everybody north of Charleston is an embattled citizen or a hero!Isn't it funny that nobody realised all this before?" . . . Heturned the paper leisurely sipping his chocolate. . . . "_Of_course--the 'dear old flag'! That's the cheese, isn't it, Burgess?Been insulted, hasn't it? And we're all going to Charleston topunch that wicked Beauregard in the nose. . . . Burgess, you and Iare neglecting our duty as heroes; there's much shouting to be doneyet, much yelling in the streets, much arguing to be done, many,many cocktails to be firmly and uncompromisingly swallowed. Areyou prepared to face the serious consequences of being a hero?"
"Yes, sir," said Burgess.
"You merit well of the republic! The country needs you. Here'shalf a dollar. Do your duty unflinchingly--at the nearest bar!"
Burgess took the coin with a smirk.
"Mr. Berkley, the landlady sent word that times is hard."
"Bless her soul! They _are_ hard, Burgess. Inform her of mysentiments," said Berkley cordially. "Now, my hat and cane, if youplease. We're a wonderful people, Burgess; we'll beat ourwalking-sticks into bayonets if Mr. Beauregard insists on sayingboo to us too many times in succession. . . . And, Burgess?"
"Sir?"
"Now that you have waked up this morning to find yourself a hero, Ithink you'd better find yourself another and more spectacularmaster. My heroism, for the future, is to be more or lessinconspicuous; in fact, I begin the campaign by inserting my ownstuds and cleaning my own clothes, and keeping out of gaol; and thesooner I go where that kind of glory calls me the sooner my namewill be emblazoned in the bright lexicon of youth where there's nosuch word as 'jail.'",
"Sir?"
"In simpler and more archaic phrase, I can't afford you, Burgess,unless I pilfer for a living."
"I don't eat much, sir."
"No, you don't _eat_ much."
"I could quit drinking, sir."
"_That_ is really touching, Burgess. This alcohol pickledintegument of yours covers a trusting heart. But it won't do.Heroics in a hall bedroom cut no coupons, my poor friend. Ourpaths to glory and the grave part just outside the door-sillyonder."
"_She_ said I could stay, sir."
"Which _she_?"
"The landlady. I'm to fetch coal and run errants and wait ontable. But you'll get the best cuts, sir. And after hours I cansee to your clothes and linen and boots and hats, and do yourerrants same like the usual."
"Now this is nearly as pathetic as our best fiction," said Berkley;"ruined master, faithful man--_won't_ leave--starves slowly at hismaster's feet--tootle music very sneaky--'transformation! Burgessin heaven, blinking, puzzled, stretching one wing, reflectivelyscratching his halo with right hind foot. Angel chorus. Burgessappears to enjoy it and lights one of my best cigars----"
"Sir?" said Burgess, very red.
Berkley swung around, levelled his walking-stick, and indicated thepit of his servant's stomach:
"Your face is talking now; wait till _that_ begins to yell. Itwill take more than I'm earning to fill it."
He stood a moment, smiling, curious. Then:
"You've been as faithless a valet as any servant who ever wateredwine, lost a gimcrack, or hooked a weed. Studs, neckcloths,bootjacks, silk socks, pins, underwear--all magically andeventually faded from my wardrobe, wafted to those silent bournesof swag that valets wot of. What in hell do you want to stay_here_ for now, you amusing wastrel?"
"Yes, sir. I'd prefer to stay with you."
"But there'll be no more pleasant pickings, my poor and faithlesssteward! If you should convert anything more to your own bankaccount I'll be obliged to stroll about naked."
"Yes, sir," muttered Burgess; "I brought back some things lastnight--them socks, shirt-pins and studs, and the fob. . . . Yes,sir; I fetched 'em back, I did--" A sudden and curious gleam ofpride crossed the smirk for an instant;--"I guess my gentlemanain't agoing to _look_ no worse than the next Fifth Avenue swell hemeets--even if he ain't et no devilled kidneys for breakfast and hedon't dine on no canvas-back at Delmonico's. No, sir."
