"Because he-looks like a gentleman?"
"Because he has the bad breeding of one. Nobody can find out anything about him."
"Isn't it bad breeding to try?"
Hallam laughed. "Technically. But a regiment that elects its officers is a democracy; and if a man is too good to answer questions he's let alone."
"Perhaps," said Ailsa, "that is what he wants."
"He has what he wants, then. Nobody except the trooper Burgess ventures to intrude on his sullen privacy. Even his own bunky has little use for him... . Not that Ormond isn't plucky. That's all that keeps the boys from hating him."
"Is he plucky?"
Hallam said; "We were on picket duty for three days last week. The Colonel had become sick of their popping at us, and asked for twelve carbines to the troop. On the way to the outposts the ammunition waggon was rushed by the Johnnies, and, as our escort had only their lances, they started to scatter-would have scattered, I understand, in spite of the sergeant if that man Ormond hadn't ridden bang into them, cursing and swearing and waving his pistol in his left hand.
"'By God!' he said, 'it's the first chance you've had to use these damned lances! Are you going to run away?'
"And the sergeant and the trooper Burgess and this fellow Ormond got 'em into line and started 'em down the road at a gallop; and the rebs legged it."
Ailsa's heart beat hard.
"I call that pluck," said Hallam, "a dozen lancers without a carbine among them running at a company of infantry. I call that a plucky thing, don't you?"
She nodded.
Hallam shrugged. "He behaved badly to the sergeant, who said warmly: "Tis a brave thing ye did, Private Ormond.' And 'Is it?' said Ormond with a sneer. 'I thought we were paid for doing such things.' 'Och, ye sour-faced Sassenach!' said Sergeant Mulqueen, disgusted; and told me about the whole affair."
Ailsa had clasped her hands in her lap. The fingers were tightening till the delicate nails whitened.
But it was too late to speak of Berkley to Hallam now, too late to ask indulgence on the score of her friendship for a man who had mutilated it. Yet, she could scarcely endure the strain, the overmastering desire to say something in Berkley's behalf-to make him better understood-to explain to Hallam, and have Hallam explain to his troop that Berkley was his own most reckless enemy, that there was good in him, kindness, a capacity for better things--
Thought halted; was it that which, always latent within her bruised heart, stirred it eternally from its pain-weary repose-the belief, still existing, that there was something better in Berkley, that there did remain in him something nobler than he had ever displayed to her? For in some women there is no end to the capacity for mercy-where they love.
Hallam, hungry to touch her, had risen and seated himself on the flat arm of the chair in which she was sitting. Listlessly she abandoned her hand to him, listening all the time to the footsteps outside, hearing Hallam's low murmur; heard him lightly venturing to hint of future happiness, not heeding him, attentive only to the footsteps outside.
"Private Berk-Ormond-" she calmly corrected herself-"has had no supper, has he?"
"Neither have I!" laughed Hallam. And Ailsa rose up, scarlet with annoyance, and called to a negro who was evidently bound kitchenward.
And half an hour later some supper was brought to Hallam; and the negro went out into the star-lit court to summon Berkley to the kitchen.
Ailsa, leaving Hallam to his supper, and wandering aimlessly through the rear gallery, encountered Letty coming from the kitchen.
"My trooper," said the girl, pink and happy, "is going to have such a good supper! You know who I mean, dear-that Mr. Ormond--"
"I remember him," said Ailsa steadily. "I thought his name was Berkley."
"It is Ormond," said Letty in a low voice.
"Then I misunderstood. Is he here again?"
"Yes," ventured Letty, smiling; "he is escort to-your Captain."
Ailsa's expression was wintry. Letty, still smiling out of her velvet eyes, looked up confidently into Ailsa's face.
"Dear," she said, "I wish you could ever know how nice he is... .
But-I don't believe I could explain--"
"Nice? Who? Oh, your trooper!"
"You don't mistake me, do you?" asked the girl, flushing up. "I only call him so to you. I knew him in New York-and-he is so much of a man-so entirely good--"
She hesitated, seeing no answering sympathy in Ailsa's face, sighed, half turned with an unconscious glance at the closed door of the kitchen.
"What were you saying about-him?" asked Ailsa listlessly.
"Nothing-" said Letty timidly-"only, isn't it odd how matters are arranged in the army. My poor trooper-a gentleman born-is being fed in the kitchen; your handsome Captain-none the less gently born-is at supper in Dr. West's office... . They might easily have been friends in New York... . War is so strange, isn't it?"
Ailsa forced a smile; but her eyes remained on the door, behind which was a man who had held her in his arms... . And who might this girl be who came now to her with tales of Berkley's goodness, kindness-shy stories of the excellence of the man who had killed in her the joy of living-had nigh killed more than that? What did this strange, dark-eyed, dark-haired girl know about his goodness?-a girl of whom she had never even heard until she saw her in Dr. Benton's office!
And all the while she stood looking at the closed door, thinking, thinking.
They were off duty that night, but Letty was going back to a New Hampshire boy who was not destined to live very long, and whose father was on the way from Plymouth to see his eldest son-his eldest son who had never fought a battle, had never seen one, had never even fired his musket, but who lay dying in the nineteenth year of his age, colour corporal, loved of his guard and regiment.
"Baily asked for me," she said simply. "I can get some sleep sitting up, I think." She smiled. "I'm happier and-better for seeing my trooper... . I am-a-better-woman," she said serenely. Then, looking up with a gay, almost childish toss of her head, like a schoolgirl absolved of misdemeanours unnumbered, she smiled wisely at Ailsa, and went away to her dying boy from New Hampshire.
The closed door fascinated Ailsa, distressed, harrowed her, till she stood there twisting her hands between desire and pallid indecision.
Leaden her limbs, for she could not stir them to go forward or to retire; miserably she stood there, swayed by fear and courage alternately, now rigid in bitter self-contempt, now shivering lest he fling open the door and find her there, and she see the mockery darkening his eyes--
And, "Oh-h!" she breathed, "is there nothing on earth but this shame for me?"
Suddenly she thought of Celia, and became frightened. Suppose Celia had gone to the kitchen! What would Celia think of her attitude toward the son of Constance Berkley? She had never told Celia that she had seen Berkley or that she even knew of his whereabouts. What would Celia think!
In her sudden consternation she had walked straight to the closed door. She hesitated an instant; then she opened the door. And Berkley, seated as he had been seated that Christmas Eve, all alone by the burning candle, dropped his hands from his face and looked up. Then he rose and stood gazing at her.
She said, haughtily: "I suppose I am laying myself open to misconstruction and insult again by coming here to speak to you."
"Did you come to speak to me, Ailsa?"
"Yes. Celia Craig is here-upstairs. I have never told her that you have even been in this place. She does not know you are here now. If she finds out--"
"I understand," he said wearily. "Celia shall not be informed of my disgrace with you-unless you care to tell her."
"I do not care to tell her. Is there any reason to distress her with-such matters?"
"No," he said. "What do you wish me to do? Go out somewhere-" He glanced vaguely toward the darkness. "I'll go anywhere you wish."
"Why did you come-again?" asked Ailsa coldly.
"Orders-" he shrugged-"I did not solicit the detail; I could not refuse. Soldiers don't refuse in the army."