Athalie

He went to one or two dances during the week – a thing he had not done lately. Then he went to several more; also to a number of débutante theatre parties and to several suppers. He rather liked being with his own sort again; the comfortable sense of home-coming, of conventionalism, of a pleasant social security, appealed to him after several months' irresponsible straying from familiar paths. And he began to go about the sheep-walks and enjoy it, slipping back rather easily into accustomed places and relations with men and women who belonged in a world never entered, never seen by Athalie Greensleeve, and of the existence of which she was aware only through the daily papers.

He wrote to her now and then. Always she answered his letter the following day.

About the end of April he wrote:

"Dear Athalie,

"About everything seems to conspire to keep me from seeing you; business – in a measure, – social duties; and, to tell the truth, a mistaken but strenuous opposition on my mother's part.

"She doesn't know you, and refuses to. But she knows me, and ought to infer everything delightful in the girl who has become my friend. Because she knows that I don't, and never did affect the other sort.

"Every day, recently, she has asked me whether I have seen you. To avoid unpleasant discussions I haven't gone to see you. But I am going to as soon as this unreasonable alarm concerning us blows over.

"It seems very deplorable to me that two young people cannot enjoy an absolutely honest friendship unsuspected and undisturbed.

"I miss you a lot. Is the apartment comfortable? Does Michael do everything you wish? Did the cat prove a good one? I sent for the best Angora to be had from the Silver Cloud Cattery.

"Now tell me, Athalie, what can I do for you? Please! What is it you need; what is it you would like to have? Are you saving part of your salary?

"Tell me also what you do with yourself after business hours. Have you seen any shows? I suppose you go out with your sisters now and then.

"As for me I go about more or less. For a while I didn't: business seemed to revive and everybody in real estate became greatly excited. But it all simmered down again to the usual routine. So I've been going about to various affairs, dances and things. And, consequently, there's peace and quiet at home for me.

"Always yours,"C Bailey, Jr."

"P.S. As I sit here writing you the desire seizes me to drop my pen, put on my hat and coat and go to see you. But I can't. There's a dinner on here, and I've got to stay for it. Good night, dear Athalie!

"Clive."

His answer came by return mail as usual:

"Dear Clive,

"Your letter has troubled me so much. If your mother feels that way about me, what are we to do? Is it right for us to see each other?

"It is true that I am not conscious of any wrong in seeing you and in being your friend. I know that I never had an unworthy thought concerning you. And I feel confident that your thoughts regarding our friendship and me are blameless. Where lies the wrong?

"Some aspects of the affair have troubled me lately. Please do not be sensitive and take offence, Clive, if I admit to you that I never have quite reconciled myself to accepting anything from you.

"What I have accepted has been for your own sake – for the pleasure you found in giving, not for my own sake.

"I wanted only your friendship. That was enough – more than enough to make me happy and contented.

"I was not in want; I had sufficient; I lived better than I had ever lived; I was self-reliant, self-supporting, and – forgive and understand me, Clive – a little more self-respecting than I now am.

"It is true I had saved very little; but I am young and life is before me.

"This seems very ungrateful of me, very ungenerous after all you have done for me – all I have taken from you.

"But, Clive, it is the truth, and I think it ought to be told. Because this is, and has always been, a source of self-reproach to me, whether rightly or wrongly, I don't know. I am a novice at confession, but I feel that, if I am to make a clean breast to you, partial confession is not worth while, not really honest, not worthy of the very sacred friendship that inspires it.

"So I shall shrive myself as well as I know how and continue to admit to you my further doubts and misgivings. They are these: my sisters do not understand your friendship for me even if they understand mine for you – which they say they do.

"I don't think they believe me dishonest; but they cannot see any reason for your generosity to me unless you ultimately expect me to be dishonest.

"This has weakened my influence with them. I know I am the youngest, yet until recently I had a certain authority in matters regarding the common welfare and the common policy. But this is nearly gone. They point out with perfect truth that I myself do, with you, the very things for which I criticise them and against which I warn them.