Berkley sat down on the bed's edge and laughed until he couldscarcely see the man, who observed him in patient annoyance. Andevery time Berkley looked at him he went into another fit ofuncontrollable laughter, as he realised the one delightful weaknessin this thorough-paced rogue--pride in the lustre cast upon himselfby the immaculate appearance of a fashionable master. But afterreflection, it did not astonish him too much; the besettingweakness of rogues is vanity in one form or another. This happenedto be an unusual form.
"Burgess," he said, "I don't care how you go to hell. Go with meif you like or go it alone."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome," replied Berkley gravely, and, tucking his cane upunder one arm, he went out to business, drawing on a pair oflemon-coloured kid gloves.
Later he searched his pockets for the cigar he had denied himselfthe evening before. It was not there. In fact, at that moment,Burgess, in the boarding-house backyard, was promenading up anddown, leering at the Swedish scullion, and enjoying the lastexpensive cigar that his master was likely to purchase in many aday.
The street, and avenue were seething with people; people stood attheir windows looking out at the news-boys who swarmed everywhere,shouting endless extras; people were gathering on corners, insquares, along park railings, under porticos of hotels, and everyone of them had a newspaper and was reading.
In front of the St. Nicholas Hotel a lank and shabby man hadmounted a cracker box, and was evidently making a speech, butBerkley could distinguish nothing he said because of the wildcheering.
Everywhere, threading the throng, hurried boys and men sellingminiature flags, red-white-and-blue rosettes, and tricolouredcockades; and everybody was purchasing the national colours--thepassing crowd had already become bright with badges; the Unioncolours floated in streamers from the throats or sleeves of prettygirls, glinted in the lapels of dignified old gentlemen, decoratedthe hats of the stage-drivers and the blinders of their horses.
"Certainly," said Berkley, buying a badge and pinning it in hisbutton-hole. "Being a hero, I require the trade-mark. Kindlypermit that I offer a suggestion--" a number of people waiting tobuy badges; were now listening to him--"those gentlemen gatheredthere in front of the New York Hotel seem to be without these markswhich distinguis
h heroes from citizens. No doubt they'll bedelighted to avail themselves of your offered cockades."
A quick laugh broke out from those around, but there was anundertone of menace in it, because the undecorated gentlemen infront of the New York Hotel were probably Southerners, andSecessionists in principles; that hostelry being the rendezvous inNew York of everything Southern.
So, having bestowed his mischievous advice, Berkley strolled ondown Broadway, his destination being the offices of Craig and Son,City and Country Real Estate, where he had a desk to himself, aclient or two in prospect, and considerable leisure to study thestreet, gas, and sewer maps of New York City.
Tiring of this distraction, he was always at liberty to twiddle histhumbs, twirl his pencil, yawn, blink, and look out of the windowat the City Park across the way, where excited citizens maintaineda steady yelling monotone before the neighbouring newspaper officesall day long.
He was also free to reflect upon his own personal shortcomings, aspeculation perhaps less damaging than the recent one he hadindulged in; and he thought about it sometimes; and sometimes aboutAilsa Paige, whom he had not again seen since the unaccountablemadness had driven him to trample and destroy the first realinclination he had ever had for a woman.
This inclination he occasionally found leisure to analyse, but, notunderstanding it, never got very far, except that, superficially,it had been more or less physical. From the moment he saw her hewas conscious that she was different; insensibly the exquisitelyvolatile charm of her enveloped him, and he betrayed it, awakingher, first, to uneasy self-consciousness; then uneasy consciousnessof him; then, imperceptibly, through distrust, alarm, and athousand inexplicable psychological emotions, to a wistful interestthat faintly responded to his. Ah! that response!--strange,childish, ignorant, restless--but still a response; and fromobscure shallows unsuspected, uncomprehended--shallows that hadnever before warned her with the echo of an evanescent ripple.
