"His theme happened to be his own wonderful trap record, that evening.""His theme happened to be his own wonderful trap record, that evening."
Presently she dropped onto a chair by her little ivory-tinted Louis XVI desk. There was a telephone there and a directory.
When she had decided to open the latter, and had found the number she wanted, she unhooked the receiver and called for it.
After a few minutes somebody said that he was not in his room, but that he was being paged.
She waited, dully attentive to the far noises which sounded over the wire; then came a voice:
"Yes; who is it?"
She said: "I wished to speak to Mr. Bailey—Mr. Clive Bailey."
"I am Mr. Bailey."
For a moment the fact that she had not recognised his voice seemed to strike her speechless. And it was only when he spoke again, inquiringly, that she said in a low voice: "Clive!"
"Yes.... Is—is ityou!"
"Yes."
And in the next heavily pulsating moment her breath came back with her self-control:
"Why didn't you come, Clive?"
"I didn't imagine you wanted me."
"I asked Captain Dane to invite you."
"Did you know whom you were inviting?"
"No.... But I do now. Will you come?"
"Yes. When?"
"When you like. Come now if you like—unless you were engaged—"
"No—"
"What were you doing when I called you?"
"Nothing.... Walking about the lobby."
"Did you find it interesting?"
She heard him laugh—such a curious, strange, shaken laugh.
She said: "I shall be very glad to see you, Clive. There are some of your friends here, too, who will be glad to see you."
"Then I'll wait until—"
"No; I had rather meet you for the first time when others are here—if you don't mind. Do you?"
"No," he said, coolly; "I'll come."
"Now?"
"Yes, immediately."
Her heart was going at a terrific pace when she hung up the receiver. She went to her mirror, turned on the side-lights, and looked at herself. From the front room came the sound of the dance music, a ripple or two of laughter. Welter's eager voice singing still of arms and the man.
Long she stood there, motionless, studying herself, so that, when the moment came that was coming now so swiftly upon her, she might know what she appeared like in his eyes.
All, so far, was sheer, fresh youth with her; her eyes had not lost their dewy beauty; the splendour of her hair remained unchanged. There were no lines, nothing lost, nothing hardened in contour. Clear and smooth her snowy chin; perfect, so far, the lovely throat: nothing of blemish was visible, no souvenirs of grief, of pain.
And, as she looked, and all the time she was looking,she felt, subtly, that the ordered routine of her thoughts was changing; that a transformation was beginning somewhere deep within her—a new character emerging—a personality unfamiliar, disturbing, as though not entirely to be depended on.
And in the mirror she saw her lips, scarcely parted, more vivid than she had ever seen them, and her eyes two wells of azure splendour; saw the smooth young bosom rise and fall; felt her heart, rapid, imperious, beating the "colours" into her cheeks.
Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard him come in;—heard the astonished and joyous exclamations—Cecil's bantering, cynical voice, Welter's loud welcome. She pressed both hands to her hot cheeks, stared at herself a moment, then turned and walked leisurely toward the living-room.
In her heart a voice was crying, crying: "Let the world see so that there may be no mistake! This man who was friendless is my friend. Let there be no mistake that he is more or less than that." But she only said with a quick smile, and offering her hand: "I am so glad to see you, Clive. I am so glad you came." And stood, still smiling, looking into the lean, sun-tanned face, under the concentrated eyes of her friends around them both.
For a second it was difficult for him to speak; but only she saw the slight quiver of the mouth.
"You are—quite the same," he said; "no more beautiful, no less. Time is not the essence of your contract with Venus."
"Oh, Clive! And I am twenty-four!Tell me—areyou a trifle grey!—just above the temples?—or is it the light?"
"He's grey," said Cecil; "don't flatter him, Athalie. And Oh, Lord, what a thinness!"
Peggy Brooks, professionally curious, said naïvely: "Are you still rather full of bacilli, Mr. Bailey? And would you mind if I took a drop of blood from you some day?"
"Not at all," said Clive, laughing away the strain that still fettered his speech a little. "You may have quarts if you like, Dr. Brooks."
"How was the shooting?" inquired Welter, bustling up like a judge at a bench-show when the awards are applauded.
"Oh—there was shooting—of course," said Clive with an involuntary and half-humorous glance at Captain Dane.
"Good nigger hunting," nodded Dane. "Unknown angles, Welter. You ought to run down there."
"Any incomparable Indian maidens wearing nothing but ornaments of gold?" inquired Cecil.
"That is partly true," said Clive, laughing.
"If you put a period after 'nothing,' I suppose," suggested Peggy.
"About that."
He turned to Athalie; but her silent, smiling gaze confused him so that he forgot what he had meant to say, and stood without a word amid the chatter that rose and ebbed about him.
Anne Randolph and Arthur Ensart had joined hands, their restless feet sketching the first steps ofthe Miraflores; and presently somebody cranked the machine.
"Come on!" said Peggy imperiously to Dane; "you've been too long in the jungle dancing with Indian maidens!"
Other people dropped in—Adele Millis, young Grismer, John Lyndhurst, Jeanne Delauny.
When Clive saw Rosalie Faithorn saunter in with James Allys he stared, but that young seceder from his own set greeted him without embarrassment and lighted a cigarette.
"Where's Winifred?" she asked nonchalantly. "Still on the outs? Yes? Why not shuffle and draw again? Winifred was always a pig."
Clive flushed at the girl's frankness although he could have expected nothing less from her.
