Transcribers Note: Spelling variations and colloquialspellings have been retained as they appear in theoriginal. 

 ATHALIE

 [Illustration: "'Clive is a good deal of a man. . . . I never had a better companion. '" [PAGE 242. ]]

 ATHALIE

 BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANK CRAIG

 NEW YORK AND LONDON D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1915

 COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

 COPYRIGHT, 1914, 1915, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY

 Printed in the United States of America

 TO MY FRIEND MESSMORE KENDALL

 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 "'Clive is a good deal of a man. . . . I never had a better companion. '" _Frontispiece_

 FACING PAGE

 "'Boy?' inquired Ledlie, resting one soil-incrusted boot on his spade. " 2

 "'I'd like to come down here for the summer vacation, ' said the boy, awkwardly. " 34

 "'I'm glad I saw you, ' said the girl; 'I hope you won't forget me. '" 40

 "C. Bailey, Jr. , and Athalie Greensleeve . . . Had supped together more than once at the Regina. " 78

 "Beside her, eager, happy, flattered, walked C. Bailey, Jr. , very conscious that he was being envied. " 80

 "'I like her, ' repeated Clive, Jr. , a trifle annoyed. " 82

 "It was in this place that Clive encountered Cecil Reeve one stormy midnight. " 114

 "He rather liked being with his own sort again. " 116

 "'Wasn't a civil bow enough?'" 126

 "One lovely morning in May she arose early in order to write to Clive. " 148

 "Mr. Wahlbaum . . . Was very quiet, very considerate, very attentive. " 150

 "Doris continued to haunt agencies and theatrical offices. " 154

 "With him she visited the various museums and art galleries. " 168

 "With a basket containing Hafiz, her suit-case, and a furled umbrella she started for her new lodgings. " 178

 "'Wasn't it suicide?' asked Athalie. " 180

 "She said in a low voice, still watching intently: 'Blue sky, green trees, a snowy shore, and little azure wavelets. . . . '" 210

 "Mrs. Bailey, Jr. , looked pale and pretty sitting there. " 232

 "During convalescence he read 'Under Two Flags' and approved the idea. " 234

 "His theme happened to be his own wonderful trap record, that evening. " 244

 "'There is your extra, ' she said pleasantly. " 266

 "Once more, the old happy companionship began. " 284

 "Finally . . . He cut the envelope and seated himself beside the lamp. " 300

 "When he saw her he sprang out and came forward. " 316

 "She suddenly sat upright, resting one slender hand on his shoulder. " 330

 "Clive nodded: 'Keep them off the place, Connor. '" 346

 "'Sure I was that worritted, ' burst out Mrs. Connor. " 348

 "'Michael, ' she said, smiling. " 372

 "And then her hands were in his and she was looking into his beloved eyes once more. " 378

 "Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden with him. " 400

ATHALIE

CHAPTER I

When Mrs. Greensleeve first laid eyes on her baby she knew it wasdifferent from the other children. 

"What is the matter with it?" she asked. 

The preoccupied physician replied that there was nothing the matter. In point of fact he had been admiring the newly born little girl whenher mother asked the question. 

"She's about as perfect as they make 'em, " he concluded, placing thebaby beside her mother. 

The mother said nothing. From moment to moment she turned her head onthe pillow and gazed down at her new daughter with a curious, questioning expression. She had never gazed at any of her otherchildren so uneasily. Even after she fell asleep the slightly puzzledexpression remained as a faint crease between her brows. 

Her husband, who had been wandering about from the bar to the office, from the office to the veranda, and occasionally entirely around theexterior of the road-house, came in on tiptoe and looked rathervacantly at them both. 

Then he went out again as though he was not sure where he might begoing. He was a little man and mild, and he did not look as though hehad been created for anything in particular, not even for the purposeof procreation. 

It was one of those early April days when birds make a great fuss overtheir vocal accomplishments, and the brown earth grows green overnight--when the hot spring sun draws vapours from the soil, and thecharacteristic Long Island odour of manure is far too prevalent toplease anybody but a native. 

Peter Greensleeve, wandering at hazard around the corner of thetavern, came upon his business partner, Archer B. Ledlie leisurelydigging for bait in the barn-yard. The latter was in hisshirt-sleeves--always a good sign for continued fair weather. 

"Boy?" inquired Ledlie, resting one soil-incrusted boot on his spade. 

"Another girl, " admitted Greensleeve. 

"Gawsh!" After a moment's rumination he picked up a squirmingangle-worm from the edge of the shallow excavation and dropped it intothe empty tomato can. 

"Going fishing?" inquired Greensleeve without interest. 

"I dunno. Mebbe. Your boy Jack seen a trout into Spring Pond. "

Ledlie, who was a large, heavy, red-faced man with a noticeably smallmouth, faded blue eyes, and grey chin whiskers, picked a budding sprigfrom a bush, nibbled it, and gravely seated himself on the edge of thehorse-trough. He was wearing a cigar behind his ear which hepresently extracted, gazed at, then reconsidering the extravagance, replaced. 

[Illustration: "'Boy?' inquired Ledlie, resting one soil-incrustedboot on his spade. "]

"Three gals, Pete--that's your record, " he remarked, gazingreproachfully out across the salt meadows beyond the causeway. "Theywon't bring you in nothin', " he added, shutting his thin lips. 

"I kind of like them, " said Greensleeve with a sigh. 

"They'll eat their heads off, " retorted Ledlie; "then they'll gitmarried an' go off some'rs. There ain't nothin' to gals nohow. Yououghtn't to have went an' done it. "

There seemed to be no further defence for Greensleeve. Ledliecontinued to chew a sprig of something green and tender, revolving itand rolling it from one side of his small, thin-lipped mouth to theother. His thin little partner brooded in the sunshine. Once heglanced up at the sign which swung in front of the road-house: "HotelGreensleeve: Greensleeve and Ledlie, proprietors. "

"Needs painting, Archie, " he volunteered mildly. 

"I dunno, " said the other. "Since the gunnin' season closed thereain't been no business except them sports from New York. The bar donegood; that's all. "

"There were two commercial men Wednesday week. "

"Yes, an' they found fault with their vittles. They can go to theother place next time, " which was as near as Ledlie ever came toprofanity. 

After a silence Ledlie said: "Here come your kids, Pete. I guess I'lllet 'em dig a little bait for me. "

Down the road they came dancing, and across the causeway over SpringPond--Jack, aged four, Doris, three, and Catharine, two; and theybroke into a run when they caught sight of their father, travelling asfast as their fat little legs could carry them. 

"Is there a new baby? Is there a new baby?" shouted Jack, while stillat a distance. 

"Is it a boy? I want another brother! Is it a boy?" shrilled Doris asshe and baby Catharine came panting up with flushed and excited faces. 

"It's a girl, " said Greensleeve mildly. "You'd better go into thekitchen and wash your faces. "

"A girl!" cried Jack contemptuously. "What did mamma do that for?"

"Oh, goodness!" pouted Doris, "I didn't want any more girls around. What are you going to name her, papa?"

"Athalie, I believe, " he said absently. 

"Athalie! What kind of name is that?" demanded Jack. 

"I dunno. Your mamma wanted it in case the baby was a girl. "

The children, breathing hard and rapidly, stood in a silent clusterlooking up at their father. Ledlie yawned frightfully, and they allinstantly turned their eyes on him to discover if possible thesolitary tooth with which rumour credited him. They always gazedintently into his mouth when he yawned, which irritated him. 

"Go on in and wash yourselves!" he said as soon as speech becamepossible. "Ain't you heard what your papa told you!"

They were not afraid of Mr. Ledlie; they merely found himunsympathetic, and therefore concerned themselves with him not at all. 

Ignoring him, Jack said, addressing his father: "I nearly caught asnake up the road. Gee! But he was a dandy. "

"He had stripes, " said Doris solemnly. 

"He wiggled, " asserted little Catharine, and her eyes became veryround. 

"What kind was he, papa?" inquired Jack. 

"Oh, just a snake, " replied Greensleeve vaguely. 

The eager faces of the children clouded with disappointment; dawningexpectancy faded; it was the old, old tragedy of bread desired, of thestone offered. 

"I liked that snake, " muttered Jack. "I wanted to keep him for a pet. I wanted to know what kind he was. He seemed very friendly. "

"Next time, " suggested Ledlie, "you pet him on the head with a rock. "

"What?"

"Snakes is no good. There's pizen into 'em. You kill every one you seean' don't ask questions. "

In the boy's face intelligence faded. Impulse lay stunned after itsheadlong collision with apathy, and died out in the clutch ofignorance. 

"Is that so, papa?" he asked, dully. 

"Yes, I guess so, " nodded Greensleeve. "Mr. Ledlie knows all aboutsnakes and things. "

"Go on in an' wash!" repeated Ledlie. "You don't git no supper if youain't cleaned up for table. Your papa says so, don't you, Pete?"

Greensleeve usually said what anybody told him to say. 

"Walk quietly, " he added; "your poor mamma's asleep. "

Reluctantly the children turned toward the house, gazing inquiringlyup at the curtained window of their mother's room as they troopedtoward the veranda. 

Jack swung around on the lower step:

"Papa!" he shouted. 

"Well?"

"I forget what her name is!"

"Athalie. "

CHAPTER II

Her first memories were of blue skies, green trees, sunshine, and theodour of warm moist earth. 

Always through life she retained this memory of her earlyconsciousness--a tree in pink bloom; morning-glories covering arotting board fence; deep, rich, sun-warmed soil into which her babyfingers burrowed. 

A little later commenced her memory of her mother--a still, white-shawled figure sewing under a peach tree in pink bloom. 

Vast were her mother's skirts, as Athalie remembered them--a widewhite tent under which she could creep out of the sunlight and hide. 

Always, too, her earliest memories were crowded with children, hostsof them in a kaleidoscopic whirl around her, and their voices seemedever in her ears. 

By the age of four she had gradually understood that this vaguelypictured host of children numbered only three, and that they were herbrother and two sisters--very much grown up and desirable to playwith. But at seven she began to be surprised that Doris and Catharinewere no older and no bigger than they were, although Jack's twelveyears still awed her. 

It was about this time that the child began to be aware of adifference between herself and the other children. For a year or twoit did not trouble her, nor even confuse her. She seemed to be awareof it, that was all. 

When it first dawned on her that her mother was aware of it too, shecould never quite remember. Once, very early in her career, her motherwho had been sewing under the peach tree, dropped her work and lookeddown at her very steadily where she sat digging holes in the dirt. 

And Athalie had a vague idea in after life that this was thebeginning; because there had been a little boy sitting beside her allthe while she was digging; and, somehow, she was aware that her mothercould not see him. 

She was not able to recollect whether her mother had spoken to her, oreven whether she herself had conversed with the little boy. He nevercame again; of that she was positive. 

When it was that her brother and sisters began to suspect her of beingdifferent she could not remember. 

In the beginning she had not understood their half-incredulouscuriosity concerning her; and, ardently communicative by nature, shewas frank with them, confident and undisturbed, until their child-likeand importunate aggressiveness, and the brutal multiplicity of theirquestions drove her to reticence and shyness. 

For what seemed to amaze them or excite them to unbelief or to jeersseemed to her ordinary, unremarkable, and not worthy of any particularnotice--not even of her own. 

That she sometimes saw things "around corners, " as Jack put it, hadseemed natural enough to her. That, now and then, she seemed toperceive things which nobody else noticed never disturbed her evenwhen she became aware that other people were unable to see them. Toher it was as though her own eyesight were normal, and astigmatism therule among other people. 

But the blunt, merciless curiosity of other children soon taughtAthalie to be on her guard. She learned that embarrassed reserve whichtended toward secretiveness and untruth before she was eleven. 

And in school she learned to lie, learned to deny accusations of beingdifferent, pretended that what her sisters accused her of had beenmerely "stories" made up to amuse them. 

So, in school, she made school-life endurable for herself. Yet, always, there seemed to be _something_ between her and other childrenthat made intimacies impossible. 

At the same time she was conscious of the admiration of the boys, ofsomething about herself that they liked outside of her athleticabilities. 

She had a great many friends among the boys; she could out-run, out-jump, out-swim any of them in the big country school. She wassupple and trim, golden-haired and dark-eyed, and ready for anythingthat required enterprise and activity of mind or body. Her raggedskirts were still short at eleven--short enough not to impede her. Andshe led the chase for pleasure all over that part of Long Island, running wild with the pack from hill to tide-water until every farmerin the district knew "the Greensleeve girl. "

There was, of course, some deviltry among cherry trees and appleorchards--some lawlessness born of sheer exuberance and superbhealth--some malicious trespassing, some harrying of unpopularneighbours. But not very much, considering. 

Her home life was colourless, calm, comfortable, and uneventful as sheregarded it. Business at the Hotel Greensleeve had fallen off and inreality the children had very little. But children at that age wholive all day in the open, require little except sympatheticintelligence for their million daily questions. 

This the Greensleeve children found wanting except when their motherdid her best to stimulate her own latent intelligence for their sakes. 

But it rested on the foundation of an old-fashioned and limitededucation. Only the polite, simpler, and more maidenly arts had beentaught her in the little New Jersey school her father had kept. Andher education ceased when she married Greensleeve, the ex-"professor"of penmanship, a kind, gentle, unimaginative man, unusually dull evenfor a teacher. And he was a failure even at that. 

They began married life by buying the house they were now living in;and when Greensleeve also failed as a farmer, they opened the place asa public tavern, and took in Ledlie to finance it. 

So it was to her mother that Athalie went for any information that herardent and growing intellect required. And her mother, intuitivelysurmising the mind-hunger of youth, and its vigorous needs, did herlimited best to satisfy it in her children. And that is really all theeducation they had; for what they got in the country school amountedto--well it amounted to what anybody ever gets in school. 