For him to have reflected, reasoned, halted himself, had beenuseless from the beginning. The sister-in-law of this girl knewwho and what he was and had been. There was no hope for him. Tolet himself drift; to evoke in her, sometimes by hazard, at timeswith intent, the delicate response--faint echo--pale shadow of thevirile emotions she evoked in him, that, too, was useless. He knewit, yet curious to try, intent on developing communication throughthose exquisite and impalpable lines that threaded the mystery fromhim to her--from her to him.
And then, when the mystery all about them was aquiver, and hervague eyes met his through the magic, acquiescent under a sorceryfor which she had no name--then, when all things occult breathedsilence--then he had said too much!
It was perhaps as well that he had said it then as later--as wellperhaps that, losing self-control, defeat had moved his tongue toboast, had fixed the empty eye and stamped the smile he wore with aconfidence dead in him for ever.
He had said that he would come back. He knew that he would not.
It was the pitiful defiance of a boaster hopelessly hurt.
He no longer desired to see her again. Never again would he riskenduring what she had evoked in him, whatever it was of good or ofevil, of the spiritual or the impure--he did not know he was awareonly of what his eyes had beheld and his heart had begun to desire.
On his way back from the office that evening he met Camilla Lentand her uncle, the Captain, and would have passed with an amiablesalute, but the girl evinced a decided desire to speak. So heturned and joined them.
"How do you do, Camilla? How are you, Captain Lent? Thisre-conversion of the nation's ploughshares and pruning hooks is anoisy affair, isn't it?"
"April 18th, 1861!" replied the Captain quickly. "What you hear,sir, is the attrition consequent upon the grinding together ofcertain millstones belonging to the gods."
"I have no doubt of it, Captain Lent; they'll probably make meal ofus all. Are you offering your services, sir."
Camilla said quickly, and with gayest confidence: "Uncle has beenlooking about casually. There are so many regiments forming, somany recruiting stations that we--we haven't decided--have we,uncle?" And she gave Berkley a wistful, harrowing glance thatenlightened him.
He said gravely: "I suppose the average age of these volunteerswill be about eighteen. And if the militia go, too, it will becomforting for a defenceless city to know she has men of yourexperience to count on, Captain Lent."
"_I_ am going to the front," observed the Captain.
"There may be much to be done in New York, sir."
"Then let the police do it," said Captain Lent calmly. "The Unionmust and shall be preserved. If any man attempts to haul down theAmerican flag, shoot him upon the spot. Et cetera, sir, et cetera."
"Certainly. But it's a question of niggers, too, I believe."
"No, sir. It is _not_ a question of niggers. It is a question ofwho's at the wheel, Union or State. I myself never had any doubtsany more than I ever doubted the Unitarian faith! So it is noquestion for me, sir. What bothers me is to pick out the regimentmost likely to be sent first."
"We've walked our legs off," said Camilla, aside, "and we've beenin all kinds of frightful places where men are drilling and smokingand swearing and yelling; and I was dreadfully afraid a gun wouldgo off or somebody would be impudent to uncle. The dear oldthing," she whispered, "he is perfectly sure they want him and thathe has only to choose a regiment and offer his sword. Oh, dear!I'm beginning to be terribly unhappy--I'm afraid they won't let himgo and I'm deadly afraid they might! And I'm sure that Jim meansto go. Oh, dear! Have you seen Ailsa Paige lately?"
"No. . . . I hope she is quite well."
"You are not very enthusiastic."
"I have every reason to be. She is a very winsome girl."
"She's a dear. . . . She has spoken of you several times."
"That is most amiable of her, and of you to say so."
"Oh, very," laughed Camilla, tossing her pretty head, "but itevidently does not interest you very much. In fact--" she glancedsidewise--"it is understood that no woman ever interests you formore than forty-eight consecutive hours."
"Pure slander, Camilla. _You_ do."
"Oh--not in the way I mean."
"Well, but you don't expect me to be interested in Mrs. Paige--inthe way _you_ mean do you?"
"Why not?" she asked mischievously.
"Because, to begin properly, Mrs. Paige is not likely ever tobecome interested in me."