Rosalie continued to smoke and to inspect him critically: "You're a bit seedy and a bit weedy, Clive, but you'll come around with feeding. You're really all right. I'd have you myself if I was marrying young men these days."
"That's nice of you, Rosalie.... But I'm full of rare bacilli."
"The rarer the better—if you must have them. Give me the unusual, whether it's a disease or a gown. I believe I will take you, Clive—if you are not expected to live long."
"That's the trouble. Nothing seems to be able to get me."
Dane said as he passed with Peggy: "He's immune, Miss Faithorn. The prettiest woman I eversaw, he side-stepped in Lima. And even then every man wanted to shoot him up because she made eyes at him."
"I think I'll go there," said Cecil. "Her name and quality if you please, Dane."
"Ask Clive," he called back.
Athalie, still smiling, said: "Shall I ask you, Clive?"
"Don't ask that South American adventurer anything," interrupted Cecil, "but come and dance this Miraflores with me, Athalie—"
"No, I don't wish to—"
"Come on! You must!"
"Oh, Cecil—please—"
But he had his way; and, as usual, everybody watched her while the charming music lasted,—Clive among the others, standing a little apart, lean, erect, his dark gaze fixed.
She came back to him after the dance, delicately flushed and a trifle breathless.
"Do you dance that in England?" she asked.
"It's danced—not at Court functions, I believe."
"You never did care to dance, did you?"
"No—" he shrugged, "I used to mess about some."
"And what do you do to amuse yourself in these days?"
"Nothing—much."
"You must dosomething, Clive!"
"Oh, yes ... I travel,—go about."
"Is that all?"
"That's about all."
She had stepped aside to let the dancers pass; he moved with her.
She said in a low, even voice: "Is it pleasant to be back, Clive?"
He nodded in silence.
"Nothing has changed very much since you went away. There's a new administration at the City Hall, a number of new sky-scrapers in town; people danced the Tango day before yesterday, the Maxixe yesterday, the Miraflores to-day, the Orchid to-morrow. That's about all, Clive."
And as he merely acquiesced in silence, she glanced up sideways at him, and remained watching this new, sun-browned, lean-visaged version of the boy she had first known and the boyish man who had gone out of her life four years before.
"Would you like to see Hafiz?" she asked.
He turned quickly toward her: "Yes," he said, the ghost of a smile lining the corners of his eyes.
"He's on my bed, asleep. Will you come?"
Slipping along the edges of the dancing floor and stepping daintily over the rolled rugs, she led the way through the passage to her rose and ivory bedroom, Clive following.
Hafiz opened his eyes and looked across at them from the pillow, stood up, his back rounding into a furry arch; yawned, stretched first one hind leg and then the other, and finally stood, flexing his forepaws and uttering soft little mews of recognition and greeting.
"I wonder," she said, smilingly, "if you have any idea how much Hafiz has meant to me?"
He made no reply; but his face grew sombre and he laid a lean, muscular hand on the cat's head.
Neither spoke again for a little while. Finally his hand fell from the appreciative head of Hafiz, dropping inert by his side, and he stood looking at the floor. Then there was the slightest touch on his arm, and he turned to go; but she did not move; and they confronted each other, alone, and after many years.
Suddenly she stretched out both hands, looking him full in the eyes, her own brilliant with tears:
"I've got you back—haven't I?" she said unsteadily. But he could not speak, and stood savagely controlling his quivering lip with his teeth.
"I just want you as I had you, Clive—my first boy friend—who turned aside from the bright highway of life to speak to a ragged child.... I have had the boy; I have had the youth; I want the man, Clive,—honestly, in perfect innocence.
"Would you care what might be said of us—as long as we know our friendship is blameless? I am not taking you fromher, am I? I am not taking anything away from her, am I?
"I have not always played squarely with men. I don't think it is possible. They have hoped for—various eventualities. I have not encouraged them; I have merely let them hope. Which is not square.
"But I wish always to play square with women. Unless a woman does, nobody will.... And that is why I ask you, Clive—am I robbing her—if youcome back to me—as you were?—nothing more—nothing less, Clive, but just exactly as you were."
It was impossible for him to control his voice or his words or even his thoughts just yet; he stood with his lean head turned partly from her, motionless as a rock, in the desperate grip of self-mastery, crushing the slender hands that alternately yielded and clasped his own.
"Oh, Clive," she said, "Clive! You don't know—you never can know what loneliness means to such a woman as I am.... I thought once—many times—that I could never again speak to you—that I never again could care to hear about you.... But I was wrong, pitifully wrong.
"It was not jealousy of her, Clive; you know that, don't you? There had never been any question of such sentiment between you and me—excepting once—one night—that last night when you said good-bye—and you were very much overwrought.
"So it was not jealousy.... It was loneliness. I wanted you, even if you had fallen in love. That sort of love had nothing to do with us!
"There was nothing in it that ought to have come between you and me?... Besides, if such an ephemeral thought ever drifted through my idle mind, I knew on reflection that you and I could never be destined to marry, even if such sentiment ever inclined us. I knew it and accepted it without troubling to analyse the reasons. I had no desire to invade your world—less desire now that I have penetrated it professionally and know a little about it.
"It was not jealousy, Clive."
He swung around, bent swiftly and pressed his lips to her hands. And she abandoned them to him with all her heart and soul in an overwhelming passion of purest emotion.
"I couldn't stand it, Clive," she said, "when I heard you were at your hotel alone.... And all the unhappiness I had heard of—your married life—I—I couldn't stand it; I couldn't let you remain there all alone!
