Ailsa Paige. Chambers Robert William

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      "WASHINGTON, April 13, 1861, 6 A.M. "At half-past four o'clock this morning fire was opened on Fort Sumter by the rebel batteries in the harbour. Major Anderson is replying with his barbette guns."

      "8 A.M.

      "A private despatch to the N. Y. Herald says that the batteries on Mount Pleasant have opened on Sumter. Major Anderson has brought into action two tiers of guns trained on Fort Moultrie and the Iron Battery."

      "3 P.M.

      "The fire at this hour is very heavy. Nineteen batteries are bombarding Sumter. The fort replies briskly. The excitement in Charleston is intense."

      "LATER.

      "Heavy rain storm. Firing resumed this evening. The mortar batteries throw a shell into the fort every twenty minutes. The fort replies at intervals."

      "LATEST.

      "The fort is still replying. Major Anderson has signalled the fleet outside."

      All this she read aloud, one hand resting on Craig's shoulder as he held her aloft above the throng. Men crowding around and striving to see, paused, with up-turned faces, listening to the emotionless young voice. There was no shouting, no sound save the trample and shuffle of feet; scarcely a voice raised, scarcely an exclamation.

      As Craig lowered her to the pavement, a man making his way out said to them:

      "Well, I guess that ends it."

      Somebody replied quietly: "I guess that begins it."

      Farther down the avenue toward the City Hall where the new marble court house was being built, a red glare quivered incessantly against the darkness; distant hoarse rumours penetrated the night air, accented every moment by the sharper clamour of voices calling the Herald's extras.

      "Curt?"

      "Yes, dear."

      "If he surrenders–"

      "It makes no difference what he does now, child."

      "I know it. . . . They've dishonoured the flag. This is war, isn't it?"

      "Yes."

      "Will it be a long war?"

      "I think not."

      "Who will go?"

      "I don't know. . . . Soldiers."

      "I didn't suppose we had enough. Where are we going to get more?"

      "The people—" he said absently—"everybody, I suppose. How do I know, child?"

      "Just ordinary people?"

      "Just ordinary people," he responded quietly. A few minutes later as they entered their own street he said:

      "I suppose I had better tell my wife about this to-night. I don't know—it will be in the morning papers; but I think I had better break it to her to-night."

      "She will have to know—sometime—of course–"

      Halting at the foot of the stoop he turned and peered through his glasses at his sister-in-law.

      "I don't want Stephen to start any nonsense about going."

      "Going where?" she asked innocently.

      He hesitated: "I don't want to hear any talk from him about enlisting. That is what I mean. Your influence counts with him more deeply than you know. Remember that."

      "Steve—enlist!" she repeated blankly.

      She could not yet comprehend what all this had to do with people she personally knew—with her own kin.

      "He must not enlist, of course," she said curtly. "There are plenty of soldiers—there will be plenty, of course. I–"

      Something silenced her, something within her sealed her lips. She stood in silence while Craig fitted his night-key, then entered the house with him. Gas burned low in the hall globes; when he turned it off a fainter light from above guided them.

      "Celia, is that you?" she called gently,

      "Hush; go to bed, Honey-bell. Everybody is asleep. How pale you are, Curt—dearest—dearest–"

      The rear room was Ailsa's; she walked into it and dropped down on the bed in the darkness. The door between the rooms closed: she sat perfectly still, her eyes were wide open, staring in front of her.

      Queer little luminous shapes danced through obscurity like the names from the kerosene torches around the bulletin; her ears still vibrated with the hoarse alarm of the voices; through her brain sounded her brother-in-law's words about Steve, repeated incessantly, stupidly.

      Presently she began to undress by sense of touch. The gas in the bathroom was lighted; she completed her ablutions, turned it off, and felt her way back to the bed.

      Lying there she became aware of sounds from the front room. Celia was still awake; she distinguished her voice in quick, frightened exclamation; then the low murmur continued for a while, then silence fell.

      She raised herself on one elbow; the crack of light under the door was gone; there was no sound, no movement in the house except the measured tick of the hall clock outside, tic-toc!—tic-toc!—tic-toc!

      And she had been lying there a long, long while, eyes open, before she realised that the rhythm of the hall clock was but a repetition of a name which did not concern her in any manner:

      "Berk-ley!—Berk-ley!—Berk-ley!"

      How it had crept into her consciousness she could not understand; she lay still, listening, but the tic-toc seemed to fit the syllables of his name; and when, annoyed, she made a half disdainful mental attempt to substitute other syllables, it proved too much of an effort, and back into its sober, swinging rhythm slipped the old clock's tic-toe, in wearisome, meaningless repetition:

      "Berk-ley!—Berk-ley!—Berk-ley!"

      She was awakened by a rapping at her door and her cousin's imperative voice:

      "I want to talk to you; are you in bed?"

      She drew the coverlet to her chin and called out:

      "Come in, Steve!"

      He came, tremendously excited, clutching the Herald in one hand.

      "I've had enough of this rebel newspaper!" he said fiercely. "I don't want it in the house again, ever. Father says that the marine news makes it worth taking, but–"

      "What on earth are you trying to say, Steve?"

      "I'm trying to tell you that we're at war! War, Ailsa! Do you understand? Father and I've had a fight already–"

      "What?"

      "They're still firing on Sumter, I tell you, and if the fort doesn't hold out do you think I'm going to sit around the house like a pussy cat? Do you think I'm going to business every day as though nothing was happening to the country I'm living in? I tell you now—you СКАЧАТЬ