Some inspired idiot had become a credulous market for his apparently unmarketable securities. Who this person was his brokers did not say; but, whoever it was, had bought every rotten share he held; and there was money for him in the world to help him out of it.
As he stood there, the letter in his hands, drums sounded across the street, and Stephen came in from the outer office.
"Another regiment," he said. "Do you know where they come from?"
Berkley shook his head, and they went to the windows; below them surged the flood of dead wood driven before the oncoming waves-haggard men, ragged men, small boys, darkies, Bowery b'hoys, stray red-shirted firemen, then the police, then solid double ranks of drums battered by flashing, brass-bound drumsticks, then line after line of blue and steel, steadily flowing through the streets and away, away into the unknown.
"How young they are!" muttered Farren, the gray-haired cashier, standing behind Stephen's shoulders. "God bless me, they're children!"
"It's a Vermont regiment," said Berkley; "they're filing out of the Park Barracks. What a lot of hawk-nosed, hatchet-faced, turkey-necked cow milkers!-all heroes, too, Steve. You can tell that because they're in uniform and carry guns."
Stephen watched the lank troops, fascinated by the long, silent, almost gliding stride of officers and men loaded down with knapsack, blanket, and canteen, their caps pushed high on their red and sweating foreheads. There was a halt; big hands, big red knuckles, big feet, and the delicate curve of the hawk's beak outlining every Yankee nose, queer, humourous, restless glances sweeping Gotham streets and windows where Gotham crowded to gaze back at the halted youngsters in blue; then a far tenor cry, nasal commands, thin voices penetrating from out of the crowded distance; a sudden steadying of ranks; the level flash of shouldered steel; a thousand men marking time; and at last the drums' quick outbreak; and the 1st Vermont Infantry passed onward into the unknown.
"I'd rather like to go there-to see what there is there," observed Berkley.
"Where?"
"Where they're going-wherever that may be-and I think I know."
He glanced absently at his letter again.
"I've sold some stock-all I had, and I've made a lot of money," he said listlessly.
Stephen dropped an impulsive hand on his shoulder.
"I'm terribly glad, Berkley! I'm delighted!" he said with a warmth that brought a slight colour into Berkley's face.
"That's nice of you, Stephen. It solves the immediate problem of how to go there."
"Go where?"
"Why-where all our bright young men are going, old fellow," said Berkley, laughing. "I can go with a regiment or I can go alone.
But I really must be starting."
"You mean to enlist?"
"Yes, it can be done that way, too. Or-other ways. The main thing is to get momentum... . I think I'll just step out and say good-bye and many thanks to your father. I shall be quite busy for the rest of my career."
"You are not leaving here?"
"I am. But I'll pay my rent first," said Berkley, laughing.
And go he did that very afternoon; and the office of Craig & Son knew him no more.
A few days later Ailsa Paige returned to New York and reoccupied her own house on London Terrace.
A silk flag drooped between the tall pilasters. Under it, at the front door stood Colonel Arran to welcome her. It had been her father's house; he had planted the great catalpa trees on the grassy terrace in front. Here she had been born; from here she had gone away a bride; from here her parents had been buried, both within that same strange year that left her widowed who had scarcely been a wife. And to this old house she had returned alone in her sombre weeds-utterly alone, in her nineteenth year.
This man had met her then as he met her now; she remembered it, remembered, too, that after any absence, no matter how short, this old friend had always met her at her own door-sill, standing aside with head bent as she crossed the sill.
Now she gave him both hands.
"It is so kind of you, dear Colonel Arran! It would not be a home-coming without you-" And glancing into the hall, nodded radiantly to the assembled servants-her parents' old and privileged and spoiled servants gathered to welcome the young mistress to her own.
"Oh-and there's Missy!" she said, as an inquiring "meow!" sounded close to her skirts. "You irresponsible little thing-I suppose you have more kittens. Has she, Susan?"
"Five m'm," said Susan drily.
"Oh, dear, I suppose it can't be avoided. But we mustn't drown any, you know." And with one hand resting on Colonel Arran's arm she began a tour of the house to inspect the new improvements.
Later they sat together amid the faded splendours of the southern drawing-room, where sunshine regilded cornice and pier glass, turned the lace curtains to nets of gold, and streaked the red damask hangings with slanting bars of fire.
Shiftless old Jonas shuffled in presently with the oval silver tray, ancient decanters, and seedcakes.
And here, over their cakes and Madeira, she told him about her month's visit to the Craigs'; about her life in the quaint and quiet city, the restful, old-fashioned charm of the cultivated circles on Columbia Heights and the Hill; the attractions of a limited society, a little dull, a little prim, pedantic, perhaps provincially simple, but a society caring for the best in art, in music, in literature, instinctively recognising the best although the best was nowhere common in the city.
She spoke of the agreeable people she had met-unobtrusive, gentle-mannered folk whose homes may have lacked such Madeira and silver as this, but lacked nothing in things of the mind.
She spoke of her very modest and temporary duties in church work there, and in charities; told of the advent of the war news and its effect on the sister city.
And at last, casually, but without embarrassment, she mentioned Berkley.
Colonel Arran's large hand lay along the back of the Virginia sofa, fingers restlessly tracing and retracing the carved foliations supporting the horns of plenty. His heavy, highly coloured head was lowered and turned aside a little as though to bring one ear to bear on what she was saying.
"Mr. Berkley seems to be an-unusual man," she ventured. "Do you happen to know him, Colonel Arran?"
"Slightly."
"Oh. Did you know his parents?"
"His mother."
"She is not living, I believe."
"No."
"Is his father living?"
"I-don't know."
"You never met him?"
Colonel Arran's forefinger slowly outlined the deeply carved horn of plenty.
"I am not perfectly sure that I ever met Mr. Berkley's father."
She sat, elbows on the table, gazing reflectively into space.
"He is a-curious-man."
"Did you like him?" asked Colonel Arran with an effort.