"And when you came here to-night, and I saw in your face how these four years had altered you—how it had been with you—I wanted you back—to let you know I am sorry—to let you know I care for the man who has known unhappiness, as I cared for the boy who had known only happiness.
"Do you understand, Clive? Do you, dear? Don't you see what I see?—a man standing all alone by a closed door behind which his hopes lie dead.
"Clive, that is where you came to me, offering sympathy and friendship. That is where I come to you in my turn, offering whatever you care to take of me—if there is in me anything that may comfort you."
He bent and laid his lips to her hands again, remaining so, curbed before her; and she looked down at his lean and powerful head and shoulders, and saw the hint of grey edging the crisp, dark hair, and the dark stain of tropic suns, that never could be effaced.
So far no passion, other than innocent, had she ever known for any man,—nothing of lesser emotion, nothing physical. And, had she thought of it at all shemust have believed that it was that way with her still. For no thought concerning it disturbed her tender, tremulous happiness with this man beside her who still held her hands imprisoned against his breast.
And presently they were seated on the couch at the foot of her bed, excited, garrulous, exchanging gossip, confidences, ideas long unuttered, desires long unexpressed.
Under the sweeping flashlight of her intelligence the four years of his absence were illuminated, and passed swiftly in review for his inspection. Of loneliness, perplexity, grief, deprivation, she made light, laughingly, shrugging her smooth young shoulders.
"All that was yesterday," she said. "There is only to-day, now—until to-morrow becomes to-day. You won't go away, will you, Clive?"
"No."
"There is no need of your going, is there?—no reason for you to go—no duty—moral obligation—is there, Clive?"
"None."
"You wouldn't say so just because I wish you to, would you?"
"I wouldn't be here at all if there were any reason for me to be—there."
"Then I am not robbing her of you?—I am not depriving her of the tiniest atom of anything that you owe to her? Am I, Clive?"
"I can't see how. There is only one thing I can do for—my wife. And that is to keep away from her."
"Oh, Clive! How desperately sad! And, she is young and beautiful, isn't she? Oh, I am so sorry for you—for you both. Don't you see, dear, that I am not jealous? If you could be happy with her, and if she could understand me and let me be your friend,—that would be wonderful, Clive!"
He remained silent, thinking of Winifred and of her quality of "understanding"; and of the miserable matter of business which had made her his wife—and of his own complacent and smug indifference, and his contemptible weakness under pressure.
Always in the still and secret depths of him he had remained conscious that he had never cared for any woman except Athalie. All else had been but a vague realisation of axioms and theorems,—of premises that had rusted into his mind,—of facts which he accepted as self-evident,—such as the immutable fact that he couldn't marry Athalie, couldn't mortify his family, couldn't defy his friends, couldn't affront his circle with impunity.
To invite disaster would be to bring an avalanche upon himself which, if it wounded, isolated, even marooned him, would certainly bury Athalie out of sight forever.
His parents had so reasoned with him; his mother continued the inculcation after his father's death. And then Winifred and her mother came floating into his cosmic ken like two familiar planets.
For a while, far away in interstellar space, Athalie glimmered like a fading comet. Then orbits narrowed; adhesion and cohesion followed collision; the bi-maternalpressure never lessened. And he gave up.
Of this he was thinking now as he sat there in her rose and ivory room, gazing at the grey silk carpet underfoot; and all the while exquisitely, vitally conscious of Athalie—of her nearness to him—to tears at moments—to that happiness akin to tears.
"Clive, do you remember—" and she breathlessly recalled some gay and long forgotten incident of that never to be forgotten winter together when the theatres and restaurants knew them so well, and the day-world and night-world both credited them with being to each other everything that they had never been.
"Where will you live?" she asked.
He said: "You know I have sold our old house.... I don't know—" He looked at her gravely and ashamed: "I think I will take your old apartment."
She blushed to her hair: "Were you annoyed with me because I left it?"
"It hurt."
"But Clive!—Icouldn'tremain,—after you had become engaged to marry."
"Did you need to leave everything you owned?"
"They were not mine," she said in a low, embarrassed voice.
"Whose then?"
"Yours. I never considered them mine.... As though I were a girl of little consideration ... who paid herself, philosophically, for what she had lost.... Like a man's mistress after the inevitable break has come—"
"Don't say that!"
She shrugged her pretty shoulders: "I am a woman old enough to know what the world is, and what women do in it sometimes; and what men do.... And I am this sort of woman, Clive: I can give, I can receive, too, but only because of the happiness it bestows on the giver. And when the sympathy which must exist between giver and receiver ends, then also possession ends, for me.... Why do you look at me so seriously?"
But he dared not say. And presently she went on, happily, and at random: "Of course I kept Hafiz and the first thing you ever gave me—the gun-metal wrist-watch. Here it is—" leaning across him and pulling out a drawer in her dresser. "I wear it every day when I am out. It keeps excellent time. Isn't it a darling, Clive?"
He examined it in silence, nodded, and returned it to her. And she laid it away again, saying:
"So you think of taking my old apartment? How odd! And how very sentimental of you, Clive."
He said, forcing a light tone: "Nothing has ever been disturbed there. It's all as it was when you left. Even your gowns are hanging in the closets—"
"Clive!"
"We'll go around if you like. Would you care to see it again?"
"Y—yes."
"Then we'll go together, and you can investigate closets and bureaus and dressers—"
"Clive! Why did you let those things remain?"
"I didn't care to have anybody else take that place."
"Do you know that what you have done is absurdly and frightfully sentimental?"