 * * * * *

Her most enduring, most vivid memories of her mother clustered aroundthose summer days of her twelfth year, brief lamp-lit scenes betweenlong, sunlit hours of healthy, youthful madness--quiet moments whenshe came in flushed and panting from the headlong chase afterpleasure, tired, physically satisfied, to sit on the faded carpet ather mother's feet and clasp her hands over her mother's knees. 

Then "what?" and "why?" and "when?" and "how?" were the burden of thechild's eager speech. Nothing seemed to have escaped her quick ears oreyes, no natural phenomena of the open; life, birth, movement, growth, the flow, and ebb of tides, thunder pealing from high-piled clouds, the sun shining through fragrant falling rain, mists that grew overswamp and meadow. 

And, "Why?" she always asked. 

Nothing escaped her;--swallows skimming and sheering Spring Pond, trout that jumped at sunset, the quick furry shapes of mink andmuskrat, the rattling flash of a blue-winged kingfisher, a tall heronwading, a gull mewing. 

Nothing escaped her; the casual caress of mating birds, procreation infarm-yard and barn-yard, fledgelings crying from a robin's nest of mudand messy refuse, blind kittens tugging at their blinking mother. 

Death, too, she saw, --a dusty heap of feathers here, a little mound offur, there, which the idle breezes stirred under the high sky, --andonce a dead dog, battered, filthy and bloody, shot by the roadside;and once some pigs being killed on a farm, all screaming. 

Then, in that school as in every school, there was the sinisterminority, always huddling in corners, full of mean silences andfurtive leering. And their half-heard words, half-understoodphrases, --a gesture, a look that silenced and perplexed her--these thechild brought also to her mother, sitting at her feet, face againsther knees. 

 * * * * *

For a month or two her mother had not been very well, and the doctorwho had brought Athalie into the world stopped in once or twice aweek. When he was with her mother the children were forbidden theroom. 

One evening in particular Athalie remembered. She had been running herlegs off playing hounds-and-hares across country from the salt-haystacks to the chestnut ridge, and she had come in after sunset to findher mother sewing in her own bedroom, her brother and sisters studyingtheir lessons in the sitting-room where her father also sat readingthe local evening paper. 

Supper was over, but Athalie went to the kitchen and presentlyreturned to her mother's room carrying a bowl of bread and milk andhalf a pie. 

Here on the faded carpet at her mother's feet, full in the lamplightshe sat her down and ate in hungry silence while her mother sewed. 

Athalie seldom studied. A glance at her books seemed to be enough forher. And she passed examinations without effort under circumstanceswhere plodders would have courted disaster. 

Rare questions from her mother, brief replies marked the meal. Whenshe had satisfied her hunger she jumped up, ran downstairs with theempty dishes, and came slowly back again, --a slender, supple figurewith tangled hair curling below her shoulders, dirty shirt-waist, soiled features and hands, and the ragged blue skirt of a sailor suithanging to her knees. 

"Your other sailor suit is washed and mended, " said her mother, smiling at her child in tatters. 

Athalie, her gaze remote, nodded absently. After a moment she liftedher steady dark blue eyes:

"A boy kissed me, mamma, " she remarked, dropping cross-legged at hermother's feet. 

"Don't kiss strange boys, " said her mother quietly. 

"I didn't. But why not?"

"It is not considered proper. "

"Why?"

Her mother said: "Kissing is a common and vulgar practice except inthe intimacy of one's own family. "

"I thought so, " nodded Athalie; "I soaked him for doing it. "

"Who was he?"

"Oh, it was that fresh Harry Eldon. I told him if he ever tried to getfresh with me again I'd kill him. . . . Mamma?"

"Yes?"

"All that about poor old Mr. Manners isn't true, is it?"

Her mother smiled. The children had been taught to leave a morsel ontheir plates "for manners"; and to impress it upon them their motherhad invented a story about a poor old man named Manners who dependedupon what they left, and who crept in to eat it after they had retiredfrom table. 

So leaving something "for Manners" had been thoroughly andsuccessfully inculcated, until the habit was formed. And now Athaliewas the last of the children to discover the gentle fraud practisedupon her. 

"I'm glad, anyway, " concluded the child. "I never thought we left himenough to eat. "

Her mother said: "I shall tell you only truths after this. You are oldenough to understand reason, now, and to reason a little yourself. "

"I do. . . . But I am not yet perfectly sure where babies come from. Yousaid you would tell me _that_ some day. I'd really like to know, mamma. "

Her mother continued to sew for a while, then, passing the needlethrough the hem she looked down at her daughter. 

"Have you formed any opinion of your own?"

"Yes, " said the child honestly. 

"Then I'd better tell you the truth, " said her mother tranquilly, "because the truth is very wonderful and beautiful--and interesting. "

So she related to the child, very simply and clearly all that need betold concerning the mystery of life in its beginnings; and Athalielistened, enchanted. 

And mostly it thrilled the child to realise that in her, too, laylatent a capability for the creation of life. 

 * * * * *

Another hour with her mother she remembered in after years. 

Mrs. Greensleeve had not been as well: the doctor came oftener. Frequently Athalie returning from school discovered her mother lyingon the bed. That evening the child was sitting on the floor at hermother's feet as usual, just inside the circle of lamplight, playingsolitaire with an ancient pack of cards. 

Presently something near the door attracted her attention and shelifted her head and sat looking at it, mildly interested, until, suddenly, she felt her mother's eyes on her, flushed hotly, and turnedher head away. 

"_What_ were you looking at?" asked her mother in a low voice. 

"Nothing, mamma. "

"Athalie!"

"What, mamma?"

"_What_ were you looking at?"

The child hung her head: "Nothing--" she began; but her mother checkedher: "Don't lie, Athalie. I'll try to understand you. Now tell me whatyou were--what you thought you were looking at over there near thedoor. "

The child turned and glanced back at the door over her shoulder. 

"There is nothing there--now, " she muttered. 

"Was there anything?"

Athalie sat silent for a while, then she laid her clasped hands acrossher mother's knees and rested her cheek on them. 

"There was a woman there, " she said. 

"Where?"

"Over by the door. "

"You saw her, Athalie?"

"Yes, mamma. "

"Did she open the door and come in and then close it behind her?"

"No. "

"How did she come in?"

"I don't know. She--just came in. "

"Was she a young woman?"

"No, old. "

"Very old?"

"Not very. There was grey in her hair--a little. "

"How was she dressed?"

"She wore a night-gown, mamma. There were spots on it--like medicine. "

"Had you ever seen her before?"

"I think so. "

"Who was she?"

"Mrs. Allen. "

Her mother sat very still but her clasped hands tightened and a littleof the colour faded from her cheeks. There was a Mrs. Allen who hadbeen suffering from an illness which she herself was afraid she had. 

"Do you mean Mrs. James Allen who lives on the old Allen farm?" sheasked quietly. 

"Yes, mamma. "

 * * * * *

In the morning they heard of Mrs. Allen's death. And it was severalmonths before Mrs. Greensleeve again spoke to her daughter on the onesubject about which Athalie was inclined to be most reticent. But thatsubject now held a deadly fascination for her mother. 

They had been sitting together in Mrs. Greensleeve's bedroom; themother knitting, in bed propped up upon the pillows. Athalie, cross-legged on a hassock beside her, was doing a little mending onher own account, when her mother said abruptly but very quietly:

"I have always known that you possess a power--which others cannotunderstand. "

The child's face flushed deeply and she bent closer over her mending. 

"I knew it when they first brought you to me, a baby just born. . . . Idon't know how I knew it, but I did. "

Athalie, sewing steadily, said nothing. 

"I think, " said her mother, "you are, in some degree, what is calledclairvoyant. "

"What?"

"Clairvoyant, " repeated her mother quietly. "It comes from the French, _clair_, clear; the verb _voir_, to see; _clair-voyant_, seeingclearly. That is all, Athalie. . . . Nothing to be ashamed of--if it istrue, --" for the child had dropped her work and had hidden her face inher hands. 

"Dear, are you afraid to talk about it to your mother?"

"N-no. What is there to say about it?"

"Nothing very much. Perhaps the less said the better. . . . I don't know, little daughter. I don't understand it--comprehend it. If it's so, it's so. . . . I see you sometimes looking at things I cannot see; I knowsometimes you hear sounds which I cannot hear. . . . Things happen whichperplex the rest of us; and, somehow I seem to know that they do notperplex you. What to us seems unnatural to you is natural, even acommonplace matter of course. "

"That's it, mamma. I have never seen anything that did not seem quitenatural to me. "

"Did you know that Mrs. Allen had died when you--thought you saw her?"

"I did see her. "

"Yes. . . . Did you know she had died?"

"Not until I saw her. "

"Did you know it then?"

"Yes. "

"How?"

"I don't know how I knew it. I seemed to know it. "

"Did you know she had been ill?"

"No, mamma. "

"Did it in any way frighten you--make you uneasy when you saw herstanding there?"

"Why, no, " said Athalie, surprised. 

"Not even when you knew she was dead?"

"No. Why should it? Why should I be afraid?"

Her mother was silent. 

"Why?" asked Athalie, curiously. "Is there anything to be afraid ofwith God and all his angels watching us? Is there?"

"No. "

"Then, " said the child with some slight impatience, "why is it thatother people seem to be a little afraid of me and of what they say Ican hear and see? I have good eyesight; I see clearly; that is all, isn't it? And there is nothing to frighten anybody in seeing clearly, is there?"

"No, dear. "

"People make me so cross, " continued Athalie, --"and so ashamed whenthey ask so many questions. What is there to be surprised at ifsometimes I see things _inside_ my mind. They are just as real as whenI see them _outside_. They are no different. "

Her mother nodded, encouragingly. 

"When papa was in New York, " went on Athalie, "and I saw him talkingto some men in a hotel there, why should it be surprising just becausepapa was in New York and I was here when I saw him?"

"It surprises others, dear, because they cannot see what is beyond thevision of their physical senses. "

Athalie said: "They tease me in school because they say I can seearound corners. It makes me very cross and unhappy, and I don't wantanybody to know that I see what they can't see. I'm ashamed to havethem know it. "

"Perhaps it is just as well you feel that way. People are odd. Whatthey do not understand they ridicule. A dog that would not notice ahorse-drawn vehicle will bark at an automobile. "

"Mamma?"

"Yes, dear. "

"Do you know that dogs, and I think cats, too, see many things that Ido; and that other people do not see. "

"Why do you think so?"

"I have noticed it. . . . The other evening when the white cat was dozingon your bed, and I was down here on the floor, sewing, Isaw--something. And the cat looked up suddenly and saw it, too. "

"Athalie!"

"She did, mamma. I knew perfectly well that she saw what I saw. "

"What was it you saw?"

"Only a young man. He walked over to the window--"

"And then?"

"I don't know, mamma. I don't know where they go. They go, that's allI know. "

"Who was he?"

"I don't know. "

"Did he look at us?"

"Yes. . . . He seemed to be thinking of something pleasant. "

"Did he smile?"

"He--had a pleasant look. . . . And once, --it was last Sunday--over bythe bed I saw a little boy. He was kneeling down beside the bed. AndMr. Ledlie's dog was lying here beside me. . . . Don't you remember howhe suddenly lifted his head and barked?"

"Yes, I remember. But you didn't tell me why at the time. "

"I didn't like to. . . . I never like to speak about these--people--Isee. "

"Had you ever before seen the little boy?"

"No, mamma. "

"Was he--alive--do you think?"

"Why, yes. They all are alive. "

"Mrs. Allen was not alive when you saw her over by the door. "

The child looked puzzled. "Yes, " she said, "but that was a littledifferent. Not _very_ different. They are all perfectly alive, mamma. "

"Even the ones we call dead? Are you sure of it?"

"Yes. . . . Yes, I'm sure of it. They are not dead. . . . Nothing seems todie. Nothing stays dead. "

"What! Why do you believe that?"

Athalie said slowly: "Somebody shot and killed a poor little dog, once, --just across the causeway bridge. . . . And the dog came into thegarden afterward and ran all around, smelling, and wagging his tail. "

"Athalie! Athalie! Be careful to control your imagination. "

"Yes, " said the child, thoughtfully, "I must be careful to control it. I can imagine almost anything if I try. "

"How hard have you ever tried to imagine some of the things yousee--or think you see?"

"Mamma, I never try. I--I don't care to see them. I'd rather not. Those things come. _I_ haven't anything to do with it. I don't knowthese people, and I am not interested. I _did_ try to see papa in NewYork--if you call that imagination. "

But her mother did not know what to call it because at the hour whenAthalie had seen him, that mild and utterly unimaginative man wasactually saying and doing what his daughter had seen and heard. 

"Also, " said Athalie, "I _was_ thinking about that poor little yellowdog and wondering whether he was past all suffering, when he camegaily trotting into the garden, waving his tail quite happily. Therewas no dust or blood on him. He rolled on the grass, too, and barkedand barked. But nobody seemed to hear him or notice him excepting I. "

For a long while silence reigned in the lamp-lit room. When the otherchildren came in to say good night to their mother she received themwith an unusual tenderness. They went away; Athalie rose, yawning theyawn of healthy fatigue:

"Good night, mamma. "

"Good night, little daughter. "

They kissed: the mother drew her into a sudden and almost convulsiveembrace. 

"Darling, are you sure that nothing really dies?"

"_I_ have never seen anything really dead, mamma. Even the 'dead'birds, --why, the evening sky is full of them--the little 'dead' onesI mean--flock after flock, twittering and singing--"

"Dear!"

"Yes, mamma. "

"When you see me--_that_ way--will you--speak?"

"Yes. "

"Promise, darling. "

"Yes. . . . I'll kiss you, too--if it is possible. . . . "

"Would it be possible?"

The child gazed at her, perplexed and troubled: "I--don't--know, " shesaid slowly. Then, all in a moment her childish face paled and sheclung to her mother and began to cry. 