"Of course the radical difference is that I do these things with you; but they can't understand why you are any better, any finer, any more admirable, any further to be trusted than the men they go about with alone.

"It is quite in vain that I explain to them what sort of man you are. They retort that I merely think so.

"There is a man who takes Catharine out more frequently, and keeps her out much later than I like. I mean Cecil Reeve. But what I say only makes my sister sullen. She knows he is a friend of yours… And, Clive, I am rather afraid she is beginning to care more for him than is quite safe for her to ever care for any man of that class.

"And Doris has met other men of the same kind – I don't know who they are, for she won't tell me. But after the theatre she goes out with them; and it is doing her no good.

"There is only one more item in my confession, then I'm done.

"It is this: I have heard recently from various sources that my being seen with you so frequently is causing much gossip concerning you among your friends.

"Is this true? And if it is, will it damage you? I don't care about myself. I know very few people and it doesn't matter. Besides I care enough about our companionship to continue it, whatever untruths are said or thought about me. But how about you, Clive? Because I also care enough for you to give you up if my being seen with you is going to disgrace you.

"This is my confession. I have told you all. Now, could you tell me what it is best for us to do?

"Think clearly; act wisely; don't even dream of sacrificing yourself with your usual generosity – if it is indeed to be a case for self-sacrifice. Let me do that by giving you up. I shall do it anyway if ever I am convinced that my companionship is hurting your reputation.

"Be just to us both by being frank with me. Your decision shall be my law.

"This is a long, long letter. I can't seem to let it go to you – as though when I mail it I am snapping one more bond that still seems to hold us together.

"My daily life is agreeable if a trifle monotonous. I have been out two or three times, once to see the Morgan Collection at the Metropolitan Museum – very dazzling and wonderful. What strange thoughts it evoked in me – thrilling, delightful, exhilarating – as though inspiring me to some blind effort or other. Isn't it ridiculous? – as though I had it in me to do anything or be anybody! I'm merely telling you how all that exquisite art affected me —me– a working girl. And Oh, Clive! I don't think anything ever gave me as much pleasure as did the paintings by the French masters, Lancret, Drouais, and Fragonard! (You see I had a catalogue!)

"Another evening I went out with Catharine. Mr. Reeve asked us, and another man. We went to see 'Once Upon a Time' at the Half-Moon Theatre, and afterward we went to supper at the Café Columbine.

"Another evening the other man, Mr. Reeve's friend, a Mr. Hargrave, asked me to see 'Under the Sun' at the Zig-Zag Theatre. It was a tiresome show. We went to supper afterward to meet Catharine and Mr. Reeve.

"That is all except that I've dined out once or twice with Mr. Hargrave. And, somehow or other I felt queer and even conspicuous going to the Regina with him and to other places where you and I have been so often together…Also I felt a little depressed. Everything always reminded me of you and of happy evenings with you. I can't seem to get used to going about with other men. But they seem to be very nice, very kind, and very amusing.

"And a girl ought to be thankful to almost anybody who will take her out of her monotony.

"I'm afraid you've given me a taste for luxury and amusement. You have spoiled me I fear. I am certainly an ungrateful little beast, am I not, to lay the blame on you! But it is dull, Clive, after working all day to sit every evening reading alone, or lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the others to come home.

"If it were not for that darling cat you gave me I'd perish of sheer solitude. But he is such a comfort, Hafiz; and his eyes are the bluest blue and his long, winter fur the snowiest white, and his ruff is wonderful and his tail magnificent. Also he is very affectionate to me. For which, with perfect reverence, I venture to thank God.

"Good night, Clive. If you've struggled through this letter so far you won't mind reading that I am faithfully and always your friend,

"Athalie Greensleeve."

Her letter thoroughly aroused Clive and he was all for going straight to her – only he couldn't go that evening because he dared not break a dinner engagement or fail to appear with his mother at the opera. In fact he was already involved in a mess of social obligations for two weeks ahead, – not an evening free – and Athalie worked during the day.

It gave him an odd, restless sensation to hear of her going about with Francis Hargrave – dining alone with him. He felt almost hurt as though she had done him a personal injustice, yet he knew that it was absurd for him to resent anything of that sort. His monopoly of her happened to be one merely because she, at that time, knew no other man of his sort, and would not go out with any other kind of man.