"Is it?" he said, trying to laugh. "Well that snivelling and false sort of sentiment is about the best that such men as I know how to comfort themselves with—when it's too late for the real thing."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I am saying. Cheap minds are fed with false sentiment; and are comforted.... I made out of that place a smug little monument to you—while you were living alone and almost penniless in a shabby rooming house on—"
"Oh, Clive! You didn't know that! And anyway it would not have altered things for me."
"I suppose not.... Well, Athalie; you are very wonderful to me—merciful, forgiving, nobly blind—God!" he muttered under his breath, "I don't understand how you can be so generous and gentle with me,—I don't, indeed."
"If you only knew how easy it is to care for you," she said with that sweet fearlessness so characteristic of her.
He bit his lips in silence.
Presently she said: "I suppose there'll be gossip in the other room. Rosalie and Cecil will be cynical and they also will try to be witty at our expense. But I don't care. Do you?"
"Shall we go in?"
"No.... I haven't had you for four years. If you don't care what is said about us, I don't." And she looked up at him with the most engaging candour.
"I'm only thinking about you, Athalie—"
"Don't bother to, Clive. Pretty nearly everything has been said about me, I fancy. And, unless it might damage you I'll go anywhere with you, do anything with you.Iknow that I'm all right; and I care no longer what others say or think."
"But you know," he said, "that is a theory which will not work—"
"You are wrong, Clive. Nobody cares what sort of character a popular actress may have. Her friends are not disturbed by her reputation; the public crowds to see her. And it's about that way with me, I imagine. Because I don't suppose many people believe me to be respectable. Only—there is no man alive who can say of his own knowledge that I am not,—whatever he and his brothers and sisters may imagine."
"So why should I care?—as long as the public affords me an honest living!Iknow what I am, and have been. And the knowledge, so far, does not keep me awake at night."
She laughed—the sweet, fresh, unembarrassed laugh of innocence,—not that ignorance and stupidity which is called innocence, but innocence based on a worldly wisdom which neither her intelligence nor her experience permitted her to escape.
After a short silence he bent forward and laid one hand on a crystal which stood clasped by a tiny silver tripod on the table beside her bed.
"So you did develop your—qualities—after all, Athalie."
"Yes.... It happened accidentally." And she told him about the old gentleman who had come to her rooms when she stood absolutely penniless and at bay before the world.
After she had ended he asked her whether she had ever again seen his father. She told him. She told him also about seeing his mother.
"Have they anything to say to me, Athalie?" he asked wistfully.
"I don't know, Clive. Some day—when you feel like it—if you will come to me—"
"Thank you, dear ... you are wonderful—wonderfully good—"
"Oh, Clive, I'm not! I'm careless, pleasure-loving, inclined to laziness—and even to dissipation—"
"You!"
"Within certain limits," she added demurely. "I dance a lot: I know I smoke too much and drink too much champagne. I'm no angel, Clive. I won altogether too much at auction last night; ask Jim Allys. And really, if I didn't have a mind and feel a desire to cultivate it, I'd be the limit I suppose." She laughed and tossed her chin; and the pure loveliness of her child-like throat was suddenly and exquisitely revealed.
"I'm too intelligent to go wrong I suppose," she said. "I adore cultivating my mental faculties even more than I like to misbehave." She added a trifle shyly. "I speak French and Italian and German very nicely. And I sing a little and play acceptably. Please compliment me, Clive."
But her quick smile died out as she looked into his eyes—eyes haunted by the vision of all that he had denied his manhood and this girl's young womanhood—all that he had lost, irretrievably and forever on that day he married another woman.
"What is the matter, Clive?" she asked with sweet concern.
He answered: "Nothing, I guess ... except—you are very—wonderful—to me."
A MAY afternoon was drawing to a close; the last appointment had been made for the morrow, and the last client for the day still lingered with Athalie where she sat with her head propped thoughtfully on one slim hand, her gaze concentrated on the depths of the crystal sphere.
After a long silence she said: "You need not be anxious. Her wireless apparatus is out of order. They are repairing it.... It was a bad storm."
"Is there any ice near her?"
After a pause: "I can see none."
"Any ships?"
"One of her own line, hull down. They have been exchanging signals.... There seems to be no necessity for her to stand by. The worst is over.... Yes, theEmpress of Borneoproceeds. TheEmpress of Formosawill be reported this evening. You need not be anxious: she'll dock on Monday."
"Are you sure?" said the man as Athalie lifted her eyes from the crystal and smiled reassuringly at him. He was a stocky, red-faced, trim, middle-aged man; but his sanguine visage bore the haggard imprint of sleepless nights, and the edges of his teeth had bitten his under lip raw.
Athalie glanced carelessly at the crystal, then nodded.
"Yes," she said patiently. "I am sure of it, Mr. Clements. TheEmpress of Formosawill dock on Monday—about—nine in the morning. She will be reported by wireless from theEmpress of Borneothis evening.... They have been relaying it from the Delaware Capes.... There will be an extra edition of the evening papers. You may dismiss all anxiety."
The man rose, stood a moment, his features working with emotion.
"I'm not a praying man," he said. "But if this is so—I'll pray for you.... It can't hurt you anyway—" he checked himself, stammering, and the deep colour stained him from his brow to his thick, powerful neck as he stood fumbling with his portfolio.
But Athalie smilingly put aside the recompense he offered: "It is too much, Mr. Clements."
"It is worth it to the Company—if the news is true—"
"Then wait until your steamer docks."
