CHAPTER VIII
Berkley, hollow-eyed, ghastly white, but smiling, glanced at theclock.
"Only one more hand after this," he said. "I open it for thelimit."
"All in," said Cortlandt briefly. "What are you going to do now?"
"_Scindere glaciem_," observed Berkley, "you may give me threecards, Cortlandt." He took them, scanned his hand, tossed thediscards into the centre of the table, and bet ten dollars.Through the tobacco smoke drifting in level bands, the crystalchandeliers in Cortlandt's house glimmered murkily; the cigar hazeeven stretched away into the farther room, where, under brilliantlylighted side brackets, a young girl sat playing at the piano, aglass of champagne, gone flat, at her dimpled elbow. Another girl,in a shrimp-pink evening gown, one silken knee drooping over theother, lay half buried among the cushions, singing the air whichthe player at the piano picked out by ear. A third girl,velvet-eyed and dark of hair, listened pensively, turning the gemson her fingers.
The pretty musician at the piano was playing an old song, once muchadmired by the sentimental; the singer, reclining amid hercushions, sang the words, absently:
"Why did I give my heart away-- Give it so lightly, give it to pay For a pleasant dream on a summer's day?
"Why did I give? I do not know. Surely the passing years will show.
"Why did I give my love away-- Give it in April, give it in May, For a young man's smile on a summer's day?
"Why did I love? I do not know. Perhaps the passing years will show.
"Why did I give my soul away-- Give it so gaily, give it to pay For a sigh and a kiss on a summer's day?
"Perhaps the passing years may show; My heart and I, we do not know."
She broke off short, swung on the revolving chair, and called: "Mr.Berkley, _are_ you going to see me home?"
"Last jack, Miss Carew," said Berkley, "I'm opening it for thelimit. Give me one round of fixed ammunition, Arthur."
"There's no use drawing," observed another man, laying down hishand, "Berkley cleans us up _as_ usual."
He was right; everything went to Berkley, as usual, who laughed andturned a dissipated face to Casson.
"Cold decks?" he suggested politely. "Your revenge at yourconvenience, Jack."
Casson declined. Cortlandt, in his brilliant zouave uniform, stoodup and stretched his arms until the scarlet chevrons on the bluesleeves wrinkled into jagged lightning.
"It's been very kind of you all to come to my last 'good-byeparty,'" he yawned, looking sleepily around him through the smokeat his belongings.
For a week he had been giving a "good-bye party" every evening inhis handsome house on Twenty-third Street. The four men and thethree young girls in the other room were the residue of this party,which was to be the last.
Arthur Wye, wearing the brand-new uniform, red stripes and facings,of flying artillery, rose also; John Casson buttoned his cavalryjacket, grumbling, and stood heavily erect, a colossus in blue andyellow.
"You have the devil's luck, Berkley," he said without bitterness.
"I need it."
"So you do, poor old boy. But--God! you play like a professional."
Wye yawned, thrust his strong, thin hands into his trouserspockets, and looked stupidly at the ceiling.
"I wish to heaven they'd start our battery," he said vacantly."I'm that sick of Hamilton!"
Casson grumbled again, settling his debts with Berkley.
"Everybody has the devil's own luck except the poor God-forsakencavalry. Billy Cortlandt goes tomorrow, your battery is underorders, but nobody cares what happens to the cavalry. And they'rethe eyes and ears of an army----"
"They're the heels and tail of it," observed Berkley, "and theartillery is the rump."
"Shut up, you sneering civilian!"
"I'm shutting up--shop--unless anybody cares to try one last coldhand--" He caught the eye of the girl at the piano and smiledpallidly. "'_Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames_!'Also I have them all scared to death, Miss Carew--the volunteerarmy of our country is taking water."
"It doesn't taste like water," said the pretty singer on the sofa,stretching out her bubbling glass, "try it yourself, Mr. Berkley."
They went toward the music room; Cortlandt seated himself on top ofthe piano. He looked rather odd there in his zouave jacket, redtrousers, white-gaitered legs hanging.
"Oh the Zou-zou-zou! Oh the Zou-zou-zou! Oh the boys of the bully Zouaves!"
he hummed, swinging his legs vigorously. "Ladies and gentlemen,it's all over but the shooting. Arthur, I saw your battery horses;they belong in a glue factory. How arc you going to save your gunswhen the rebs come after you?"