Why should he expect her to remain eternally isolated except when he chose to take her out? No young girl could endure that sort of thing too long. Certainly Athalie was inevitably destined to meet other men, be admired, admire in her turn, accept invitations. She was unusually beautiful, – a charming, intelligent, clean-cut, healthy young girl. She required companionship and amusement; she would be unhuman if she didn't.

Only – men were men. And safe and sane friendships between men of his own caste, and girls like Athalie Greensleeve, were rare.

Clive chafed and became restive and morose. In vain he repeated to himself that what Athalie was doing was perfectly natural. But it didn't make the idea of her going out with other men any more attractive to him.

His clever mother, possibly aware of what ferment was working in her son, watched him out of the tail of her ornamental eyes, but wisely let him alone to fidget his own way out of it. She had heard that the Greensleeve girl was raising hob with Cecil Reeve and Francis Hargrave. They were other people's sons, however. And it might have worked itself out of Clive – this restless ferment which soured his mind and gave him an acid satisfaction in being anything but cordial in his own family circle.

But there was a girl – a débutante, very desirable for Clive his mother thought – one Winifred Stuart – and very delightful to look upon.

And Clive had seen just enough of her to like her exceedingly; and, at dances, had even wandered about to look for her, and had evinced boredom and dissatisfaction when she had not been present.

Which inspired his mother to give a theatre party for little Miss Stuart and two dozen other youngsters, and a supper at the Regina afterward.

It was an excellent idea; and it went as wrong as such excellent ideas so often go. For as Clive in company with the others sauntered into the splendid reception room of the Regina, he saw Athalie come in with a man whom he had never before seen.

The shock of recognition – for it was a shock – was mutual. Athalie's dark eyes widened and a little colour left her cheeks: and Clive reddened painfully.

It was, perhaps, scarcely the thing to do, but as she advanced he stepped forward, and their hands met.

"I am so very glad to see you again," he said.

"I too, Clive. Are you well?"

"And you?"

"Quite," she hesitated; there was a moment's pause while the two men looked coolly at each other.

"May I present Mr. Bailey, Captain Dane?" Further she did not account for Captain Dane, who presently took her off somewhere leaving Clive to return to his smiling but enraged mother.

Never had he found any supper party so noisy, so mirthless, and so endless. Half the time he didn't know what he was saying to Winifred Stuart or to anybody else. Nor could he seem to see anybody very distinctly, for the mental phantoms of Athalie and Captain Dane floated persistently before him, confusing everything at moments except the smiling and deadly glance of his mother.

Afterward they went to their various homes in various automobiles, and Clive was finally left with his mother in his own drawing-room.

"What you did this evening," she said to her son, "was not exactly the thing to do under the circumstances, Clive."

"Why not?" he asked wearily as her maid relieved her of her sables and lace hood.

"Because it was not necessary… That girl you spoke to was the Greensleeve girl I suppose?"

"Yes, Athalie Greensleeve."

"Who was the man?"

"I don't know – a Captain Dane I believe."

"Wasn't a civil bow enough?"

"Enough? Perhaps; I don't know, mother. I don't seem to know how much is due her from me. She's never had anything from me so far – anything worth having – "

"Don't be a fool, Clive."

He said, absently: "It's too late for such advice! I am a fool. And I don't quite understand how not to be one."

His mother, rather fearful of arousing in him any genuine emotion, discreetly kissed him good night.

"You're a slightly romantic boy," she said. "There is nothing else the matter with you."

They mounted the velvet-covered stairway together, her arm around his neck, his encircling a slender, pliant waist that a girl of sixteen might have envied. Her maid followed with furs and hood.

"Come into my bedroom and smoke, Clive," she smiled. "We can talk through the dressing-room door."

"No; I think I'll turn in."

The maid continued on through the rose and ivory bedroom and into the dressing-room. Mrs. Bailey lingered, intuition and experience preparing her for what a boy of that age was very sure to say.