"But you say you are certain—"
"Yes, I am: butyouare not. My refusal of payment will encourage you to confidence in me. You have been ill with anxiety, Mr. Clements. I know what that means. And now your bruised mind cannot realise that the trouble is ended—that there is no reason now for the deadly fear that has racked you. But everything will help you now—what I have told you—and my refusal of payment until your own eyes corroborate everything I have said."
"I believe you now," he said, staring at her. "I wish to offer you in behalf of the Company—"
A swift gesture conjured him to silence. She rose, listening intently. Presently his ears too caught the faint sound, and he turned and walked swiftly and silently to the open window.
"There is your extra," she said pleasantly. "TheEmpress of Borneohas been reported."
She was still lying on the couch beside the crystal, idly watching what scenes were drifting, mist-like, through its depths—scenes vague, and faded in colour, and of indefinite outline; for, like the monotone of a half-heard conversation which does not concern a listener these passing phantoms concerned not her.
Under her indifferent eyes they moved; pale-tinted scenes grew, waxed, and waned, and a ghostly processional flowed through them without end under her dark blue dreaming eyes.
She had turned and dropped her head back upon the silken pillows when his signal sounded in telegraphic sequence on the tiny concealed bell.
The still air of the room was yet tremulous with the silvery vibration when he entered, looked around, caught sight of her, and came swiftly toward her.
She looked up at him in her sweet, idly humorous way, unstirring.
"This is becoming a habit with you, Clive."
"Didn't you care to see me this afternoon?" he asked so seriously that the girl laughed outright and stretched out one hand to him.
"Clive, you're becoming ponderous! Do you knowit? Suppose I didn't care to see you this particular afternoon. Is there any reason why you should take it so seriously?"
"Plenty of reasons," he said, saluting her smooth, cool hand,—"with all these people at your heels every minute—"
"Please don't pretend—"
"I'mnotjealous. But all these men—Cecil and Jimmy Allys—they're beginning to be a trifle annoying to me."
She laughed in unfeigned and malicious delight:
"They don't annoyme! No girl ever was annoyed by overattention from her suitors—except Penelope—andIdon't believe she had such a horrid time of it either, until her husband came home and shot up the wholethé dansant."
He was still standing beside her couch without offering to seat himself; and she let him remain standing a few minutes longer before she condescended to move aside on her pillows and nod a tardy invitation.
"Has it been an interesting day, Clive?"
"Rather."
"And you have really gone back into business again?"
"Yes."
"And will the real estate market rally at the news of your august reappearance?" she inquired mischievously.
"I haven't a doubt of it," he said with gravity.
"'There is your extra,' she said pleasantly""'There is your extra,' she said pleasantly"
"Wonderful, Clive! And I think I'd better get in on the ground floor before values go sky-rocketing. Do you want a commission from me?"
"Of course."
"Very well. Buy me the old Hotel Greensleeve."
He smiled; but she said with pretty seriousness: "I really have been thinking about it. Do you suppose it could be bought reasonably? It's really a pretty place. And there's a hundred acres—or there was.... I would like to have a modest house somewhere in the country."
"Are you in earnest, Athalie?"
"Really I am.... Couldn't that old house be fixed over inexpensively? You know it's nearly two hundred years old, and the lines are good if the gingerbread verandas and modern bay windows are done away with."
He nodded; and she went on with shy enthusiasm: "I don't really know anything about gardens, except I know that I should adore them.... I thought of a garden—just a simple one.... And some cows and chickens. And one nice old horse.... It is really very pretty there in spring and summer. And the bay is so blue, and the salt meadows are so sweet.... And the cemetery is near.... I should not wish to alter mother's room very much.... I'd turn the bar into a sun parlour.... But I'd keep the stove ... where you and I sat that evening and ate peach turnovers.... About how much do you suppose the place could be bought for?"
"I haven't the least idea, Athalie. But I'll see what can be done to-morrow.... It ought to be a goodpurchase. You can scarcely go wrong on Long Island property if you buy it right."
"Will you see about it, Clive?"
"Of course I will, you dear girl!" he said, dropping his hand over hers where it lay between them.
She smiled up at him. Then, distrait, turned her blue eyes toward the window, and remained gazing out at the late afternoon sky where a few white clouds were sailing.
"'Clouds and ships on sky, and sea,'" she murmured to herself.... "'And God always at the helm.' Why do men worry? All sail into the same port at last."
He bent over her: "What are you murmuring all to yourself down there?" he asked, smilingly.
"Nothing much,—I'm just watching the driftsam and flotsam borne on the currents flowing through my mind—flowing through it and out again—away, somewhere—back to the source of thought, perhaps."
He was still bending above her, and she looked up dreamily into his eyes.
"Do you think I shall ever have my garden?" she asked.
"All things good must come to you, Athalie."
She laughed, looking up into his eyes: "You meant that, didn't you? 'All things good'—yes—and other things, too.... They come to all I suppose.... Tell me, do you think my profession disreputable?"
"You have made it otherwise, haven't you?"
"I don't know. I'm eternally tempted. Myintelligence bothers me. And where to draw the line between what I really see and what I divine by deduction—or by intuition—I scarcely know sometimes.... I try to be honest.... When you came in just now, were they calling an extra?"
"Yes."
"Did you hear what they were calling?"
"Something about theEmpress of Borneobeing reported safe."
She nodded. Then: "That is the hopeless part of it. I can sometimes help others; never myself.... I suppose you have no idea how many, many hours I have spent looking for you.... I never could find you. I have never found you in my crystal, or in my clearer vision, or in my dreams; ... never heard your voice, never had news of you except by common report in everyday life.... Why is it, I wonder?"