And her mother soothed her, tenderly, smilingly, kissing the tearsfrom the child's eyes. 

The next morning after the children had gone to school Mrs. Greensleeve was operated on--without success. 

CHAPTER III

The black dresses of the children had become very rusty by spring, butbusiness had been bad at the Hotel Greensleeve, and Athalie, Doris, and Catharine continued to wear their shabby mourning. 

Greensleeve haunted the house all day long, roaming from bar tooffice, from one room to another, silently opening doors of unoccupiedchambers to peer about in the dusty obscurity, then noiselesslyclosing them, he would slink away down the dim corridor to his latewife's room and sit there through the long sunny afternoon, his weakface buried in his hands. 

Ledlie had grown fatter, redder of visage, whiter of hair and beard. When a rare guest arrived, or when local loafers wandered into the barwith the faint stench of fertilizer clinging to their boots, heshuffled ponderously from office to bar, serving as economically as hedared whoever desired to be served. 

Always a sprig of something green protruded from his small tightmouth. His pale eyes, now faded almost colourless, had become weak andred-rimmed, and he blinked continually except in the stalesemi-darkness of the house. 

Always, now, he was muttering and grumbling his disapproval of thechildren--"Eatin' their heads off I tell you, Pete! What good is allthis here schoolin' doin' 'em when they ought to git out some'rs an'earn their vittles?"

But if Greensleeve's attitude was one of passive acquiescence, he madeno effort to withdraw the children from school. Once, when life wasyounger, and Jack, his first baby, came, he had dreamed of college forhim, and of a career--in letters perhaps--something dignified, leisurely, profound beyond his own limits. And of a modest cornersomewhere within the lustre of his son's environment where he and hiswife, grey-haired, might dream and admire, finding there surcease fromcare and perhaps the peace which passes all understanding. 

The ex-"professor" of penmanship had been always prone to dream. Nodull and sordid reality, no hopeless sorrow had yet awakened him. Norhad his wife's death been more real than the half-strangled anguish ofa dreamer, tossing in darkness. As for the children, they paid no moreattention to Ledlie than they might have to a querulous butsuperannuated dog. 

Jack, now fifteen, still dawdled at school, where his record was notgood. Perhaps it was partly because he had no spending money, noclothing to maintain his boyish self-respect, no prospects of anysort, that he had become sullen, uncommunicative, and almost loutish. 

Nobody governed him; his father was unqualified to control anybody oranything; his mother was dead. 

With her death went the last vestige of any tie that had held the boyto the home anchorage--of any feeling of responsibility concerningthe conduct expected and required of him. 

He shirked his studies, came home only to eat and sleep, remained outlate without explanation or any home interference, except for theconstant disputes and quarrels with Doris and Catharine, now agedrespectively fourteen and thirteen. 

To Athalie he had little to say. Perhaps he did not realise it but hewas slightly afraid of her. And it was from her that he took any painsat all to conceal his irregularities. 

Once, coming in from school, she had found the house deserted, andJack smelling of alcohol just slouching out of the bar. 

"If you do that again I shall tell father, " she said, horrified. 

"What do I care!" he had retorted sullenly. And it was true; the boyno longer cared what anybody might think as long as Athalie alreadyknew and detested what he had done. 

There was a garage in the neighbouring village. He spent most of histime hanging around it. Sometimes he came home reeking of oil andgasoline, sometimes his breath was tainted with tobacco and alcohol. 

He was so much bigger and older than Athalie that the child had neverentirely lost her awe of him. His weakness of character, his failings, and the fact that he was a trifle afraid of her opinion, combined toastonish and bewilder her. 

For a long while she tried to understand the gradual but certainreversal of their relations. And one night, still more or less in aweof him, she got out of bed and went softly into his room. 

He was not asleep. The sudden apparition of his youngest sisterconsiderably startled him, and he sat up in his ragged night-shirt andstared at her where she stood in the moonlight. 

"You look like one of your own spooks!" he said. "What's the matterwith you?"

"I wanted to talk with you, Jack. "

"What about?"

"You. "

For a moment he sat there eyeing her uneasily; then:

"Well, go ahead!" he said ungraciously; and stretched himself back onthe pillows. 

She came and seated herself on the bed's edge:

"Jack, please don't drink beer. "

"Why not? Aw, what do you know about men, anyway? Don't they all smokeand drink?"

"Mamma asked you not to. "

"Gee-whiz! I was a kid then. But a man isn't a baby. "

Athalie sighed. Her brother eyed her restlessly, aware of that slightfeeling of shame which always invaded his sullen, defiant discontentwhen he knew that he had lowered himself in her estimation. 

For, if the boy was a little afraid of her, he also cared more for herthan he ever had for any of the family except his mother. 

He was only the average boy, stumbling blindly, almost savagelythrough the maze of adolescence, with no guide, nobody to warn orcounsel him, nothing to stimulate his pride, no anchorage, noexperience. 

Whatever character he had he had been born with: it was environmentand circumstance that were crippling it. 

"See here, Athalie, " he said, "you're a little girl and you don'tunderstand. There isn't any harm in my smoking a cigarette or two orin drinking a glass of beer now and then. "

"Isn't there, Jack?"

"No. So don't you worry, Sis. . . . And, say! I'm not going back toschool. "

"What?"

"What's the use? I can't go to college. Anyway what's the good ofalgebra and physics and chemistry and history and all that junk? Iguess I'll go into business. "

"What business?"

"I don't know. I've been working around the garage. I can get a jobthere if I want it. "

"Did you ask papa?"

"What's the use? He'll let me do what I please. I guess I'll start into-morrow. "

 * * * * *

His father did not interfere when his only son came slouching up toinform him of his decision. 

After Jack had gone away toward the village and his new business, hisfather remained seated on the shabby veranda, his head sunken on hissoiled shirtfront, his wasted hands clasped over his stomach. 

For a little while, perhaps, he remembered his earlier ambitions forthe boy's career. Maybe they caused him pain. But if there was pain itfaded gradually into the lethargy which had settled over him since hiswife's death. 

A grey veil seemed to have descended between him and the sun, --therewas greyness everywhere, and dimness, and uncertainty--in his mind, inhis eyesight--and sometimes the vagueness was in his speech. He hadnoticed that--for, sometimes the word he meant to use was not the wordhe uttered. It had occurred a number of times, making foolish what hehad said. 

And Ledlie had glanced at him sharply once or twice out of his soreand faded eyes when Greensleeve had used some word while thinking ofanother. 

When he was not wandering around the house he sat on the veranda in agreat splint-bottomed arm-chair--a little untidy figure, more or lesscaved in from chest to abdomen, which made his short thin legs hangingjust above the floor seem stunted and withered. 

To him, here, came his daughters in their soiled and rusty blackdresses, just out of school, and always stopping on impulse ofsympathy to salute him with, "Hello, papa!" and with the touch offresh, warm lips on his colourless cheek. 

Sometimes they lingered to chatter around him, or bring out pie andcake to eat in his company. But very soon his gaze became remote, andthe children understood that they were at liberty to go, which theydid, dancing happily away into the outer sunshine, on pleasurebent--the matchless pleasures of the very young whose poverty has notas yet disturbed them. 

As the summer passed the sunlight grew greyer to Peter Greensleeve. Also, more often, he mixed his words and made nonsense of what hesaid. 

The pain in his chest and arms which for a year had caused himdiscomfort, bothered him at night, now. He said nothing about it. 

That summer Doris had taken a course in stenography and typewriting, going every day to Brooklyn by train and returning before sunset. 

When school began she asked to be allowed to continue. Catharine, too, desired to learn. And if their father understood very clearly whatthey wanted, it is uncertain. Anyway he offered no objections. 

That winter he saw his son very seldom. Perhaps the boy was busy. Onceor twice he came to ask his father for money, but there was none togive him, --very little for anybody--and Doris and Catharine requiredthat. 

Some little money was taken in at the Hotel Greensleeve; commercialmen were rather numerous that winter: so were duck-hunters. Athalieoften saw them stamping around in the bar, the lamplight glistening ontheir oil-skins and gun-barrels, and touching the silken plumage ofdead ducks--great strings of them lying on the bar or on the floor. 

Once when she came home from school earlier than usual, she went intothe kitchen and found a hot peach turnover awaiting her, constructedfor her by the slovenly cook, and kept hot by the still more slovenlymaid-of-all-work--the only servants at the Hotel Greensleeve. 

Sauntering back through the house, eating her turnover, she noticedMr. Ledlie reading his newspaper in the office and her fatherapparently asleep on a chair before the stove. 

There were half a dozen guests at the inn, duck-hunters from New York, but they were evidently still out with their bay-men. 

Nibbling her pastry Athalie loitered along the hall and deposited herstrapped books on a chair under the noisy wall-clock. Then, at hazard, she wandered into the bar. It was growing dusky; nobody had lightedthe ceiling lamp. 

At first she thought the room was empty, and had strolled over towardthe stove to warm her snow-wet shoes, when all at once she becameaware of a boy. 

The boy was lying back on a leather chair, stockinged feet crossed, hands in his pocket, looking at her. He wore the leather shootingclothes of a duck-hunter; on the floor beside him lay his cap, oil-skins, hip-boots, and his gun. A red light from the stove fellacross his dark, curly hair and painted one side of his face crimson. 

Athalie, surprised, was not, however, in the least disturbed orembarrassed. She looked calmly at the boy, at the woollen stockings onhis feet. 

"Did you manage to get dry?" she asked in a friendly voice. 

Then he seemed to come to himself. He took his hands from his pocketsand got up on his stockinged feet. 

"Yes, I'm dry now. "

"Did you have any luck?"

"I got fifteen--counting shell-drake, two redheads, a black duck, andsome buffle-heads. "

"Where were you shooting?"

"Off Silver Shoal. "

"Who was your bay-man?"

"Bill Nostrand. "

"Why did you stop shooting so early?"

"Fifteen is the local limit this year. "

Athalie nodded and bit into her turnover, reflectively. When shelooked up, something in the boy's eye interested her. 

"Are you hungry?" she asked. 

He looked embarrassed, then laughed: "Yes, I am. "

"Wait; I'll get you a turnover, " she said. 

When she returned from the kitchen with his turnover he was standing. Rather vaguely she comprehended this civility toward herself althoughnobody had ever before remained standing for her. 

Not knowing exactly what to do or say she silently presented thepastry, then drew a chair up into the red firelight. And the boyseated himself. 

"I suppose you came with those hunters from New York, " she said. 

"Yes. I came with my father and three of his friends. "

"They are out still I suppose. "

"Yes. They went over to Brant Point. "

"I've often sailed there, " remarked Athalie. "Can you sail a boat?"

"No. "

"It is easy. . . . I could teach you if you are going to stay a while. "

"We are going back to New York to-morrow morning. . . . How did you learnto sail a boat?"

"Why, I don't know. I've always lived here. Mr. Ledlie has a boat. Everybody here knows how to manage a cat-boat. . . . If you'll come downthis summer I'll teach you. Will you?"

"I will if I can. "

They were silent for a few minutes. It grew very dark in the bar-room, and the light from the stove glimmered redder and redder. 

The boy and girl lay back in their chairs, lingering over their peachpastry, and inspecting each other with all the frank insouciance ofchildhood. 

Athalie still wore the red hood and cloak which had represented herouter winter wardrobe for years. Her dull, thick gold hair curledcrisply over the edges of the hood which framed in its oval the lovelyfeatures of a child in perfect health. 

The boy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, gazed fascinated and unembarrassedat this golden blond visitor hooded and cloaked in scarlet. 

"Does your father keep this hotel?" he asked after a pause. 

"Yes. I am Athalie Greensleeve. What is your name?"

"C. Bailey, Junior. "

"What is the _C_ for?"

"Clive. "

"Do you go to school?"

"Yes, but I'm back for the holidays. "

"Holidays, " she repeated vaguely. "Oh, that's so. Christmas will comeday after to-morrow. "

He nodded. "I think I'm going to have a new pair of guns, some books, and a horse. What do you expect?"

"Nothing, " said Athalie. 

"What? Isn't there anything you want?" And then, too late, someglimmer of the real state of affairs illuminated his boyish brain. Andhe grew red with embarrassment. 

They had finished their pastry; Athalie wiped her hands on a soiledand ragged and crumpled handkerchief, then scrubbed her scarlet mouth. 

"I'd like to come down here for the summer vacation, " said the boy, awkwardly. "I don't know whether my mother would like it. "

"Why? It is pleasant. "

[Illustration: "'I'd like to come down here for the summer vacation, 'said the boy, awkwardly. "]

He glanced instinctively around him at the dark and shabby bar-room, but offered no reason why his mother might not care for the HotelGreensleeve. One thing he knew; he meant to urge his mother to come, or to let him come. 

A few minutes later the outer door banged open and into the bar camestamping four men and two bay-men, their oil-skins shining withsalt-spray, guns glistening. Thud! went the strings of dead ducks onthe floor; somebody scratched a match and lighted the ceiling lamp. 

"Hello, Junior!" cried one of the men in oil-skins, --"how did youmake out on Silver Shoals?"

"All right, father, " he began; but his father had caught sight ofAthalie who had risen to retreat. 

"Who are you, young lady?" he inquired with a jolly smile, --"are youlittle Red-Riding Hood or the Princess Far Away, or perhaps theSleeping Beauty recently awakened?"

"I'm Athalie Greensleeve. "

"Lady Greensleeves! I _knew_ you were somebody quite as distinguishedas you are beautiful. Would you mind saying to Mr. Greensleeve thatthere is much moaning on the bar, and that it will still continueuntil he arrives to instil the stillness of the still--"

"What?"