"God knows, especially if the Zouaves support us," replied Wye,yawning again. Then, rising:
"I've got to get back to that cursed fort. I'll escort anybodywho'll let me."
"One more glass, then," said Cortlandt. "Berkley, fill the partingcup! Ladies of the Canterbury, fair sharers of our hospitality whohave left the triumphs of the drama to cheer the unfortunatesoldier on his war-ward way, I raise my glass and drink to eachTerpsichorean toe which, erstwhile, was pointed skyward amid thethunder of metropolitan plaudits, and which now demurely taps myflattered carpet. Gentlemen--soldiers and civilians--I give youthree toasts! Miss Carew, Miss Lynden, Miss Trent! Long may theydance! Hurrah!"
"Get on the table," said Casson amid the cheering, and climbed up,spurs jingling, glass on high.
"Will it hold us all?" inquired Letty Lynden, giving her hands toBerkley, who shrugged and swung her up beside him. "Hurrah for theZouaves!" she cried; "Hurrah for Billy Cortlandt!--Oh, somebodyspilled champagne all over me!"
"Hurrah for the artillery!" shouted Arthur Wye, vigorously cheeringhimself and waving his glass, to the terror of Ione Carew, whoattempted to dodge the sparkling rain in vain.
"Arthur, you look like a troop of trained mice," observed Berkleygravely. "Has anybody a toy cannon and a little flag?"
Wye descended with a hop, sprang astride a chair, and clatteredaround the room, imitating his drill-master.
"Attention! By the right of batteries, break into sections, trot.Mar-r-rch! Attention-n-n! By section from the right ofbatteries--front into column. Mar-r-rch!"
"By section from the right, front into column, march!" repeatedCortlandt, jumping down from the table and seizing another chair."Everybody mount a chair!" he shouted. "This is the last artillerydrill of the season. Line up there, Letty! It won't hurt yourgown. Berkley'll get you another, anyway! Now, ladies andgentlemen, sit firmly in your saddles. Caissons to therear--march! Caissons, left about--pieces forward--march!"
Wye's chair buckled and he came down with a splintering crash;Casson galloped madly about, pretending his chair had becomeunmanageable. It, also, ultimately collapsed, landed him flat onhis back, whence he surveyed the exercises of the _haute ecole_ inwhich three flushed and laughing young girls followed the dashinglead of Cortlandt, while Berkley played a cavalry canter on thepiano with one hand and waved his cigar in the other.
Later, breathless, they touched glasses to the departingvolunteers, to each other, to the ladies ("God bless them! Hear!He-ah!"), to the war, to every regiment going, to each separatebattery horse and mule in Arthur's section. And then began on theguns,
"I prophesy a quick reunion!" said Berkley. "Here's to it! Fullglasses!
"Speech! Speech--you nimble-witted, limber-legged prophet!" roaredJohn Casson, throwing a pack of cards at Berkley. "Read the cardsfor us!"
Berkley very gracefully caught a handful, and sorting them, beganimpromptu:
"Diamonds for _you_, Little Miss Carew, Strung in a row, Tied in a bow-- What would you do If they came true?
"What can it be? _Hearts_! for Miss Letty-- Sweethearts and beaux, Monarchs in rows, Knaves on their knees-- Choose among these!
"Clubs now, I see! _Ace_! for Miss Betty-- Clubman and swell, Soldier as well. Yes, he's all three; Who can he
be?
"Ione, be kind To monarch and knave, But make up your mind To make 'em behave. And when a man finds _you_ The nicest he's met, he Is likely to marry you, Letty and Betty!"
Tremendous cheering greeted these sentiments; three more cheerswere proposed and given for the Canterbury.
"Home of the 'ster arts, m-music an' 'r' drama-r-r--" observedCasson hazily--"I'm going home."
Nobody seemed to hear him.
"Home--ser-weet home," he repeated sentimentally--"home among thehorses--where some Roman-nosed, camel-backed, slant-eared nag isprobably waitin' to kick daylight out'r me! Ladies, farewell!" headded, tripping up on his spurs and waving his hand vaguely."Cav'lry's eyes 'n' ears 'f army! 'Tain't the hind legs' No--_no_!_I'm_ head 'n' ears--army! 'n' I wan' t' go home."
For a while he remained slanting against the piano, thoughtfullyattempting to pry out the strings; then Wye returned from puttingMiss Carew and Miss Trent into a carriage.