His expression was inscrutable. She said, her eyes still lingering on his: "You know it makes me indignant to see so much that neither concerns nor interests me—so much that passes—in this!—" laying one hand on the crystal beside the couch ... "and never, never in the dull monotony of the drifting multitude to catch a glimpse of you.... I wonder, were I lost somewhere in the world, if you could find me, Clive?"
"I'd die, trying," he said unsmilingly.
"Oh! How romantic! I wasn't fishing for a pretty speech, dear. I meant, could you find me in the crystal. Look into it, Clive."
He turned and went over to the clear, transparent sphere, and she, resting her chin on both arms, lay gazing into it, too.
After a silence he shook his head: "I see nothing, Athalie."
"Can you not see that great yellow river, Clive? And the snow peaks on the horizon?... Palms, tall reeds, endless forests—everything so still—except birds flying—and a broad river rolling between forests.... And a mud-bar, swarming with crocodiles.... And a dead tree stranded there, on which large birds are sitting.... There is a big cat-shaped animal on the bank; but the forest is dark and sunless,—too dusky to see into.... I think the animal is a jaguar.... He's drinking now.... Yes, he's a jaguar—a heavy, squarely built, spotted creature with a broad, blunt head.... He's been eating a pheasant; there are feathers everywhere—bright feathers, brilliant as jewels.... Hark! You didn't hear that, did you, Clive? Somebody has shot the jaguar. They've shot him again. He's whirling 'round and 'round—and now he's down, biting at sticks and leaves.... There goes another shot. The jaguar lies very still. His jaws are partly open. He has big, yellow cat-teeth.... I can't seem to see who shot him.... There are some black men coming. One has a small American flag furled around the shaft of his spear. He's waving it over the dead jaguar. They're all dancing now.... But I can't see the man who shot him."
"I shot him," said Clive.
"I thought so." She turned and dropped back among her pillows.
"You see," she said, listlessly, "I can never seem to find you, Clive. Sometimes I suspect your presence. But I am never certain.... Why is it that a girl can't find the man she cares for most in the whole world?"
"Do you care for me as much as that?"
"Why, yes," she said, a trifle surprised.
"And do you think I return your—regard—in measure?"
She looked at him curiously, then, with her engaging and fearless smile: "Quantum suff," she said. "You know you oughtn't to caretoomuch for me, Clive."
"How much is too much?"
"You know," she said, watching his face, the smile still lingering on her lips.
"No, I don't. Tell me."
"I'll inform you when it's necessary."
"It's necessary now."
"No, it isn't."
"I'm afraid it is."
There was a silence. She lay watching him for a moment longer while the smile in her eyes slowly died out. Then, all in a moment, a swift change altered her expression; and she sat up on the couch, supporting herself on both hands.
"What is happening to you, Clive!" she said almost breathlessly.
"Nothing new."
"What do you mean?"
"Shall I tell you?"
"Of course."
"Then,"—but he could not say it. He had no business to, and he knew it. It was the one thing he could refrain from saying, for her sake; the one service he could now render her.
He sat staring into space, the iron grimness of self-control locking every fetter that he wore—must always wear now.
She waited, her eyes intent on his face, her colour high, heart rapid.
"What had you to say to me?" she asked, breaking the silence.
He forced a laugh: "Nothing—except that sometimes being with you again makes me—very contented—"
"Is that what you had to say?"
"Yes. I told you it was nothing new."
She lowered her gaze and remained silent for a moment, apparently considering what he had said. Then the uplifted candour of her eyes questioned him again:
"You don't imagine yourself in love with me again, do you, Clive?"
"No."
"Nothing like that could happen to you again, could it?... Because it has not yet happened to me. It couldn't.... And it would be too—too ghastly if you—if anything—"
"Don't talk about it that way!" he said sharply. "If itdidhappen—what of it?"... He forced asmile. "But it won't happen.... Things like that don't happen to people like you and me. We care too much for each other, don't we, Athalie?"
"Yes.... It would be terrible.... I don't know why I put such ideas into your head—or into my own. But you—there was something in your expression.... Oh, Clive, dear, itcouldn'thappen to you, could it?"
She leaned forward impulsively and put both hands on his shoulders, gazing into his eyes, searching them fearfully for any trace of what she thought for a moment she had seen in them.
He said gaily enough: "No fear, dear. I'm exactly what I always have been. I'll always be what you want me to be, Athalie."
"I know.... But if ever—"
"No, no! Nothing can ever happen to worry you—"
"But if—"
"Nothing shall happen!"
"I know. But if ever it does—"
"It won't."
"Oh, Clive, listen! If itdoeshappen to you, what will you do?"
"Do?"
"Yes.... If it does happen, what will you do, Clive?"
"But—"
"Answer me!"
"I—"
"Please answer me. What will you do about it?"
"Nothing," he said, flushing.
"Why not?"
"Why not? What is there—what would there be to do? What could I have to say to you if—"
"You could say that you loved me—if you did."
"To what purpose?" he demanded, red and astonished.
"To whatever purpose you followed.... Why shouldn't you tell me? If it ever happened that you fell in love with me again I had rather you told me than that you kept silent. I had rather know it than have it happen and never know it. Is there anything wrong in a man if he happens to fall in love with a girl?"
"He can remain silent, anyway."
"Why? Because he cannot marry her?"
"Yes."
"If you ever fell in love with me—would you wish to marry me?"
