"Port or brandy, sir?" he whispered at Colonel Arran's elbow.
The Colonel shook his head.
"Nothing more. Take that box to my study."
Later, seated at his study table before the open box, he heard
Larraway knock; and he quietly laid away the miniature of Berkley's
mother which had been lying in his steady palm for hours.
"Well?"
"Pardon. Mr. Berkley's key, with Mr. Berkley's compliments, sir."
And he laid it upon the table by the box.
"Thank you. That will be all."
"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."
"Good night."
The Colonel picked up the evening paper and opened it mechanically:
"By telegraph!" he read, "War inevitable. Postscript! Fort
Sumter! It is now certain that the Government has decided to
reinforce Major Andersen's command at all hazards----"
The lines in the Evening Post blurred under his eyes; he passed
one broad, bony hand across them, straightened his shoulders, and,
setting the unlighted cigar firmly between his teeth, composed
himself to read. But after a few minutes he had read enough. He
dropped deeper into his arm-chair, groping for the miniature of
Berkley's mother.
As for Berkley, he was at last alone with his letters and his
keepsakes, in the lodgings which he inhabited--and now would
inhabit no more. The letters lay still unopened before him on his
writing table; he stood looking at the miniatures and photographs,
all portraits of his mother, from girlhood onward.
One by one he took them up, examined them--touched them to his
lips, laid each away. The letters he also laid away unopened; he
could not bear to read them now.
The French clock in his bedroom struck eight. He closed and locked
his desk, stood looking at it blankly for a moment; then he squared
his shoulders. An envelope lay open on the desk beside him.
"Oh--yes," he said aloud, but scarcely heard his own voice.
The envelope enclosed an invitation from one, Camilla Lent, to a
theatre party for that evening, and a dance afterward.
He had a vague idea that he had accepted.
The play was "The Seven Sisters" at Laura, Keene's Theatre. The
dance was somewhere--probably at Delmonico's. If he were going, it
was time he was afoot.
His eyes wandered from one familiar object to another; he moved
restlessly, and began to roam through the richly furnished rooms.
But to Berkley nothing in the world seemed familiar any longer; and
the strangeness of it, and the solitude were stupefying him.