"You come to the fort with me," he said. "That'll sober you. Isleep near the magazine."
Berkley's face looked dreadfully battered and white, but he wasmaster of himself, careful of his equilibrium, and very polite toeverybody.
"You're--hic!--killin' yourself," said Cortlandt, balancing himselfcarefully in the doorway.
"Don't put it that way," protested Berkley. "I'm trying to makefast time, that's all. I'm in a hurry."
The other wagged his head: "_You_ won't last long if you keep thisup. The--hic!--trouble with you is that you can't get decentlydrunk. You just turn blue and white. That'swhat's--matter--_you_! And it kills the kind of--hic!--of man youare. B-b'lieve me," he added shedding tears, "I'm fon' 'v' you,Ber--hic!--kley."
He shed a few more scalding tears, waved his hand in resignation,bowed his head, caught sight of his own feet, regarded them withsurprise.
"Whose?" he inquired naively.
"Yours," said Berkley reassuringly. "They don't want to go to bed."
"Put 'em to bed!" said Cortlandt in a stem voice. "No businesswand'ring 'round here this time of night!"
So Berkley escorted Cortlandt to bed, bowed him politely into hisroom, and turned out the gas as a precaution.
Returning, he noticed the straggling retreat of cavalry andartillery, arms fondly interlaced; then, wandering back to theother room in search of his hat, he became aware of Letty Lynden,seated at the table.
Her slim, childish body lay partly across the table, her cheek waspillowed on one outstretched arm, the fingers of which lay looselyaround the slender crystal stem of a wine-glass.
"Are you asleep?" he asked. And saw that she was.
So he roamed about, hunting for something or other--he forgotwhat--until he found it was her mantilla. Having found it, heforgot what he wanted it for and, wrapping it around his shoulders,sat down on the sofa, very silent, very white, but physicallymaster of the demoralisation that sharpened the shadows under hischeek-bones and eyes.
"I guess," he said gravely to himself, "that I'd better become agambler. It's--a--very, ve--ry good 'fession--no," he addedcautiously, "_per_--fession--" and stopped short, vexed with hisdifficulties of enunciation.
He tried several polysyllables; they went better. Then he becameaware of the mantilla on his shoulders.
"Some time or other," he said to himself with precision, "thatlittle dancer girl ought to go home."
He rose steadily, walked to the table:
"Listen to me, you funny little thing," he said.
No answer.
The childlike curve of the cheek was flushed; the velvet-fringedlids lay close. For a moment he listened to the quiet breathing,then touched her arm lightly.
The girl stirred, lifted her head, straightened up, withdrawing herfingers from the wine-glass.
"Everybody's gone home," he said. "Do you want to stay here allnight?"
She rose, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, saw themantilla he was holding, suffered him to drop it on, her shoulders,standing there sleepy and acquiescent. Then she yawned.
"Are you going with me, Mr. Berkley?"
"I'll--yes. I'll see you safe."
She yawned again, laid a small hand on his arm, and together theydescended the stairs, opened the front door, and went out intoTwenty-third Street. He scarcely expected to find a hack at thathour, but there was one; and it drove them to her lodgings onFourth Avenue, near Thirteenth Street. Spite of her paint andpowder she seemed very young and very tired as she stood by theopen door, looking drearily at the gray pallor over the roofsopposite, where day was breaking.
"Will you--come in?"
He had prepared to take his leave; he hesitated.
"I think I will," he said. "I'd like to see you with your facewashed."
Her room was small, very plain, very neat. On the bed lay folded awhite night gown; a pair of knitted pink slippers stood closetogether on the floor beside it. There was a cheap curtain acrossthe alcove; she drew it, turned, looked at him; and slowly her ovalface crimsoned.
"You needn't wash your face," he said very gently.
She crept into the depths of a big arm-chair and lay back watchinghim with inscrutable eyes.
He did not disturb her for a while. After a few moments he got upand walked slowly about, examining the few inexpensive ornaments onwall and mantel; turned over the pages of an album, glanced at anewspaper beside it, then came back and stood beside her chair.
"Letty?"
She opened her eyes.
"I suppose that this isn't the--first time."
"No."
"It's not far from it, though." She was silent, but her eyesdropped.
He sat down on the padded arm of the chair.
"Do you know how much money I've made this week?" he said gaily.