"If I ever did," he said, "I'd go through hell to marry you."
She considered him, curiously, as though trying to realise something inconceivable.
"I do not think of you that way," she said. "I do not think of you sentimentally at all.... Only that I care for you—deeply. I don't believe it's in me to love. I mean—as the world defines love.... So don't fall in love with me, Clive.... But, if you ever do, tell me."
"Why?" he asked unsteadily.
"Because you ought to tell me. I should not wish to die and never know it."
"Would you care?"
"Care? Do you ask a girl whether she could remain unmoved, uninterested, indifferent, if the man she cares for most falls in love with her?"
"Could you—respond?"
"Respond? With love? I don't know. How can I tell? I believe that I have never been in love in all my life. I don't know what it feels like. You might as well ask somebody born blind to read an ordinary book.... But one thing is certain: if that ever happens to you, you ought to tell me. Will you?"
"What good would it do?"
"What harm would it do?" she asked frankly.
"Suppose, knowing we could not marry, I made love to you, Athalie?"
Suddenly the smile flashed in her eyes: "Do you think I'm a baby, Clive? Suppose, knowing what we know, you did make love to me? Is that very dreadful?"
"My responsibility would be."
"The responsibility is mine. I'm my own mistress. If I chose to be yours the responsibility is mine—"
"Don't say such things, Athalie!"
"Why not? Such things happen—or they don't happen. I have no idea they're likely to happen to us.... I'm not a bit alarmed, Clive.... Perhaps it's the courage of ignorance—" She glanced at him again with the same curious, questioning look in her eyes,—"Perhaps because I cannot comprehend any such temptation.... And never could.... Nevertheless if you fall in love with me, tell me. I wouldnot wish you to remain dumb. You have a right to speak. Love isn't a question of conditions or of convenience. You ought to have your chance."
"Chance!"
"Certainly."
"What chance?"
"To win me."
"Win you!—when I can't marry you—"
"I didn't say marry; I said, win.... If you ever fell in love with me you would wish to win my love, wouldn't you? And if you did, and I gave it to you, you would have won me for yourself, wouldn't you? Then why should you worry concerninghowI might love you? That would be my affair, my personal responsibility. And I admit to you that I know no more than a kitten what I might do about it."
She looked at him a moment, her hands still resting on his shoulders, and suddenly threw back her head, laughing deliciously: "Did you ever before take part in such a ridiculous conversation?" she demanded. "Oh, but I have always adored theoretical conversations. Only give me an interesting subject and take one end of it and I'll gratefully grasp the other, Clive. What an odd man you are; and I suppose I'm odd, too. And we may yet live to inhabit an odd little house together.... Wouldn't the world tear me to tatters!... I wonder if I'd dare—even knowing I was all right!"... The laughter died in her eyes; a swift tenderness melted them: "I do care for you so truly, Clive! I can't bear to think of ever again living without you.... You know it isn't silliness or love oranything except what I've always felt for you—loyalty and devotion, endless, eternal. And that is all there is or ever will be in my heart and mind."
So clear and sweet and confident in his understanding were her eyes that the quick emotion that leaped responsive left only a ruddy trace on his face and a slight quiver on his lips.
He said: "Nothing shall ever threaten your trust in me. No man can ask for more than you give, Athalie."
"I give you all I am. What more is there?"
"I ask no more."
"Is there more to wish for? Are you really satisfied, Clive?"
"Perfectly;"—but he looked away from her.
"And you don't imagine that you love me, do you?"
"No,"—still looking away from her.
"Meet my eyes, and say it."
"I—"
"Clive!"
"There is no—"
"Clive, obey me!"
So he turned and looked her in the eyes. And after a moment's silence she laughed, uncertainly, almost nervously.
"You—youdoimagine it!" she said. "Don't you?"
He made no reply.
Presently she began to laugh again, a gay, tormenting, excited little laugh. Something in his face seemedto exhilarate her, sending the blood like wine to her cheeks.
"Youdoimagine it! Oh, Clive!You!You think yourself in love with your old comrade!... Iknewit! There was something about you—I can't explain exactly what—but there wassomethingthat told me."
She was laughing, now, almost wickedly and with all the naïve and innocently malicious delight of a child delighting in its fellow's torment.
"Oh, Clive!" she said, "what are you going to do about it? And why do you gaze at me so oddly?—as though I were angry or disconcerted. I'm not. I'm happy. I'm crazy about this new relation of ours. It makes you more interesting than I ever dreamed even you could be—"
"You know," he said almost grimly, "if you are going to take it like this—"
"Take what?"
"The knowledge that—"
"That you are in love with me? Then youare! Oh, Clive, Clive! You dear, sweet, funny boy! And you've told me so, haven't you? Or it amounts to that; doesn't it?"
"Yes; I love you."
She leaned swiftly toward him, sparkling, flushed, radiant, tender:
"You dear boy! I'm not really laughing at you. I'm laughing—I don't know why: happiness—excitement—pride—I don't know.... Do you suppose it actually is love? It won't make you unhappy, will it? Besides you can be very busy trying to win me.That will be exciting enough for both of us, won't it?"
"Yes—if I try."
"But you will try, won't you?" she demanded mockingly.
He said, forcing a smile: "You seem to think it impossible that I could win you."
"Oh," she said airily, "I don't say that. You see I don't know the method of procedure. I don't know what you're going to do about your falling in love with me."
He leaned over and took her by the waist; and she drew back instinctively, surprised and disconcerted.
"That is silly," she said. "Are you going to be silly with me, Clive?"