"We merely want a drink, my child. Don't look so seriously anddistractingly pretty. I was joking, that's all. Please tell yourfather how very thirsty we are. "

As the child turned to obey, C. Bailey, Sr. , put one big arm around hershoulders: "I didn't mean to tease you on such short acquaintance, " hewhispered. "Are you offended, little Lady Greensleeves?"

Athalie looked up at him in puzzled silence. 

"Smile, just once, so I shall know I am forgiven, " he said. "Willyou?"

The child smiled confusedly, caught the boy's eye, and smiled again, most engagingly, at C. Bailey, Sr. 's, son. 

"Oho!" exclaimed the senior Bailey laughingly and looking at his son, "I'm forgiven for your sake, am I?"

"For heaven's sake, Clive, " protested one of the gunners, "let thelittle girl go and find her father. If I ever needed a drink it'snow!"

So Athalie went away to summon her father. She found him as she hadlast noticed him, sitting asleep on the big leather office chair. Ledlie, behind the desk, was still reading his soiled newspaper, whichhe continued to do until Athalie cried out something in a frightenedvoice. Then he laid aside his paper, blinked at her, got up leisurelyand shuffled over to where his partner was sitting dead on his leatherchair. 

 * * * * *

The duck-hunters left that night. One after another the four gentlemencame over to speak to Athalie and to her sisters. There was someconfusion and crowding in the hallway, what with the doctor, theundertaker's assistants, neighbours, and the New York duck-hunters. 

Ledlie ventured to overcharge them on the bill. As nobody objected heregretted his moderation. However, the taking off of Greensleevehelped business in the bar where sooner or later everybody drifted. 

When the four-seated livery wagon drove up to take the gunning partyto the train, the boy lingered behind the others and then hurried backto where Athalie was standing, white-faced, tearless, staring at theclosed door of the room where they had taken her father. 

Bailey Junior's touch on her arm made her turn: "I am sorry, " he said. "I hope you will not be very unhappy. . . . And--here is a Christmaspresent--"

He took the dazed child's icy little hand in his, and, fumbling thebusiness rather awkwardly, he finally contrived to snap a strap-watchover the delicate wrist. It was the one he had been wearing. 

"Good-bye, Athalie, " he murmured, very red. 

The girl gazed at him out of her lovely confused eyes for a moment. But when she tried to speak no sound came. 

"Good-bye, " he said again, choking slightly. "I'll surely, surely comeback to see you. Don't be unhappy. I'll come. "

But it was many years before he returned to the Hotel Greensleeve. 

CHAPTER IV

She was fifteen years old before she saw him again. His strap-watchwas still on her wrist; his memory, unfaded, still enshrined in herheart of a child, for she was as yet no more than that at fifteen. Andthe moment she saw him she recognised him. 

It was on the Sixth Avenue Elevated Station at Twenty-third Street onesunny day in April; he stood waiting for the downtown train which shestepped out of when it stopped. 

He did not notice her, so she went over to him and called him by name;and the tall, good-looking, fashionably dressed young fellow turned toher without recognition. 

But the next instant his smooth, youthful face lighted up, and offcame his hat with the gay college band adorning it:

"Athalie Greensleeve!" he exclaimed, showing his pleasureunmistakably. 

"C. Bailey, Junior, " she rejoined as steadily as she could, for herheart was beating wildly with the excitement of meeting him and heremotions were not under full control. 

"You have grown so, " he said with the easy, boyish cordiality of hiscaste, "I didn't recognise you for a moment. Tell me, do you stilllive down--er--down there?"

She said:

"I knew you as soon as I set eyes on you. You are very much taller, too. . . . No, we went away from Spring Pond the year after my fatherdied. "

"I see, " he said sympathetically. And back into his memory flashedthat scene with her by the stove in the dusky bar. And then heremembered her as she stood in her red hood and cloak staring at theclosed door of the room where her dead father lay. And he rememberedtouching her frosty little hand, and the incident of the watch. 

"I never went back there, " he mused, half to himself, lookingcuriously at the girl before him. "I wanted to go--but I never did. "

"No, you never came back, " she said slowly. 

"I couldn't. I was only a kid, you see. My mother wouldn't let me gothere that summer. And father and I joined a club down South so we didnot go back for the duck-shooting. That is how it happened. "

She nodded, gravely, but said nothing to him about her faith in hisreturn, how confidently, how patiently she had waited through thatlong, long summer for the boy who never returned. 

"I did think of you often, " he volunteered, smiling at her. 

"I thought of you, too. I hoped you would come and let me teach you tosail a boat. "

"That's so! I remember now. You were going to show me how. "

"Have you learned to sail a boat?"

"No. I'll tell you what I'll do, Athalie, I'll come down thissummer--"

"But I don't live there any more. "

"That's so. Where do you live?"

She hesitated, and his eyes fell for the first time from her youthfuland engaging face to the clothes she wore--black clothes that seemedcheap even to a boy who had no knowledge of feminine clothing. She wasall in rusty black, hat, gloves, jacket and skirt; and the austere andslightly mean setting made the contrast of her hair and skin the morefresh and vivid. 

"I live, " she replied diffidently, "with my two sisters in WestFifty-fourth Street. I am stenographer and typewriter in the officesof a department store. "

"I'd like to come to see you, " he said impulsively. "Shall I--whenvacation begins?"

"Are you still at school?"

He laughed: "I'm at Harvard. I'm down for Easter just now. Tell me, Athalie, would you care to have me come to see you when I return?"

"If you would care to come. "

"I surely would!" he said cordially, offering his hand in adieu--"Iwant to ask you a lot of questions and we can talk over all thosejolly old times, "--as though years of comradeship lay behind theminstead of an hour or two. Then his glance fell on the slim hand hewas shaking, and he saw the strap-watch which he had given her stillclasped around her wrist. 

"You wear that yet?--that old shooting-watch of mine!" he laughed. 

She smiled. 

"I'll give you a better one than that next Christmas, " he said, takingout a little notebook and pencil. "I'll write it down--'strap-watchfor Athalie Greensleeve next Christmas'--there it is! And--will yougive me your address?"

She gave it; he noted it, closed his little Russia-leather book with asnap, and pocketed it. 

"I'm glad I saw you, " said the girl; "I hope you won't forget me. I amlate; I must go--I suppose--"

[Illustration: "'I'm glad I saw you, ' said the girl; 'I hope you won'tforget me. '"]

"Indeed I won't forget you, " he assured her warmly, shaking theslender black-gloved hand again. 

He meant it when he said it. Besides she was so pretty and frank andhonest with him. Few girls he knew in his own caste were asattractive; none as simple, as direct. 

He really meant to call on her some day and talk things over. Butdays, and weeks, and finally months slipped away. And somehow, inthinking of her and of his promise, there now seemed very little leftfor them to talk about. After all they had said to each other nearlyall there was to be said, there on the Elevated platform that Aprilmorning. Besides he had so many, many things to do; so many pleasurespromised and accepted, visits to college friends, a fishing trip withhis father, --really there seemed to be no hour in the long vacationunengaged. 

He always wanted to see her when he thought of her; he really meant tofind a moment to do it, too. But there seemed to be no momentsuitable. 

Even when he was back in Cambridge he thought about her occasionally, and planned, vaguely, a trip to New York so that he might redeem hispromise to her. 

He took it out in thinking. 

At Christmas, however, he sent her a wrist-watch, a dainty Frenchaffair of gold and enamel; and a contrite note excusing himself forthe summer delinquencies and renewing his promise to call on her. 

The Dead Letter Office returned watch and letter. 

CHAPTER V

There was a suffocating stench of cabbage in hallway and corridor asusual when Athalie came in that evening. She paused to rest a tiredfoot on the first step of the stairway, for a moment or two, quietlybreathing her fatigue, then addressed herself to the monotonous labourbefore her, which was to climb five flights of unventilated stairs, let herself into the tiny apartment with her latch-key, andimmediately begin her part in preparing the evening meal for three. 

Doris, now twenty-one, sprawled on a lounge in her faded wrapperreading an evening paper. Catharine, a year younger, stood by abureau, some drawers of which had been pulled out, sorting over oddsand ends of crumpled finery. 

"Well, " remarked Doris to Athalie, as she came in, "what do _you_know?"

"Nothing, " said Athalie listlessly. 

Doris rattled the evening paper: "Gee!" she commented, "it's gettingto be something fierce--all these young girls disappearing! Here'sanother--they can't account for it; her parents say she had no loveaffair--" And she began to read the account aloud while Catharinecontinued to sort ribbons and Athalie dropped into a big, shabbychair, legs extended, arms pendant. 

When Doris finished reading she tossed the paper over to Athalie wholet it slide from her knees to the floor. 

"Her picture is there, " said Doris. "She isn't pretty. "

"Isn't she?" yawned Athalie. 

Catharine jerked open another drawer: "It's always a man's doing. Youbet they'll find that some fellow had her on a string. What idiotsgirls are!"

"_I_ should worry, " remarked Doris. "Any fresh young man who tries toget me jingled will wish he hadn't. "

"Don't talk that way, " remonstrated Athalie. 

"What way?"

"That slangy way you think is smart. What's the use of letting downwhen you know better. "

"What's the use of keeping up on fifteen per? I could do the Gladys toany Percy on fifty. My talk suits my wages--and it suits me, too. . . . God!--I suppose it's fried ham again to-night, " she added, jumping upand walking into the kitchenette. And, pausing to look back at hersisters: "If any Johnny asks me to-night I'll go!--I'm that hungry forreal food. "

"Don't be a fool, " snapped Catharine. 

Athalie glanced at the alarm clock, passed her hands wearily acrossher eyes, and rose: "It's after six, Doris. You haven't time foranything very much. " And she went into the kitchenette. 

Once or twice during the preparation of the meal Doris swore in hersoft girlish voice, which made the contrast peculiarly shocking; andfinally Athalie said bluntly: "If I didn't know you were straight Iwouldn't think so from the way you behave. "

Doris turned on her a flushed and angry face: "Will you kindly stopknocking me?"

"I'm not. I'm only saying that your talk is loose. And so it is. "

"What's the difference as long as I'm not on the loose myself?"

"The difference is that men will think you are; that's all. "

"Men mistake any girl who works for a living. "

"Then see that the mistake is their fault not yours. I don'tunderstand why a girl can't keep her self-respect even if she's astenographer, as I am, or works in a shop as Catharine does, or in thetheatre as you do. And if a girl talks loosely, she'll think loosely, sooner or later. "

"Hurry up that supper!" called Catharine. "I'm going to a show withGenevieve, and I want time to dress. "

Athalie, scrambling the eggs, which same eggs would endure no othermode of preparation, leaned over sideways and kissed Doris on herlovely neck. 

"Darling, " she said, "I'm not trying to be disagreeable; I only wantus all to keep up. "

"I know it, ducky. I guess you're right. I'll cut out that rough stuffif you like. "

Athalie said: "It's only too easy to let down when you're thrown withcareless and uneducated people as we are. I have to struggle againstit all the while. For, somehow I seem to know that a girl who keepsup her grammar keeps up her self-respect, too. If you slouch mentallyyou slouch physically. And then it's not so difficult to slouchmorally. "

Doris laughed: "You funny thing! You certainly have educated yourselfa lot since school, --you use such dandy English. "

"I _read_ good English. "

"I know you do. I can't. If somebody would only write a rattling storyin good English!--but I've got to have the story first of all or Ican't read it. All those branch-library books you lug in are too slowfor me. If it wasn't for hearing you talk every day I'd be talkinglike the rest of the chorus at the Egyptian Garden;--'Sa-ay, ain't youdone with my make-up box? Yaas, you _did_ swipe it! I seen you. Who'sa liar? All right, if you want to mix it--'"

"Don't!" pleaded Athalie. "Oh, Doris, I don't see why you can't findsome other business--"

Doris began to strut about the kitchenette. 

"Please don't! It makes me actually ill!"

"When I learn how to use my voice and my legs you'll see me playingleads. Here, ducky, I'll take the eggs--"

Athalie, her arms also full, followed her out to the table whichCatharine had set very carelessly. 

They drank Croton water and strong tea, and gravely discussed how, from their several limited wardrobes sufficient finery might beextracted to clothe Catharine suitably for her evening'sentertainment. 

"It's rotten to be poor, " remarked the latter. "You're only youngonce, and this gosh-dinged poverty spoils everything for me. "

"Quit kicking, " said Doris. "I don't like these eggs but I'm eatingthem. If I were wealthy I'd be eating terrapin, wouldn't I?"

"Genevieve has a new gown for to-night, " pouted Catharine. "How can Ihelp feeling shabby and unhappy?"

"Genevieve seems to have a number of unaccountable things, " remarkedDoris, partly closing her velvet eyes. "She has a fur coat, too. "

"Doris! That isn't square of you!"

"That isn't the question. Is Genevieve on the square? That's whatworries me, Kit!"

"What a perfectly rotten thing to say!" insisted Catharineresentfully. "You know she's on the level!"

"Well then, _where_ does she get it? You know what her salary is?"

Athalie said, coolly: "Every girl ought to believe every other girl onthe square until the contrary is proven. It's shameful not to. "

"Come over to the Egyptian Garden and try it!" laughed Doris. "If youcan believe that bunch of pet cats is on the square you can believeanything, Athalie. "

Catharine, still very deeply offended, rose and went into the bedroomwhich she shared with Doris. Presently she called for somebody toassist her in dressing. 

Doris, being due at the theatre by seven o'clock, put on her rustycoat and hat, and, nodding to Athalie, walked out; and the latterwent away to aid Catharine. 

"You _do_ look pretty, " she insisted after Catharine had powdered herface and neck and had wiped off her silky skin with the chamois rag. 

The girl gazed at her comely, regular features in the mirror, pattedher hair, moistened her red lips, then turned her profile and gazed atit with the aid of a hand-glass. 

"Who else is going?" inquired Athalie. 

"Some friends of Genevieve's. "

"Men?"

"I believe so. "

"Two, I suppose. "

Catharine nodded. 