And after some fidgeting about he said it:

"Mother, honestly what did you think of her?"

His mother's smile remained unaltered: "Do you mean the Greensleeve girl?"

"I mean Athalie Greensleeve."

"She is pretty in a rather common way."

"Common!"

"Did you think she is not?"

"Common," he repeated in boyish astonishment. "What is there common about her?"

"If you can't see it any woman of your own class can."

Which remark aroused all that was dramatic and poetic in the boy, and he spoke with a slightly exaggerated phraseology:

"What is there common about this very beautiful girl? Surely not her features. Her head, her figure, her hands, her feet are delicate and very exquisitely formed; in her bearing there is an unconscious and sweet dignity; her voice is soft, charming, well-bred. What is there about her that you find common?"

His mother, irritated and secretly dismayed, maintained, however, her placid mask and her attitude of toleration.

She said: "I distinguish between a woman to the manner born, and a woman who is not. The difference is as subtle as intuition and as wide as the ocean. And, dear, no young man, however clever, is clever enough to instruct his mother concerning such matters."

"I was asking you to instruct me," he said.

"Very well. If you wish to know the difference between the imitation and the real, compare that young woman with Winifred Stuart."

Clive's gaze shifted from his mother and became fixed on space.

After a moment his pretty mother moved toward the dressing-room: "If you will find a chair and light a cigarette, Clive, we can continue talking."

His absent eyes reverted to her: "I think I'll go, mother. Good night."

"Good night, dear."

He went to his own room. From the room adjoining came his father's heavy breathing where he lay asleep.

The young fellow listened for a moment, then walked into the library where only a dim night-light was burning. He still wore his overcoat over his evening clothes, and carried his hat and stick.

For a while he stood in the dim library, head bent, staring at the rug under foot.

Then he turned, went out and down the stairs, and opened the door of the butler's pantry. The service telephone was there. He unhooked the receiver and called. Almost immediately he got his "party."

"Yes?" came the distant voice distinctly.

"Is it you, Athalie?"

"Yes… Oh, Clive!"

"Didn't you recognise my voice?"

"Not immediately."

"When did you come in?"

"Just this moment. I still have on my evening wrap."

"Did you have an agreeable evening?"

"Yes."

"Are you tired?"

"No."

"May I come around and see you for a few minutes?"

"Yes."

"All right," he said briefly.

CHAPTER XI

THE door of the apartment stood ajar and he walked in. Athalie, still in her evening gown, rose from the sofa before the fire, dropping the white Angora, Hafiz, from her lap.

"It's so good of you, Clive," she said, offering her hand.

"It's good of you, Athalie, to let me come."

"Let you!" There was a smile on her sensitive lips, scarcely perceptible.

He dropped coat, hat, and walking stick across a chair; she seated herself on the sofa, and he came over and found a place for himself beside her.

"It's been a long time, Athalie. Has it seemed so to you?"

She nodded. Hafiz, marching to and fro, his plumy tail curling around her knees, looked up at his mistress out of sapphire eyes.

"Jump, darling," she said invitingly. Hafiz sprang onto her lap with a quick contented little mew, stretched his superb neck and began to rub against her shoulder, purring ecstatically.

"He'll cover me with long white hairs," she remarked to Clive, "but I don't care. Isn't he a beauty? Hasn't he seraphic eyes and angelic manners?"

Clive nodded, watching the cat with sombre and detached interest.

She said, stroking Hafiz and looking down at the magnificent animal: "Did you have a pleasant evening, Clive?"

"Not very."

"I'm sorry. Your party seemed to be such a very gay one."

"They made a lot of noise."

She laughed: "Is that a very gracious way to put it?"

"Probably not… Where had you been before you appeared at the Regina?"

"To see some moving pictures taken in the South American jungle. It was really wonderful, Clive: there were parrots and monkeys and crocodiles and wild pigs – peccaries I think they are called – and then a big, spotted, chunky-headed jaguar stalked into view! I was so excited, so interested – "

"Where was it?"

"On the middle fork of the upper Amazon – "

"I mean where were the films exhibited?"