She looked up at him, surprised, and shook her head; but her velveteyes grew wide when he told her.
"I won it fairly," he said. "And I'm going to stake it all on onelast bet."
"I won it fairly, and I'm going to stake it all onone last bet."]
"On--what?"
"On--_you_. Now, _what_ do you think of that, you funny littlething?"
"How--do you mean, Mr. Berkley?" He looked down into the eyes of ahurt child.
"It goes into the bank in your name--if you say so."
"For--what?"
"I don't know," he said serenely, "but I am betting it will go forrent, and board, and things a girl needs--_when she has no man toask them of--and nothing to pay for them_."
"You mean no man---excepting--you?"
"No," he said wearily, "I'm not trying to buy you."
She crimsoned. "I thought--then why do you----"
"Why? Good God, child! _I_ don't know! How do I know why I doanything? I've enough left for my journey. Take this and try tobehave yourself if you can--in the Canterbury and out of it! . . .And buy a new lock for that door of yours. Good night."
She sprang up and laid a detaining hand on his sleeve as he reachedthe hallway.
"Mr. Berkley! I--I can't----"
He said, smiling: "My manners are really better than that----"
"I didn't mean----"
"You ought to. Don't let any man take his leave in such a manner.Men believe a woman to be what she thinks she is. Think well ofyourself. And go to bed. I never saw such a sleepy youngster inmy life! Good night, you funny, sleepy little thing."
"Mr. Berkley--I can't take--accept----"
"Oh, listen to her!" he said, disgusted. "Can't I make a bet withmy own money if I want to? I _am_ betting; and _you_ are holdingthe stakes. It depends on how you use them whether I win or lose."
"I don't understand--I don't, truly," she stammered; "d-do you wishme to--leave--the Canterbury? Do you--_what_ is it you wish?"
"You know better than I do. I'm not advising you. Where is yourhome? Why don't you go there? You have one somewhere, I suppose,haven't you?"
"Y-yes; I had."
"Well--where is it?"
; "In Philadelphia."
"Couldn't you stand it?" he inquired with a sneer.
"No." She covered her face with her hands.
"Trouble?"
"Y-yes."
"Man?"
"Y-y-yes."
"Won't they take you back?"
"I--haven't written."
"Write. Home is no stupider than the Canterbury. Will you write?"
She nodded, hiding her face.
"Then--_that's_ settled. Meanwhile--" he took both her wrists anddrew away her clinging hands:
"I'd rather like to win this bet because--the odds are all againstme." He smiled, letting her hands swing back and hang inert at hersides.
But she only closed her eyes and shook her head, standing there,slim and tear-stained in her ruffled, wine-stained dinner dress.And, watching her, he retreated, one step after another, slowly;and slowly closed the door, and went out into the dawn, weary,haggard, the taste of life bitter in his mouth.
"What a spectacle," he sneered, referring to himself, "the viciousgod from the machine! Chorus of seraphim. Apotheosis of littleMiss Turveydrop----"
He swayed a trine as he walked, but it was not from the wine.
A policeman eyed him unfavourably,
"No," said Berkley, "I'm not drunk. You think I am. But I'm not.And I'm too tired to tell you how I left my happy, happy home."
In the rosy gray of the dawn he sat down on the steps of his newlodgings and gazed quietly into space.
"_This_ isn't going to help," he said. "I can stand years of ityet. And that's much too long."
He brooded for a few moments.
"I hope she doesn't write me again. I can't stand everything."
He got up with an ugly, oblique glance at the reddening sky.
"I'm what he's made me--and I've got to let her alone. . . . Lether alone. I--" He halted, laid his hand heavily on the door,standing so, motionless.
"If I--go--near her, he'll tell her what I am. If he didn't, I'dhave to tell her. There's no way--anywhere--for me. And _he_ mademe so. . . . And--by God! it's in me--in me--to--to--if she writesagain--" He straightened up, turned the key calmly, and let himselfin.
Burgess was asleep, but Berkley went into his room and awoke him,shining a candle in his eyes.
"Burgess!"
"S-sir?"
"Suppose you knew you could never marry a woman. Would you keepaway from her? Or would you do as much as you could to break herheart first?"
Burgess yawned: "Yes, sir."
"You'd do all you could?"
"Yes, sir."
There was a long silence; then Berkley laughed. "They drowned thewrong pup," he said pleasantly. "Good night."
But Burgess was already asleep again.