"Don't you know their names?"

"No. Genevieve says that one of them is crazy to meet me. "

"Where did he see you?"

"At Winton's. I put on some evening gowns for his sister. "

Athalie watched her pin on her hat, then held her coat for her. "They'll all bear watching, " she remarked quietly. "If it's merelysociety they want you know as well as I that they seek it in their owncircles, not in ours. "

Catharine made no audible response. She began to re-pin her hat, then, pettishly: "I wish I had a taxi to call for me so I needn't wear ahat!"

"Why not wish for an automobile?" suggested Athalie, laughing. "Womenwho have them don't wear hats to the theatre. "

"It _is_ tough to be poor!" insisted Catharine fiercely. "It drives mealmost frantic to see what I see in all those limousines, --and thenwalk home, or take a car if I'm flush. "

"How are you going to help it, dear?" inquired Athalie in that gentlyhumorous voice which usually subdued and shamed her sisters. 

But Catharine only mumbled something rebellious, turned, stared atherself in the glass, and walked quickly toward the door. 

"As for me, " she muttered. "I don't blame any girl--"

"What?"

But Catharine marched out with a twitch of her narrow skirts, stillmuttering incoherencies. 

Athalie, thoughtful, but not really disturbed, went into the emptysitting-room, picked up the evening paper, glanced absently at thehead-lines, dropped it, and stood motionless in the centre of theroom, one narrow hand bracketed on her hip, the other pinching herunder lip. 

For a few minutes she mused, then sighing, she walked into thekitchenette, unhooked a blue-checked apron, rolled up her sleeves asfar as her white, rounded arms permitted, and started in on thedishes. 

Occasionally she whistled at her task--the clear, soft, melodiouswhistle of a bullfinch--carolling some light, ephemeral air from the"Review" at the Egyptian Garden. 

When the crockery was done, dried and replaced, she retired to herbedroom and turned her attention to her hands and nails, minutelysolicitous, always in dread of the effects of housework. 

There was an array of bottles, vials, jars, lotions, creams, scents onher bureau. She seated herself there and started her nightly grooming, interrupting it only to exchange her street gown and shoes for adainty negligée and slippers. 

Her face, now, as she bent over her slender, white fingers, took on aseriousness and gravity more mature; and there was in its pure, freshbeauty something almost austere. 

The care of her hands took her a long time; and they were not finishedthen, for she had yet her bath to take and her hair to do before thecream-of-something-or-other was applied to hands and feet so that theyshould remain snowy and satin smooth. 

Bathed, and once more in negligée, she let down the dull gold mass ofhair which fell heavily curling to her shoulders. Then she started tocomb it out as earnestly, seriously, and thoroughly as a beautiful, silky Persian cat applies itself to its toilet. 

But there was now an absent expression in her dark blue eyes as shesat plaiting the shining gold into two thick and lustrous braids. 

Perhaps she wondered, vaguely, why the spring-tide and freshness of agirl's youth should exhale amid the sere and sordid circumstanceswhich made up, for her, the sum-total of existence; why it happenedthat whatever was bright and gay and attractive in the world should beso utterly outside the circle in which her life was passing. 

Yet in her sober young face there was no hint of discontent, nothingof meanness or envy to narrow the blue eyes, nothing of bitterness totouch the sensitive lips, nothing, even, of sadness; only agravity--like the seriousness of a youthful goddess musing alone onmysteries unexplained even on Olympus. 

Seven years' experience in earning her own living had made her wiserbut had not really disenchanted her. And for seven years now, she hadheld the first position she secured in New York--stenographer andtypist for Wahlbaum, Grossman & Co. 

It had been perplexing and difficult at first; so many men connectedwith the great department store had evinced a desire to take her toluncheon and elsewhere. But when at length by chance she took personaldictation from Wahlbaum himself in his private office--his ownstenographer having triumphantly secured a supporting husband, and ageneral alarm having been sent out for another to replace her--Athaliesuddenly found herself in a permanent position. And, automatically, all annoyances ceased. 

Wahlbaum was a Jew, big, hearty, honest, and keen as a razor. Neverwas he in a hurry, never flustered or impatient, never irritable. Andshe had never seen him angry, or rude to anybody. He laughed a greatdeal in a tremendously resonant voice, smoked innumerable big, fat, light-coloured cigars, never neglected to joke with Athalie when shecame in the morning and when she left at night, and never as much asby the flutter of an eyelid conveyed to her anything that any girlmight not hear without offence. 

Grossman's reputation was different, but except for a smirk or two hehad never bothered her. Nor did anybody else connected with the firm. They all were too much afraid of Wahlbaum. 

So, except for the petty, contemptible annoyances to which all younggirls are more or less subjected in any cosmopolitan metropolis, Athalie had found business agreeable enough except for theconfinement. 

That was hard on a country-bred girl; and she could scarcely endurethe imprisonment when the warm sun of April looked in through thewindows of Mr. Wahlbaum's private office, and when soft breezesstirred the curtains and fluttered the papers on her desk. 

Always in the spring the voice of brook and surf, of woodland andmeadow called to her. In her ears was ever the happy tumult of thebarn-yard, the lowing of cattle at the bars, the bleat of sheep. Andher heart beat passionate response. 

Athalie was never ill. The nearest she came to it was a dull feelingof languor in early spring. But it did not even verge on eitherresentment or despondency. 

In winter it was better. She had learned to accept with philosophy thenoises of the noisiest of cities. Even, perhaps, she rather likedthem, or at least, on her two weeks' vacation in the country, shefound, to her surprise, that she missed the accustomed and incessantnoises of New York. 

Her real hardships were two; poverty and loneliness. 

The combined earnings of herself and her sisters did not allow them abetter ventilated, or more comfortable apartment than the grimy onethey lived in. Nor did their earnings permit them more or betterclothing and food. 

As for loneliness, she had, of course, her sisters. But healthy, imaginative, ardent youth requires more than sisters, --more even thanfeminine friends, of which Athalie had a few. What she needed, as allgirls need, were acquaintances and friends among men of her own age. 

And she had none--that is, no friends. Which is the usual fate of anybusiness girl who keeps up such education and cultivation as shepossesses, and attempts to add to it and to improve her quality. 

Because the men of her social and business level are vastly inferiorto the women, --inferior in manners, cultivation, intelligence, quality--which seems almost to make their usually excellent moralspeculiarly offensive. 

That was why Athalie knew loneliness. Doris, recently, had met a fewidle men of cultivated and fashionable antecedents. Catharine, thatvery evening, was evidently going to meet a man of that sort for thefirst time in her career. 

As for Athalie, she had had no opportunity to meet any man she caredto cultivate since she had last talked with C. Bailey, Jr. , on theplatform of the Sixth Avenue Elevated;--and that was now nearly fouryears ago. 

 * * * * *

Braiding up her hair she sat gazing at herself in the mirror while herdetached thoughts drifted almost anywhere--back to Spring Pond andthe Hotel Greensleeve, back to her mother, to the child cross-leggedon the floor, --back to her father, and how he sat there dead in hisleather chair;--back to the bar, and the red gleam of the stove, and aboy and girl in earnest conversation there in the semi-darkness, eating peach turnovers--

She turned her head, leisurely: the electric bell had sounded twicebefore she realised that she ought to pull the wire which opened thestreet door below. 

So she got up, pulled the wire, and then sauntered out into thesitting-room and set the door ajar, not worrying about her somewhatintimate costume because it was too late for tradesmen, and there wasnobody else to call on her or on her sisters excepting other girlsknown to them all. 

The sitting-room seemed chilly. Half listening for the ascendingfootsteps and the knocking, partly absorbed in other thoughts, sheseated herself and lay back in the dingy arm-chair, before theradiator, elevating her dainty feet to the top of it and crossingthem. 

A gale was now blowing outside; invisible rain, or more probablysleet, pelted and swished across the curtained panes. Far away in thecity, somewhere, a fire-engine rushed clanging through cañons, storm-swept, luminously obscure. Her nickel alarm clock ticked loudlyin the room; the radiator clicked and fizzed and snapped. 

Presently she heard a step on the stair, then in the corridor outsideher door. Then came the knocking on the door but unexpectedly loud, vigorous and impatient. 

And Athalie, surprised, twisted around in her chair, looking over hershoulder at the door. 

"Please come in, " she said in her calm young voice. 

CHAPTER VI

A rather tall man stepped in. He wore a snow-dusted, fur-linedovercoat and carried in his white-gloved hands a top hat and asilver-hooked walking stick. 

He had made a mistake, of course; and Athalie hastily lowered her feetand turned half around in her chair again to meet his expectedapologies; and then continued in that attitude, rigid and silent. 

"Miss Greensleeve?" he asked. 

She rose, mechanically, the heavy lustrous braids framing a face aswhite as a flower. 

"Is that _you_, Athalie!" he asked, hesitating. 

"C. Bailey, Junior, " she said under her breath. 

There was a moment's pause, then he stepped toward her and, veryslowly, she offered a hand still faintly fragrant with "cream oflilacs. "

A damp, chilly wind came from the corridor; she went over and closedthe door, stood for a few seconds with her back against it looking athim. 

Now under the mask of manhood she could see the boy she had onceknown, --under the short dark moustache the clean-cut mouth unchanged. Only his cheeks seemed firmer and leaner, and the eyes were now thebaffling eyes of a man. 

"How did you know I was here?" she asked, quite unconscious of herown somewhat intimate attire, so entirely had the shock of surprisepossessed her. 

"Athalie, you have not changed a bit--only you are so much prettierthan I realised, " he said illogically. . . . "How did I know you livedhere? I didn't until we bought this row of flats last week--myfather's company--I'm in it now. . . . And glancing over the list oftenants I saw your name. "

She said nothing. 

"Do you mind my coming? I was going to write and ask you. But walkingin this way rather appealed to me. Do you mind?"

"No. "

"May I stay and chat for a moment? I'm on my way to the opera. May Istay a few minutes?"

She nodded, not yet sufficiently composed to talk very much. 

He glanced about him for a place to lay coat and hat; then slippingout of the soft fur, disclosed himself in evening dress. 

She had dropped into the arm-chair by the radiator; and, as he cameforward, stripping off his white gloves, suddenly she became consciousof her bare, slippered feet and drew them under the edges of hernegligée. 

"I was not expecting anybody, --" she began, and checked herself. Certainly she did not care to rise, now, and pass before him in searchof more suitable clothing. Therefore the less said the better. 

He had found a rather shaky chair, and had drawn it up in front of theradiator. 

"This is very jolly, " he said. "Do you realise that this is our thirdencounter?"

"Yes. "

"It really begins to look inevitable, doesn't it?"

She smiled. 

"Three times, you know, is usually considered significant, " he addedlaughingly. "It doesn't dismay you, does it?"

She laughed, resting her cheek against the upholstered wing of herchair and looked at him with shy but undisguised pleasure. 

"You haven't changed a single bit, Athalie, " he declared. 

"No, I haven't changed. "

"Do you remember our last meeting--on the Elevated?"

"Yes. "

"Lord!" he said; "that was four years ago. Do you realise it?"

"Yes. "

A slight colour grew on his cheeks. 

"I _was_ a piker, wasn't I?"

After a moment, looking down at her idly clasped hands lying on herknees: "I hoped you would come, " she said gravely. 

"I wanted to. I don't suppose you'll believe that; but I did. . . . Idon't know how it happened that I didn't make good. There were so manythings to do, all sorts of engagements, --and the summer vacationseemed ended before I could understand that it had begun. "--He scowledin retrospection, and she watched his expression out of her dark blueeyes--clear, engaging eyes, sweet as a child's. 

"That's no excuse, " he concluded. "I should have kept my word toyou--and I really wanted to. . . . And I was not quite such a piker asyou thought me. "

"I didn't think that of you, C. Bailey, Junior. "

"You must have!"

"I didn't. "

"That's because you're so decent, but it makes my infamy theblacker. . . . Anyway I _did_ write you and _did_ send you thestrap-watch. I sent both to Fifty-fourth Street. The Dead LetterOffice returned them to me. ". . . He drew from his inner pocket aletter and a packet. "Here they are. "

She sat up slowly and very slowly took the letter from his hand. 

"Four years old, " he commented. "Isn't that the limit?" And he beganto tear the sealed paper from the packet. 

"What a shame, " he went on contritely, "that you wore that oldgun-metal watch of mine so long. I was mortified when I saw it on yourwrist that day--"

"I wear it still, " she said with a smile. 

"Nonsense!" he glanced at her bare wrist and laughed. 

"I _do_, " she insisted. "It is only because I have just bathed and amprepared for the night that I am not wearing it now. "

He looked up, incredulous, then his expression changed subtly. 

"Is that so?" he asked. 

But the hint of seriousness confused her and she merely nodded. 

He had freed the case from the sealed paper and now he laid it on herknees, saying: "Thank the Lord I'm not such a piker now as I was, anyway. I hope you'll wear it, Athalie, and fire that other affair outof your back window. "

"There is no back window, " she said, raising her charming eyes tohis, --"there's only an air-shaft. . . . Am I to open it?--I mean thiscase?"

"It is yours. "

She opened it daintily. 

"Oh, C. Bailey, Junior!" she said very gently. "You mustn't do this!"

"Why?"

"It's _too_ beautiful. Isn't it?"

"Nonsense, Athalie. Here, I'll wind it and set it for you. This is howit works--" pulling out the jewelled lever and setting it by the tinalarm-clock on the mantel. Then he wound it, unclasped the woven goldwrist-band, took her reluctant hand, and, clasping the jewel over herwrist, snapped the catch. 

For a few moments her fair head remained bent as she gazed in silenceat the tiny moving hands. Then, looking up:

"Thank you, C. Bailey, Junior, " she said, a little solemnly perhaps. 

He laughed, somewhat conscious of the slight constraint: "You'rewelcome, Athalie. Do you really like it?"