"Oh! At the Berkeley. It was a private view."

"Who invited you?"

"Captain Dane."

He looked up at her, soberly:

"Who is Captain Dane?"

"Why – I don't know exactly. He is a most interesting man. I think he has been almost everything – a naturalist, an explorer, a scout in the Boer War, a soldier of fortune, a newspaper man. He is fascinating to talk to, Clive."

"Where did you meet him?"

"In the office. Mr. Wahlbaum collects orchids, and Captain Dane looked up some for him when he was on the Amazon a short time ago. He came into the office about week before last and Mr. Wahlbaum introduced him to me. They sat there talking for an hour. It was so interesting to me; and I think Captain Dane noticed how attentively I listened, for very often he addressed himself to me… And he asked Mr. Wahlbaum, very nicely, if he might show me the orchids which are in the Botanical Gardens, and that is how our friendship began."

"You go about with him?"

"Whenever he asks me. I went with him last Sunday to the Museum of Natural History. Just think, Clive, I had never been. And, do you know, he could scarcely drag me away."

"I suppose you dined with him afterward," he said coolly.

"Yes, at a funny little place – I couldn't tell you where it is – but everybody seemed to know everybody else and it was so jolly and informal – and such good food! I met a number of people there some of whom have called on me since – "

"What sort of people?"

"About every interesting sort – men like Captain Dane, writers, travellers, men engaged in unusual professions. And there were a few delightful women present, all in some business or profession. Mlle. Delauny of the Opera was there – so pretty and so unaffected. And there was also that handsome suffragette who looks like Jeanne d' Arc – "

"Nina Grey."

"Yes. And there was a rather strange and fascinating woman – a physician I believe – but I am not sure. Anyway she is associated with the psychical research people, and she asked if she might come to see me – "

He made an impatient movement – quite involuntary – and Hafiz who was timid, sprang from Athalie's lap and retreated, tail waving, and ears flattened for expected blandishments to recall him.

Athalie glanced up at the man beside her with a laugh on her lips, which died there instantly.

"What is the matter, Clive?"

"Nothing," he said.

His sullen face remained in profile, and after a moment she laid her hand lightly, questioningly on his sleeve.

Without turning he said: "I don't know what is the matter with me, so don't ask me. Something seems to be wrong. I am, probably… And I think I'll go home, now."

But he did not stir.

After a few moments she said very gently: "Are you displeased with me for anything I have said or done? I can't imagine – "

"You can't expect me to feel very much flattered by the knowledge that you are constantly seen with other men where you and I were once so well known."

"Clive! Is there anything wrong in my going?"

"Wrong? No: – if your own sense of – of – " but the right word – if there were such – eluded him.

"I know how you feel," she said in a low voice. "I wrote you that it seemed strange, almost sad, to be with other men where you and I had been together so often and so – so happily.

"Somehow it seemed to be an invasion of our privacy, of our intimacy – for me to dine with other men at the same tables, be served by the same waiters, hear the same music. But I didn't know how to avoid it when I was taken there by other men. Could you tell me what I should have done?"

He made no reply; his boyish face grew almost sulky, now.

Presently he rose as though to get his coat: she rose also, unhappy, confused.

"Don't mind me. I'm a fool," he said shortly, looking away from her – "and a very – unhappy one – "

"Clive!"

He said savagely: "I tell you I don't know what's the matter with me – " He passed one hand brusquely across his eyes and stood so, scowling at the hearth where Hafiz sat, staring gravely back at him.

"Clive, are you ill?"

He shrugged away the suggestion, and his arm brushed against hers. The contact seemed to paralyse him; but when, slipping back unconsciously into the old informalities, she laid her hands on his shoulders and turned him toward the light, instantly and too late she was aware that the old and innocent intimacy was ended, done for, – a thing of the past.

Incredulous still in the very menace of new and perilous relations – of a new intimacy, imminent, threatening, she withdrew her hands from the shoulders of this man who had been a boy but an instant ago. And the next moment he caught her in his arms.

"Clive! You can't do this!" she whispered, deathly white.

"What am I to do?" he retorted fiercely.