"No," he said, "I won't be that."
He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments. And slowly the belief entered his heart like a slim steel blade that she had never loved, and that there was in her nothing except what she had said there was, loyalty and devotion, unsullied and spiritual, clean of all else lower and less noble, guiltless of passion, ignorant of desire.
As he looked at her he remembered the past—remembered that once he might have taught her love in all its attributes—that once he might have married her. For in a school so gentle and secure as wedlock such a girl might learn to love.
He had had his chance. What did he want of her now, then?—more than he had of her already. Love? Her devotion amounted to that—all of it that couldconcern a man already married—hopelessly married to a woman who would never submit to divorce. What did he want of her then?
He turned and walked to the open window and stood looking out over the city. Sunset blazed crimson at the western end of every cross-street. Far away on the Jersey shore electric lights began to sparkle.
He did not know she was behind him until one arm fell lightly on his shoulder.
It remained there after her imprisoned waist yielded a little to his arm.
"You are not unhappy, are you, Clive?"
"No."
"I didn't mean to take it lightly. I don't comprehend; that's all. It seems to me that I can't care for you more than I do already. Do you understand?"
"Yes, dear."
She raised one cool hand and drew his cheek gently against her own, and rested so a moment, looking out across the misty city.
He remembered that night of his departure when she had put both arms around his neck and kissed him. It had been like the serene touch of a crucifix to his lips. It was like that now,—the smooth, passionless touch of her cool, young face against his, and her slim hand framing his cheek.
"To think," she murmured to herself, "that you should ever care for me in that way, too.... It is wonderful, wonderful—and very sweet—if it does not make you unhappy. Does it?"
"No."
"It's so dear of you to love me that way, Clive. Could—couldIdo anything—about it?"
"How?"
"Would you care to kiss me?" she asked with a faint smile. And turned her face.
Chaste, cool and fresh as a flower her young mouth met his, lingered; then, still smiling, and a trifle flushed and shy, she laid her cheek against his shoulder, and her hands in his, calm in her security.
"You see," she said, "you need not worry over me. I am glad you are in love with me."
IT was in the days when nothing physical tainted her passionate attachment to Clive. When she was with him she enjoyed the moment with all her heart and soul—gave to it and to him everything that was best in her—all the richness of her mental and bodily vigour, all the unspoiled enthusiasm of her years, all the sturdy freshness of youth, eager, receptive, credulous, unsatiated.
With them, once more, the old happy companionship began; the Café Arabesque, the Regina, the theatres, the suburban restaurants knew them again. Familiar faces among the waiters welcomed them to the same tables; the same ushers guided them through familiar aisles; the same taxi drivers touched their caps with the same alacrity; the same porters bestirred themselves for tips.
Sometimes when they were not alone, they and their friends danced late at Castle House or the Sans-Souci, or the Humming-Bird, or some such resort, at that time in vogue.
Sometimes on Saturday afternoons or on Sundays and holidays they spent hours in the museums and libraries—not that Clive had either inherited or been educated to any truer appreciation of things worthwhile than the average New York man—but like the majority he admitted the solemnity and fearsomeness of art and letters, and his attitude toward them was as carefully respectful as it was in church.
Which first perplexed and then amused Athalie who, with no opportunities, had been born with a wholesome passion for all things beautiful of the mind.
The little she knew she had learned from books or from her companionship with Captain Dane that first summer after Clive had gone abroad. And there was nothing orthodox, nothing pedantic, nothing simulated or artificial in her likes or dislikes, her preferences or her indifference.
Yet, somehow, even without knowing, the girl instinctively gravitated toward all things good.
In modern art—with the exception of a few painters—she found little to attract her; but the magnificence of the great Venetians, the sombre splendour of the great Spaniards, the nobility of the great English and Dutch masters held her with a spell forever new. And, as for the exquisite, naïvely self-conscious works of Greuze, Lancret, Fragonard, Boucher, Watteau, and Nattier, she adored them with all the fresh and natural appetite of a capacity for visual pleasure unjaded.
He recognised Raphael with respect and pleasure when authority reassured him itwasRaphael. Also he probably knew more about the history of art than did she. Otherwise it was Athalie who led, instinctively, toward what gallery and library held as their best.
Her favourite lingering places were amid the immortal Chinese porcelains and the masterpieces of the Renaissance. And thither she frequently beguiled Clive,—not that he required any persuading to follow this young and lovely creature who ranged the full boundaries of her environment, living to the full life as it had been allotted her.
Wholesome with that charming and rounded slenderness of perfect health there yet seemed no limit to her capacity for the enjoyment of all things for which an appetite exists—pleasures, mental or physical—it did not seem to matter.
She adored walking; to exercise her body delighted her. Always she ate and drank with a relish that fascinated; she was mad about the theatre and about music:—and whatever she chanced to be doing she did with all the vigour, intelligence, and pleasure of which she was capable, throwing into it her entire heart and soul.
It led to temporary misunderstandings—particularly with the men she met—even in the small circle of friends whom she received and with whom she went about. Arthur Ensart entirely mistook her until fiercely set right one evening when alone with him; James Allys also listened to a curt but righteously impassioned discourse which he never forgot. Hargrave's gentlemanly and suavely villainous intentions, when finally comprehended, became radically modified under her coolly scornful rebuke. Welter, fat and sentimental, never was more than tiresomely saccharine; Ferris and Lyndhurst betrayed symptoms of beingmisunderstood, but it was a toss-up as to the degree of seriousness in their intentions.