"It is wonderfully beautiful. "

"Then I'm perfectly happy and contented--or I will be when you readthat letter and admit I'm not as much of a piker as I seemed. "

She laughed and coloured: "I never thought that of you. I only--missedyou. "

"Really?"

"Yes, " she said innocently. 

For a second he looked rather grave, then again, conscious of his ownconstraint, spoke gaily, lightly:

"You certainly are the real thing in friendship. You are far toogenerous to me. "

She said: "Incidents are not frequent enough in my life to leave meunimpressed. I never knew any other boy of your sort. I suppose thatis why I never forgot you. "

Her simplicity pricked the iridescent and growing bubble of hisvanity, and he laughed, discountenanced by her direct explanation ofhow memory chanced to retain him. But it did not occur to him to askhimself how it happened that, in all these years, and in a life sohappily varied, so delightfully crowded as his own had always been, hehad never entirely forgotten her. 

"I wish you'd open that letter and read it, " he said. "It's mycredential. Date and postmark plead for me. "

But she had other plans for its unsealing and its perusal, and saidso. 

"Aren't you going to read it, Athalie?"

"Yes--when you go. "

"Why?"

"Because--it will make your visit seem a little longer, " she saidfrankly. 

"Athalie, are you really glad to see me?"

She looked up as though he were jesting, and caught in his eye anothergleam of that sudden seriousness which had already slightly confusedher. For a moment only, both felt the least sense of constraint, thenthe instinct that had forbidden her to admit any significance in hisseriousness, parted her lips with that engaging smile which he hadbegun to know so well, and to await with an expectancy that approachedfascination. 

"Peach turnovers, " she said. "Do you remember? If I had not been gladto see you in those days I would not have gone into the kitchen tobring you one. . . . And I have already told you that I am unchanged. . . . Wait! I am changed. . . . I am very much wealthier. " And she laughed herdelicious, unembarrassed laugh of a child. 

He laughed, too, then shot a glance around the shabby room. 

"What are you doing, Athalie?" he asked lightly. 

"The same. "

"I remember you told me. You are stenographer and typist. "

"Yes. "

"Where?"

"I am with Wahlbaum, Grossman & Co. "

"Are they decent to you?"

"Very. "

He thought a moment, hesitated, appeared as though about to speak, then seemed to reject the idea whatever it might have been. 

"You live with your sisters, don't you?" he asked. 

"Yes. "

He planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his head on hishands, apparently buried in thought. 

After a little while: "C. Bailey, Junior, " she ventured, "you must notlet me keep you too long. "

"What?" He lifted his head. 

"You are on your way to the opera, aren't you?"

"Am I? That's so. . . . I'd rather stay here if you'll let me. "

"But the _opera_!" she protested with emphasis. 

"What do I care for the opera?"

"Don't you?"

He laughed: "No; do you?"

"I'm mad about it. "

Still laughing he said: "Then, in my place, _you_ wouldn't give up theopera for _me_, would you, Athalie?"

She started to say "No!" very decidedly; but checked herself. Then, deliberately honest:

"If, " she began, "I were going to the opera, and you came inhere--after four years of not seeing you--and if I had to choose--Idon't believe I'd go to the opera. But it would be a dreadful wrench, C. Bailey, Junior!"

"It's no wrench to me. "

"Because you often go. "

"Because, even if I seldom went there could be no question of choicebetween the opera and Athalie Greensleeve. "

"C. Bailey, Junior, you are not honest. "

"Yes, I am. Why do you say so?"

"I judge by past performances, " she said, her humorous eyes on him. 

"Are you going to throw past performances in my face every time I cometo see you?"

"Are you coming again?"

"That isn't generous of you, Athalie--"

"I really mean it, " said the girl. "Are you?"

"Coming here? Of course I am if you'll let me!"

The last time he had said, "If you _want_ me. " Now it was modified to"If you'll _let_ me, "--a development and a new footing to whichneither were yet accustomed, perhaps not even conscious of. 

"C. Bailey, Junior, do you want to come?"

"I do indeed. It is so bully of you to be nice to meafter--everything. And it's so jolly to talk over--things--with you. "

She leaned forward in her chair, her pretty hands joined between herknees. 

"Please, " she said, "don't say you'll come if you are not coming. "

"But I am--"

"I know you said so twice before. . . . I don't mean to be horrid or toreproach you, but--I am going to tell you--I was disappointed--evena--a little--unhappy. And it--lasted--some time. . . . So, if you are notcoming, tell me so now. . . . It is hard to wait--too long. "

"Athalie, " he said, completely surprised by the girl's frank avowaland by the unsuspected emotion in himself which was responding, "Iam--I had no idea--I don't deserve your kindness to me--yourloyalty--I'm a--I'm a--a pup! That's what I am--an undeserving, ungrateful, irresponsible, and asinine pup! That's what all boys incollege are--but it's no excuse for not keeping my word--for makingyou unhappy--"

"C. Bailey, Junior, you were just a boy. And I was a child. . . . I amstill, in spite of my nineteen years--nearly twenty at that--not muchdifferent, not enough changed to know that I'm a woman. I feel exactlyas I did toward you--not grown up, --or that you have grown up. . . . OnlyI know, somehow, I'd have a harder time of it now, if you tell meyou'll come, and then--"

"I _will_ come, Athalie! I _want_ to, " he said impetuously. "You'remore interesting, --a lot jollier, --than any girl I know. I alwayssuspected it, too--the bigger fool I to lose all that time we mighthave had together--"

She, surprised for a moment, lifted her pretty head and laughedoutright, checking his somewhat impulsive monologue. And he looked ather, disturbed. 

"I'm only laughing because you speak of all those years we might havehad together, as though--" And suddenly she checked herself in herturn, on the brink of saying something that was not so funny afterall. 

Probably he understood what impulse had prompted her to terminateabruptly both laughter and discourse, for he reddened and gazed ratherfixedly at the radiator which was now clanking and clinking in a verynoisy manner. 

"You ought to have a fireplace and an open fire, " he said. "It's thecosiest thing on earth--with a cat on the hearth and a big chair and agood book. . . . Athalie, do you remember that stove? And how I sat therein wet shooting clothes and stockinged feet?"

"Yes, " she said, drawing her own bare ones further under her chair. 

"Do you know what you looked like to me when you came in so silently, dressed in your red hood and cloak?"

"What did I look like?"

"A little fairy princess. "

"_I?_ In that ragged cloak?"

"_I_ didn't see the rags. All I saw was your lithe little fairy figureand your yellow hair and your wonderful dark eyes in the ruddy lightfrom the stove. I tell you, Athalie, I was enchanted. "

"How odd! I never dreamed you thought that of me when I stood therelooking at you, utterly lost in admiration--"

"Oh, come, Athalie!" he laughed; "you are getting back at me!"

"It's true. I thought you the most wonderful boy I had ever seen. "

"Until I disillusioned you, " he said. 

"You never did, C. Bailey, Junior. "

"What! Not when I proved a piker?"

But she only smiled into his amused and challenging eyes and slowlyshook her head. 

Once or twice, mechanically, he had slipped a flat gold cigarette casefrom his pocket, and then, mechanically still, had put it back. Notaccustomed to modern men of his caste she had not paid much attentionto the unconscious hint of habit. Now as he did it again it occurredto her to ask him why he did not smoke. 

"May I?"

"Yes. I like it. "

"Do you smoke?"

"No--now and then when I'm troubled. "

"Is that often?" he asked lightly. 

"Very seldom, " she replied, amused; "and the proof is that I neversmoked more than half a dozen cigarettes in all my life. "

"Will you try one now?" he asked mischievously. 

"I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"I don't know. _I_ am. "

"What troubles you, C. Bailey, Junior?" she asked, humorously. 

"My disinclination to leave. And it's after eleven. "

"If you never get into any more serious trouble than that, " she said, "I shall not worry about you. "

"Would you worry if I were in trouble?"

"Naturally. "

"Why?"

"Why? Because you are my friend. Why shouldn't I worry?"

"Do you really take our friendship as seriously as that?"

"Don't _you_?"

He changed countenance, hesitated, flicked the ashes from hiscigarette. Suddenly he looked her straight in the face:

"Yes. I _do_ take it seriously, " he said in a voice so quietly andperhaps unnecessarily emphatic that, for a few moments, she foundnothing to say in response. 

Then, smilingly: "I am glad you look at it that way. It means that youwill come back some day. "

"I will come to-morrow if you'll let me. "

Which left her surprised and silent but not at all disquieted. 

"Shall I, Athalie?"

"Yes--if you wish. "

"Why not?" he said with more unnecessary emphasis and as thoughaddressing himself, and perhaps others not present. "I see no reasonwhy I shouldn't if you'll let me. Do you?"

"No. "

"May I take you to dinner and to the theatre?"

A quick glow shot through her, leaving a sort of whispering confusionin her brain which seemed full of distant voices. 

"Yes, I'd like to go with you. "

"That's fine! And we'll have supper afterward. "

She smiled at him through the ringing confusion in her brain. 

"Do you mind taking supper with me after the play?"

"No. "

"Where then?"

"Anywhere--with you, C. Bailey, Junior. "

Things began to seem to her a trifle unreal; she saw him a littlevaguely: vaguely, too, she was conscious that to whatever she said hewas responding with something more subtly vital than mere words. Faintly within her the instinct stirred to ignore, to represssomething in him--in herself--she was not clear about just what sheought to repress, or which of them harboured it. 

One thing confused and disturbed her; his tongue was running loose, planning all sorts of future pleasures for them both together, confidently, with an enthusiasm which, somehow, seemed to leave herunresponsive. 

"Please don't, " she said. 

"What, Athalie?"

"Make so many promises--plans. I--am afraid of promises. "

He turned very red: "What on earth have I done to you!"

"Nothing--yet. "

"Yes I have! I once made you unhappy; I made you distrust me--"

"No:--that is all over now. Only--if it happened again--I shouldreally--miss you--very much--C. Bailey, Junior. . . . So don't promise metoo much--now. . . . Promise a little--each time you come--if you careto. "

In the silence that grew between them the alarm went off with astartling clangour that brought them both to their feet. 

It was midnight. 

"I set it to wake myself before my sisters came in, " she explainedwith a smile. "I usually have something prepared for them to eat whenthey've been out. "

"I suppose they do the same for you, " he said, looking at her rathersteadily. 

"I don't go out in the evening. "

"You do sometimes. "

"Very seldom. . . . Do you know, C. Bailey, Junior, I have never been outin the evening with a man?"

"What?"

"Never. "

"Why?"

"I suppose, " she admitted with habitual honesty, "it's because I don'tknow any men with whom I'd care to be seen in the evening. I don'tlike ordinary people. "

"How about me?" he asked, laughing. 

She merely smiled. 

CHAPTER VII

Doris came in about midnight, her coat and hat plastered with sleet, her shoes soaking. She looked rather forlornly at the bowl of hot milkand crackers which Athalie brought from the kitchenette. 

"I'd give next week's salary for a steak, " she said, taking the bowland warming her chilled hands on it. 

"You know what meat costs, " said Athalie. "I'd give it to you forsupper if I could. "

Doris seated herself by the radiator; Athalie knelt and drew off thewet shoes, unbuttoned the garters and rolled the stockings from theicy feet. 

"I had another chance to-night: they were college boys: some of thegirls went--" remarked Doris disjointedly, forcing herself to eat thecrackers and milk because it was hot, and snuggling into the knittedslippers which Athalie brought. After a moment or two she lifted herpretty, impudent face and sniffed inquiringly. 

"_Who's_ been smoking? You?"

"No. "

"Who? Genevieve?"

"No. Who do you suppose called?"

"Search _me_. "

"C. Bailey, Junior!"

Doris looked blank, then: "Oh, that boy you had an affair with about ahundred years ago?"

"That same boy, " said Athalie, smiling. 

"He'll come again next century I suppose--like a comet, " shruggedDoris, nestling closer to the radiator. 

Athalie said nothing; her sister slowly stirred the crackers in themilk and from time to time took a spoonful. 

"Next time, " she said presently, "I shall go out to supper when anattractive man asks me. I know how to take care of myself--and thesupper, too. "

Athalie started to say something, and stopped. Perhaps she rememberedC. Bailey, Jr. , and that she had promised to dine and sup with him, "anywhere. "

She said in a low voice: "It's all right, I suppose, if you know theman. "

"I don't care whether I know him or not as long as it's a goodrestaurant. "

"Don't talk that way, Doris!"

"Why not? It's true. "

There was a silence. Doris set aside the empty bowl, yawned, looked atthe clock, yawned again. 

"This is too late for Catharine, " she said, drowsily. 

"I know it is. Who are the people she's with?"

"Genevieve Hunting--I don't know the men:--some of Genevieve'sfriends. "

"I hope it's nobody from Winton's. "

There had been in the Greensleeve family, a tacit understanding thatit was not the thing to accept social attentions from anybodyconnected with the firm which employed them. Winton, the male millinerand gown designer, usually let his models alone, being in perpetualdread of his wife; but one of the unhealthy looking sons had become anuisance to the girls employed there. Recently he had annoyedCatharine, and the girl was afraid she might have to lunch with him orlose her position. 

Doris yawned again, then shivered. 

"Go to bed, ducky, " said Athalie. "I'll wait up for Catharine. "

So Doris took herself off to bed and Athalie sank into the shabbyarm-chair by the radiator to wait for her other sister. 

It was two o'clock when she came in, flushed, vague-eyed, a rathersilly and fixed smile on her doll-like face. Athalie, on the verge ofsleep, rose from her chair, rubbing her eyes:

"What on earth, Catharine--"

"We had supper, --that's why I'm late. . . . I've got to have a dinnergown I tell you. Genevieve's is the smartest thing--"

"Where did you go?"

