Just Because: 'Ailsa Paige'

illustration by Francis Vaux Wilson

Long story short (pun intended ~ read on), a friend was getting rid of some old (and I mean old) Saturday Evening Posts. The one from June 18, 1910 ("5 cts. the copy"), promoted, on its cover, the beginning of story titled Ailsa Paige, by one Robert W. Chambers. It sounded vaguely familiar to me, so I grabbed it. As it turns out, Chambers (1865-1933) was once considered one of the better short-story writers of this country. He is perhaps best known for what most call "eerie" horror stories, one of his most popular books being his second, a collection of short stories titled The King in Yellow. Later, he turned to romance and historical fiction (http://www.yankeeclassic.com/miskatonic/dliterature/authors/chambers/bio/rwcbio1.htm). Ailsa Paige falls into the "romance" category. In this version, it starts with a note from the author.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ~ Among the fifty-eight regiments of Zouaves and the seven regiments of Lancers enlisted in the service of the United States between 1861 and 1865 it will be useless for the reader to look for any record of the 3d Zouaves and the 8th Lancers. The red breeches and red fezzes of the Zouaves clothed many a dead man on Southern battlefields; the scarlet swallow-tailed pennon of the Lancers fluttered from many a lance-tip beyond the Potomac; the histories of these sixty-five regiments are known. But no history of the 3d Zouaves or of the 8th Lancers has ever been written save in this narrative; and historians and veterans would seek in vain for any records of these two regiments ~ regiments which might have been, but never were.

I

   The butler made an instinctive movement to detain the intruder but he flung him aside and entered the drawing-room, the servant recovering his equilibrium and following on a run. Light from great crystal chandeliers dazzled him for a moment; the butler again confronted him, but hesitated under the wicked glare from his eyes. Then, through the brilliant vista the young fellow caught a glimpse of a dining-room, a table where silver crystal glimmered, and a great, gray man just lowering a glass of wine from his lips to gaze at him with quiet curiosity.
   The next moments the intruder traversed the carpeted interval between them and halted at the table's damask edge, gazing intently across at the solitary diner, who sat leaning back in an armchair, his heavy right hand still resting on the stem of a claret glass, a cigar suspended between the fingers of his left hand.
   "Are you Colonel Arran?"
   "I am," replied the man at the table coolly; "who the deuce are you?"
   "That's what I came here to find out!" replied the other with an insolent laugh.

   The man at the table laid both hands on the edge of the cloth and partly rose from his chair, then fell back solidly in silence, but his intent gaze never left the other's bloodless face. "Send away your servants, Colonel Arran!" said the young man in a voice now laboring under restraint.
   The other made as though to speak, twice; then, with an effort, he motioned to the butler.
   What he meant by the gesture, perhaps he himself scarcely realized at the moment.
   The butler instantly signaled to Pim, the servant behind Colonel Arran's chair, and started forward with a furtive glance at his master; and the young man turned disdainfully to confront him.
   "Will you retire peaceably, sir?"
    "No; but you will retire permanently if you touch me. Be very careful."
   Colonel Arran leaned forward, hands still gripping the table's edge.
   ...