"I am heartily glad of it," retorted Camilla. "You'd forget her ina week,"
"That's more than forty-eight hours," he said, laughing. "You'reflattering me now."
"Anyway," said Camilla, "I don't see why everybody that knows herisn't mad about Ailsa Paige. She has _such_ high principles, suchideals, such wonderful aspirations--" She clasped her handssentimentally: "At times, Phil, she seems too ethereal, scarcely ofearth--and yet I breakfasted with her and she ate twice as much asI did. _How_ does she keep that glorious figure!"
Plumpness was the bane and terror of Camilla's life. Her smooth,suave white skin was glossy and tight; distracting curves,entrancing contours characterised her now; but her full red lipsfairly trembled as she gazed at her parents' portraits in herbedroom, for they had both been of a florid texture and full habit;and she had now long refused sugar and the comforts of sweetmeatsdear to the palate of her age and sex. And mostly was thisself-denial practised for the sake of a young and unobservantfriend, one Stephen Craig, who had so far evinced no unusualinclination for her, or for anything except cigars and masculinesociety of his own age and condition.
She managed to get Philip Berkley to talk about Stephen, whichingenuity soothed her. But Philip was becoming bored, and hepresently escaped to retrace his steps up Broadway, up FifthAvenue, and then west to the exceedingly modest lodgings whitherfate and misfortune had wafted him.
On the way he passed Colonel Arran's big double house with a sullenand sidelong scowl, and continued onward with a shrug. But hesmiled no more to himself.
Burgess was in the room, cross-legged on the floor, ironing out hismaster's best coat.
"What the devil are you about," said Philip ungraciously. "Get up.I need what floor I've got to stand on."
Burgess obediently laid the board and the coat on a trunk andcontinued ironing; and Philip scowled at him askance.
"Why don't you enlist?" he said. "Every car-driver, stage-driver,hackman, and racing-tout can become major-generals if they yellloud enough."
Burgess continued ironing, then stole a glance at his master.
"Are you thinking of enlisting, sir?"
"No; I can't pass the examination for lung power. By the way," headded, laughing, "I overlooked the impudence of your question, too.But now is your time, Burgess. If I wanted you I'd have to put upwith your insolence, I suppose."
"But you don't want me, sir."
"Which restrains you," said Philip, laughing. "Oh, go on, myfriend. Don't say 'sir' to me; it's a badge of servitude pastedonto the vernacular. Say 'Hi!' if you like."
"Sir?"
"Hell! I say don't behave like a servant to me."
"I _am_ a servant, sir."
"You're not mine."
"Yes, sir, I am. Will you wear this coat this evening, sir?"
"God knows," said the young fellow, sitting down and gazing aboutat the melancholy poverty of the place. . . . "Is there any ofthat corn whisky?"
"No, sir."
"Damn it, you said there was this morning!"
"No, sir, I didn't."
The man lied placidly; the master looked at him, then laughed.
"Poor old Burgess," he said aloud as though to himself; "therewasn't a skinful in that bottle. Well, I can't get drunk, I can'tlie here and count from six to midnight and keep my sanity, I can'tsmoke--you rascal, where's my cigar? And I certainly can't go outanywhere because I haven't any money."
"You might take the air on the avenue, sir. Your clothes are inorder."
"Poor Burgess! That was your amusement, wasn't it?--to see me goout discreetly perfumed, in fine linen and purple, brave as thebest of them in club and hall, in ballroom and supper room, and inevery lesser hell from Crystal Palace cinders to Canal.
"Poor Burgess! Even the seventy-five pretty waitresses at theGaities would turn up their seventy-five retrousse noses at a manwith pockets as empty as mine."
"Your clothes are fashionable. So is your figger, sir."
"That settles it?" protested the young fellow, weak with laughter."Burgess, _don't_ go! Don't _ever_ go! I do need you. Oh I _do_want you, Burgess. Because there never will be anybody exactlylike you, and I've only one life in which to observe you, studyyou, and mentally digest you. You _won't_ go, will you?"
"No sir," said Burgess with dignity.
Ailsa Paige: A Novel Page 5