"To the Regina. I didn't want to--dressed this way but Cecil Reevesaid--"

"Who?"

"Cecil--Mr. Reeve--one of Genevieve's friends--the man who was socrazy to meet me--"

"Oh! Who else was there?" asked Athalie drily. 

"A Mr. Ferris--Harry Ferris they call him. He's quite mad aboutGenevieve--"

"Why did you drink anything?"

"I?"

"You did, didn't you?"

"I had a glass of champagne. "

"What else?"

"Nothing--except something pink in a glass--before we sat down tosupper. . . . And something violet coloured, afterward. "

"Your breath is dreadful; do you realise it?"

Catharine seemed surprised, then her eyes wandered vaguely, drowsily, and she laid her gloved hand on Athalie's arm as though to steadyherself. 

"What sort of man is your new friend, Cecil Reeve?" inquired Athalie. 

"He's nice--a gentleman. And they were so amusing;--we laughed somuch. . . . I told him he might call. . . . He's really all right, Athalie--"

"And Mr. Ferris?"

"Well--I don't know about him; he's Genevieve's friend;--I don't knowhim so well. . . . But of course he's all right--a gentleman--"

"That's the trouble, " said Athalie in a low voice. 

"What is the trouble?"

"These friends of yours--and of Doris, and of mine . . . They'regentlemen. . . . And that is why we find them agreeable, socially. . . . Butwhen they desire social amusement they know where to find it. "

"Where?"

"Where girls who work for a living are unknown. Where they never areasked, never go, never are expected to go. But that is where such menare asked, where such men are expected; and it is where they go forsocial diversion--not to the Regina with two of Winton's models, norto the Café Arabesque with an Egyptian Garden chorus girl, nor--" shehesitated, flushed, and was silent, staring mentally at the image ofC. Bailey, Jr. , which her logic and philosophy had inevitably evoked. 

"Then, what is a business girl to do?" asked Catharine, vaguely. 

Athalie shook her golden head, slowly: "Don't ask me. "

Catharine said, still more vaguely: "She must dosomething--pleasant--before she's too old and sick to--to care whathappens. "

"I know it. . . . Men, of that kind, _are_ pleasant. . . . I don't see whywe shouldn't go out with them. It's all the chance we have. Or willever have. . . . I've thought it over. I don't see that it helps for usto resent their sisters and mothers and friends. Such women wouldnever permit us to know them. The nearest we can get to them is toknow their sons. "

"I don't want to know them--"

"Yes, you do. Be honest, Catharine. Every girl does. And really Ibelieve if the choice were offered a business girl, she would ratherknow the mothers and sisters than the sons. "

"There's no use thinking about it, " said Catharine. 

"No, there is no use. . . . And so I don't see any harm in being friendswith their sons. . . . It will hurt at times--humiliate us--maybeembitter us. . . . But it's that or nothing. "

"We needn't be silly about their sons. "

Athalie opened her dark blue eyes, then laughed confidently: "Oh, asfor anything like _that_! I should hope not. We three ought to know_something_ by this time. "

"I should think so, " murmured Catharine; and her warm, wine-scentedbreath fell on Athalie's cheek. 

CHAPTER VIII

Before February had ended C. Bailey, Jr. , and Athalie Greensleeve hadbeen to more than one play, had dined and supped together more thanonce at the Regina. 

The magnificence of the most fashionable restaurant in town hadthrilled and enchanted Athalie. At close range for the first time shehad an opportunity to inspect the rich, the fashionable, and thegreat. As for celebrities, they seemed to be merely a by-product ofthe gay, animated, beautifully gowned throngs: people she had heardof, people more important still of whom she had never heard, peopleimportant only to themselves of whom nobody had ever heard throngedthe great rococo rooms. The best hotel orchestra in America playedthere; the loveliest flowers, the most magnificent jewels, the mostcelebrated cuisine in the entire Republic--all were there for AthalieGreensleeve to wonder at and to enjoy. There were other things for herto wonder at, too, --the seemingly exhaustless list of C. Bailey, Jr. 's, acquaintances; for he was always nodding to somebody orreturning salutes wherever they were, in the theatre, or the street, in his little limousine car, at restaurants. Men sometimes came up andspoke and were presented to Athalie: women, never. 

But although she was very happy after her first evening out with C. Bailey, Jr. , she realised that a serious inroad upon her savings wasabsolutely necessary if she were to continue her maiden's progresswith this enchanting young man. Clothing of a very different speciesthan any she had ever permitted herself was now becoming a necessity. She made the inroad. It was worth while if only to see his surpriseand his naïve pride in her. 

And truly the girl was very lovely in the few luxuries she ventured toacquire--so lovely, indeed, that many heads turned and many eyesfollowed her calm and graceful progress in theatre aisle, amidthronged tables, on the Avenue, anywhere and everywhere she movedalong the path of life now already in flowery bloom for her. 

And beside her, eager, happy, flattered, walked C. Bailey, Jr. , veryconscious that he was being envied; very proud of the beautiful younggirl with whom he was so constantly identifying himself, and who, veryobviously, was doing him honour. 

Of his gratified and flattered self-esteem the girl was unconscious;that he was really happy with her, proud of her appearance, kind toher beyond reason and even beyond propriety perhaps, --invariablycourteous and considerate, she was vividly aware. And it made herintensely happy to know that she gave him pleasure and to accept itfrom him. 

It _was_ pleasure to Clive; but not entirely unmitigated. His fatherasked him once or twice who the girl was of whom "people" weretalking; and when his son said: "She's absolutely all right, father, "Bailey, Sr. , knew that she was--so far. 

[Illustration: "C. Bailey, Jr. , and Athalie Greensleeve . . . Had suppedtogether more than once at the Regina. "]

"But what's the use, Clive?" he asked with a sort of sad humour. "Isit necessary for you, too, to follow the path of the calf?"

"I like her. "

"And other men are inclined to, and have no opportunity; is that it, my son? The fascination of monopoly? The chicken with the worm?"

"I _like_ her, " repeated Clive, Jr. , a trifle annoyed. 

"So you have remarked before. Who is she?"

"Do you remember that charming little child in the red hood and cloakdown at Greensleeve's tavern when we were duck-shooting?"

"Is _that_ the girl?"

"Yes. "

"What is she?"

"Stenographer. "

Bailey, Sr. , shrugged his shoulders, patiently. 

"What's the _use_, Clive?"

"Use? Well there's no particular use. I'm not in love with her. Didyou think I was?"

"I don't think any more. Your mother does that for me. . . . Don't makeanybody unhappy, my son. "

 * * * * *

His mother, also, had made very frank representations to him onseveral occasions, the burden of them being that common people begetcommon ideas, common associations corrupt good manners, and that"nice" girls would continue to view with disdain and might ultimatelyostracise any misguided young man of their own caste who played aboutwith a woman for whose existence nobody who was anybody could account. 

"The daughter of a Long Island road-house keeper! Why, Clive! where isyour sense of fitness! Men don't do that sort of thing any more!"

"What sort of thing, mother?"

"What you are doing. "

"What am I doing?"

"Parading a very conspicuous young woman about town. "

"If you saw her in somebody's drawing-room you'd merely think herbeautiful and well-bred. "

"Clive! Will you please awake from that silly dream?"

"That's the truth, mother. And if she spoke it would merely confirmthe impression. You won't believe it but it's true. "

"That's absurd, Clive! She may not be uneducated but she certainlycannot be either cultivated or well-bred. "

"She is cultivating herself. "

"Then for goodness' sake let her do it! It's praiseworthy andcommendable for a working girl to try to better herself. But itdoesn't concern you. "

"Why not? If a business girl does better herself and fit herself for abetter social environment, it seems to me her labour is in vain ifpeople within the desired environment snub her. "

"What kind of argument is that? Socialistic? I merely know it isunbaked. What theory is it, dear?"

[Illustration: "Beside her, eager, happy, flattered, walked C. Bailey, Jr. , very conscious that he was being envied. "]

"I don't know what it is. It seems reasonable to me, mother. "

"Clive, are you trying to make yourself sentimentalise over thatGreensleeve woman?"

"I told you that I am not in love with her; nor is she with me. It'san agreeable and happy comradeship; that's all. "

"People think it something more, " retorted his mother, curtly. 

"That's their fault, not Athalie's and not mine. "

"Then, why do you go about with her? _Why?_ You know girls enough, don't you?"

"Plenty. They resemble one another to the verge of monotony. "

"Is that the way you regard the charming, well-born, well-bred, clever, cultivated girls of your own circle, whose parents were thefriends of your parents?"

"Oh, mother, I like them of course. . . . But there's something about abusiness girl--a girl in the making--that is more amusing, morecompanionable, more interesting. A business girl seems to wear better. She's better worth talking to, listening to, --it's better fun to goabout with her, see things with her, discuss things--"

"What on earth are you talking about! It's perfect babble; it'snonsense! If you really believe you have a penchant for sturdy andrather grubby worthiness unadorned you are mistaken. The inclinationyou have is merely for a pretty face and figure. I know you. If Idon't, who does! You're rather a fastidious young man, even finicky, and very, very much accustomed to the best and only the best. Don'ttalk to me about your disinterested admiration for a working girl. Youhaven't anything in common with her, and you never could have. Andyou'd better be very careful not to make a fool of yourself. "

"How?"

"As all men are likely to do at your callow age. "

"Fall in love with her?"

"You can call it that. The result is always deplorable. And if she's asmart, selfish, and unscrupulous girl, the result may be moredeplorable still, as far as we all are concerned. What is the need ofmy saying this? You are grown; you know it already. Up to the presenttime you've kept fastidiously clear of such entanglements. You say youhave, and your father and I believe you. So what is the use ofbeginning now, --creating an unfortunate impression in your own set, spending your time with such a girl as this Greensleeve girl--"

"Mother, " he said, "you're going about this matter in the wrong way. Iam not in love with Athalie Greensleeve. But there is no girl I likebetter, none perhaps I like quite as well. Let me alone. There's nosentiment between her and me so far. There won't be any--unless youand other people begin to drive us toward each other. I don't want youto do that. Don't interfere. Let us alone. We're having a goodtime, --a perfectly natural, wholesome, happy time together. "

[Illustration: "'I _like_ her, ' repeated Clive, Jr. , a trifleannoyed. "]

"What is it leading to?" demanded his mother impatiently. 

"To nothing except more good times. That's absolutely all. That's allthat good times lead to where any of the girls you approve of areconcerned--not to sentiment, not to love, merely to more good times. Why on earth can't people understand that even if the girl happens tobe earning her own living?"

"People don't understand. That is the truth, and you can't alter it, Clive. The girl's reputation will always suffer. And that's where youought to show yourself generous. "

"What?"

"If you really like and respect her. "

"How am I to show myself generous, as you put it?"

"By keeping away from her. "

"Because people gossip?"

"Because, " said his mother sharply, "they'll think the girl is yourmistress if you continue to decorate public resorts with her. "

"Would--_you_ think so, mother?"

"No. You happen to be my son. And you're truthful. Otherwise I'd thinkso. "

"You would?"

"Certainly. "

"That's rotten, " he said, slowly. 

"Oh, Clive, don't be a fool. You can't do what you're doing withoutarousing suspicion everywhere--from a village sewing-circle to thesmartest gathering on Manhattan Island! You know it. "

"I have never thought about it. "

"Then think of it now. Whether it's rotten, as you say, or not, it'sso. It's one of the folk-ways of the human species. And if it is, merely saying it's rotten can't alter it. "

Mrs. Bailey's car was at the door; Clive took the great sable coatfrom the maid who brought it and slipped it over the handsomeafternoon gown that his handsome mother wore. 

For a moment he stood, looking at her almost curiously--at thebrilliant black eyes, the clear smooth olive skin still youthfulenough to be attractive, at the red lips, mostly nature's hue, at thecheeks where the delicate carmine flush was still mostly nature's. 

He said: "You have so much, mother. . . . It seems strange you should notbe more generous to a girl you have never seen. "

His handsome, capable, and experienced mother gazed at him out offriendly and amused eyes from which delusion had long since fled. Andthat is where she fell short, for delusion is the offspring ofimagination; and without imagination no intelligence is complete. Shesaid: "I can be generous with any woman except where my son concernshimself with her. Where anybody else's son is involved I could begenerous to any girl, even--" she smiled her brilliant smile--"evenperhaps not too maliciously generous. But the situation in your casedoesn't appeal to me as humorous. Keep away from her, Clive; it'seasier than ultimately to run away from her. "

CHAPTER IX

The course of irresponsible amusement which C. Bailey, Jr. , continuedto pursue at intervals with the fair scion of the house--road-house--ofGreensleeve, did not run as smoothly as it might have, and was notunmixed with carping reflections and sordid care on his part, and withan increasing number of interruptions, admonitions, and warnings onthe part of his mother. 

That pretty lady, flint-hardened in the igneous social lava-pot, continued to hear disquieting tales of her son's doings. They came toher right and left, from dance and card-table, opera-box and supperparty, tea and bazaar and fashionable reception. 

One grim-visaged old harridan of whom Manhattan stood in fawning fear, bluntly informed her that she'd better look out for her boy if shedidn't want to become a grandmother. 

Which infuriated and terrified Mrs. Bailey and set her thinking withall the implacable concentration of which she was capable. 

So far in life she had accomplished whatever she set out to do. . . . Andof all things on earth she dreaded most to become a grandmother of anydescription whatever. 

But between Athalie and Clive, if there had been any doubts concerningthe propriety or expediency of their companionship neither he nor shehad, so far, expressed them. 

Their comradeship, in fact, had now become an intimacy--the sort thatpermits long silences without excuse or embarrassment on either side. She continued to charm and surprise him; and to discover, daily, inhim new traits to admire in a character which perhaps he did notreally possess. 

In this girl he seemed to find an infinite variety. Moods, impulsiveor deliberate, and capricious or logical, continued to stimulate hisinterest in her every time they met. On no two days was she exactlythe same--or so he seemed to think. And yet her basic qualities were, it appeared to him, characteristic and unvarying, --directness, loyalty, generosity, freedom from ulterior motive and a gay confidencein a world which, for the first time in her life, she had begun tofind unexpectedly exciting. 

They had been one evening to a musical comedy which by some fortunatechance was well written, well sung, and well done. And they were inexcellent spirits as they left the theatre and stood waiting for hissmall limousine car, she in her pretty furs held close to her throat, humming under her breath a refrain from the delightful finale, hesmoking a cigarette and watching the numbers being flashed for thelong line of carriages and motors which moved up continually throughthe lamp-lit darkness. 

"Athalie, " he said, "suppose we side-step the Regina and tryBroadway. Are you in the humour for it?"

She laughed and her eyes sparkled in the electric glow: "Are you, Clive?"

"Yes, I am. I feel very devilish. "

"So do I, --devilishly hungry. "

"That's fine. Where shall we go?"

"The Café Arabesque?. . . The name sounds exciting. "

"All right--" as his car drew up and the gold-capped porter opened thedoor;--so he directed his chauffeur to drive them to the CaféArabesque. 

"If you don't like it, " he added to Athalie, drawing the fur robe overher knees and his, "we can go somewhere else. "

"That's very nice of you. I don't have to suffer for my mistakes. "

"Nobody ever ought to suffer for mistakes because nobody would evermake mistakes on purpose, " he said, laughing. 

"Such a delightful philosophy! Please remind me of it when I'm inagony over something I'm sorry I did. "

"I'm afraid you'll have to remind me too, " he said, still laughing. "Is it a bargain?"

"Certainly. "

The car stopped; he sprang out and aided her to the icy sidewalk. 

"I don't think I ever saw you as pretty as you are to-night, " hewhispered, slipping his arm under hers. 

"_Are_ you really growing more beautiful or do I merely think so?"

"I don't know, " she said, happily; "I'll tell you a secret, shall I?"

He inclined his ear toward her, and she said in a laughing whisper:"Clive, I _feel_ beautiful to-night. Do you know how it feels to feelbeautiful?"

"Not personally, " he admitted; and they separated still laughing liketwo children, the focus of sympathetic, amused, or envious glancesfrom the brilliantly dressed throng clustering at the two cloak rooms. 

She came to him presently where he was waiting, and, instinctively thegroups around the doors made a lane for the fair young girl who cameforward with the ghost of a smile on her lips as though entirelyunconscious of herself and of everybody except the man who moved outto meet her. 

"It's true, " he murmured; "you _are_ the most beautiful thing in thisbeauty-ridden town. "

"You'll spoil me, Clive. "

"Is that possible?"

"I don't know. Don't try. There is a great deal in me that has neverbeen disturbed, never been brought out. Maybe much of it is evil, " sheadded lightly. 

He turned; she met his eyes half seriously, half mockingly, and theylaughed. But what she had said so lightly in jest remained for a fewmoments in his mind to occupy and slightly trouble it. 

From their table beside the bronze-railed gallery, they could overlookthe main floor where a wide lane for dancing had been cleared andmarked out with crimson-tasselled ropes of silk. 

A noisy orchestra played imbecile dance music, and a number of maleand female imbeciles took advantage of it to exercise the onlyportions of their anatomy in which any trace of intellect had everlodged. 

Athalie, resting one dimpled elbow on the velvet cushioned rail, watched the dancers for a while, then her unamused and almostexpressionless gaze swept the tables below with a leisurely absence ofinterest which might have been mistaken for insolence--and envied assuch by a servile world which secretly adores it. 

"Well, Lady Greensleeves?" he said, watching her. 

"Some remarkable Poiret and Lucille gowns, Clive. . . . And a great dealof paint. " She remained a moment in the same attitude--leisurelyinspecting the throng below, then turned to him, her calmpreoccupation changing to a shyly engaging smile. 

"Are you still of the same mind concerning my personalattractiveness?"

"I _have_ spoiled you!" he concluded, pretending chagrin. 

"Is that spoiling me--to hear you say you approve of me?"

"Of course not, you dear girl! Nothing could ever spoil you. "

She lifted her Clover Club, looking across the frosty glass at him;and the usual rite was silently completed. They were hungry; herappetite was always a natural and healthy one, and his sometimesmatched it, as happened that night. 

"Now, this is wonderful, " he said, lighting a cigarette betweencourses and leaning forward, elbows on the cloth, and his handsclasped under his chin; "a good show, a good dinner, and good company. What surfeited monarch could ask more?"

"Why mention the company last, Clive?"

"I've certainly spoiled you, " he said with a groan; "you've tastedadulation; you prefer it to your dinner. "

"The question is do _you_ prefer my company to the dinner and theshow? _Do_ you! If so why mention me last in the catalogue of yourblessings?"

"I always mention you last in my prayers--so that whoever listens willmore easily remember, " he said gaily. 

The laughter still made the dark blue eyes brilliant but they grewmore serious when she said: "You don't really ever _pray_ for me, Clive. Do you?"

"Yes. Why not?"

The smile faded in her eyes and in his. 

"I didn't know you prayed at all, " she remarked, looking down at herwine glass. 

"It's one of those things I happen to do, " he said with a slightshrug. 

They mused for a while in silence, her mind pursuing its trend back tochildhood, his idly considering the subject of prayer and wonderingwhether the habit had become too mechanical with him, or whether hisless selfish petitions might possibly carry to the Source of AllThings. 

Then having drifted clear of this nebulous zone of thought, andcoffee having been served, they came back to earth and to each otherwith slight smiles of recognition--delicate salutes acknowledging eachother's presence and paramount importance in a world which was goingvery gaily. 

They discussed the play; she hummed snatches of its melodies below herbreath at intervals, her dark blue eyes always fixed on him and herears listening to him alone. Particularly now; for his mood hadchanged and he was drifting back toward something she had said earlierin the evening--something about her own possible capacity for good andevil. It was a question, only partly serious; and she responded in thesame vein:

"How should I know what capabilities I possess? Of course I havecapabilities. No doubt, dormant within me lies every besetting sin, every human failing. Perhaps also the cardinal, corresponding, andantidotic virtues to all of these. "

"I suppose, " he said, "every sin has its antithesis. It's like a chessboard--the human mind--with the black men ranged on one side and thewhite on the other, ready to move, to advance, skirmish, threaten, manoeuvre, attack, and check each other, and the intervening squaresrepresent the checkered battlefield of contending desires. "

The simile striking her as original and clever, she made him a prettycompliment. She was very young in her affections. 

"If, " she nodded, "a sin, represented by a black piece, dares to stiror intrude or threaten, then there is always the better thought, represented by a white piece, ready to block and check the black one. Is that it?"

"Exactly, " he said, secretly well pleased with himself. And as forAthalie, she admired his elastic and eloquent imagination beyondwords. 

"Do you know, " she said, "you have never yet told me anything aboutyour business. Is it all right for me to ask, Clive?"

"Certainly. It's real estate--Bailey, Reeve, and Willis. Willis isdead, Reeve out of it, and my father and I are the whole show. "

"Reeve?" she repeated, interested. 

"Yes, he lives in Paris, permanently. He has a son here, in thebanking business. "

"Cecil Reeve?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"No. My sister Catharine does. "

Clive seemed interested and curious: "Cecil Reeve and I were atHarvard together. I haven't seen much of him since. "

"What sort is he, Clive?"

"Nice--Oh, very nice. A good sport;--a good deal of a sport. . . . Whichsister did you say?"

"Catharine. "

"That's the cunning little one with the baby stare and brown curls?"

"Yes. "

There was a silence. Clive sat absently fidgeting with his glass, andAthalie watched him. Presently without looking up he said: "Yes, CecilReeve is a very decent sport. . . . Rather gay. Good-looking chap. Nicesort. . . . But rather a sport, you know. "

The girl nodded. 

"Catharine mustn't believe all he says, " he added with a laugh. "Cecil hasa way--I'm not knocking him, you understand--but a young--inexperiencedgirl--might take him a little bit too seriously. . . . Of course your sisterwouldn't. "

"No, I don't think so. . . . Are _you_ that way, too?"

He raised his eyes: "Do you think I am, Athalie?"

"No. . . . But I can't help wondering--a little uneasily at times--howyou can find me as--as companionable as you say you do. . . . I can'thelp wondering how long it will last. "

"It will last as long as you do. "

"But you are sure to find me out sooner or later, Clive. "

"Find you out?"

"Yes--discover my limits, exhaust my capacity for entertaining you, extract the last atom of amusement out of me. And--what _then_?"

"Athalie! What nonsense!"

"Is it?"

"Certainly it's nonsense. How can I possibly tire of such a girl asyou? I scarcely even know you yet. I don't begin to know you. Why youare a perfectly unexplored, undiscovered girl to me, yet!"

"Am I?" she asked, laughing. "I supposed you had discovered about allthere is to me. "

He shook his head, looking at her curiously perplexed: "Every time wemeet you are different. You always have interesting views on anysubject. You stimulate my imagination. How could I tire?

"Besides, somehow I am always aware of reserved and hidden forces inyou--of a character which I only partly know and admire--capabilities, capacities of which I am ignorant except that, intuitively, I seem toknow they are part of you. "

"Am I as complex as that to you?"

"Sometimes, " he admitted. "You are just now for example. But usuallyyou are only a wonderfully interesting and charming girl who bringsout the best side of me and keeps me amused and happy every momentthat I am with you. "

"There really is not much more to me than that, " she said in a lowvoice. "You sum me up--a gay source of amusement: nothing more. "

"Athalie, you know you are more vital than that to me. "

"No, I don't know it. "

"You do! You know it in your own heart. You know that it is astraight, clean, ardent friendship that inspires me and--" she lookedup, serious, and very quiet. 

--"You know, " he continued impulsively, "that it is not only yourbeauty, your loveliness and grace and that inexplicable charm you seemto radiate, that brings me to seek you every time that I have a momentto do so. 

"Why, if it were that alone, it would all have been merely a matter ofsentiment. Have I ever been sentimental with you?"

"No. "

"Have I ever made love to you?"

She did not reply. Her eyes were fixed on her glass. 

"Have I, Athalie?" he repeated. 

"No, Clive, " she said gently. 

"Well then; is there not on my part a very deep, solidly founded, andvital friendship for you? Is there not a--"

"Don't let's talk about it, " she interrupted in a low voice. "Youalways make me very happy; you say I please you--interest and amuseyou. That is enough--more than enough--more than I ever hoped orasked--"

"I said you make me happy;--happier than I have ever been, " heexplained with emphasis. "Do you suppose for a moment that your regardfor me is warmer, deeper, more enduring, than is mine for you? Do you, Athalie?"

She lifted her eyes to his. But she had nothing more to say on thesubject. 

However, he began to insist, --a little impatiently, --on a directanswer. And finally she said:

"Clive, you came into a rather empty life when you came into mine. Judge how completely you have filled it. . . . And what it would be ifyou went out of it. Your own life has always been full. If I shoulddisappear from it--" she ceased. 

The quiet, accentless, almost listless dignity of the words surprisedand impressed him for a moment; then the reaction came in a faint glowthrough every vein and a sudden impulse to respond to her with anassurance of devotion a little out of key with the somewhat statelyand reserved measure of their duet called friendship. 

"You also fill my life, " he said. "You give me what I never had--anintimacy and an understanding that satisfies. Had I my way I would bewith you all the time. No other woman interests me as you do. There_is_ no other woman. "

"Oh, Clive! And all the charming people you know--"

"I know many. None like you, Athalie. "

"That is very sweet of you. . . . I'm trying to believe it. . . . I wantto. . . . There are many days to fill in when I am not with you. To fillthem with such a belief would be to shorten them. . . . I don't know. Ioften wonder where you are; what you are doing; with what stately andbeautiful creature you are talking, laughing, walking, dancing. "--Sheshrugged her shoulders and gazed down at the dancers below. "The daysare very long, sometimes, " she added, half to herself. 

When again, calmly, she turned to him there was an odd expression onhis face, and the next second he reddened and shifted his gaze. Neither spoke for a few moments. 

Presently she began to draw on her gloves, but he continued staringinto space, not noticing her, and finally she bent forward and restedher slim gloved fingers on his hand, lightly, interrogatively. 

"Yes; all right, " he muttered. 

"I have to go to business in the morning, " she pleaded. He turnedalmost impatiently:

"If I had my way you wouldn't go to business at all. "

"If I had my way I wouldn't either, " she rejoined, smilingly. But hisyouthful visage remained sober and flushed. And when they were seatedin the limousine and the fur rug enveloped them both, he saidabruptly:

"I'm getting tired of this business. "

"What business, Clive?"

"Everything--the way you live--your inadequate quarters--your havingto work all day long in that stuffy office, day after day, year afteryear!"

She said, surprised and perplexed: "But it can't be helped, Clive! Ihave to work. "

"Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean--what good am I to you--what's the use of me, if I can't makethings easier for you?"

"The _use_ of you? Did you think I ever had any idea of using you?"

"But I want you to. "

"How?" she asked, still uneasily perplexed, her eyes fixed on him. 

But he had no definite idea, no plan fixed, nothing further to say ona subject that had so suddenly taken shape within his mind. 

She asked him again for an explanation, but, receiving none, settledback thoughtfully in her furs. Only once did he break the silence. 

"You know, " he said indifferently, "that row of houses, of whichyours is one, belongs to me. I mean to me, personally. "

"No, I didn't know it. "

"Well it does. It's my own investment. . . . I've reduced rents--pendingimprovements. "

She looked up at him. 

"The rent of your apartment has been reduced fifty per cent. , " he saidcarelessly; "so your rent is now paid until the new term begins nextOctober. "

"Clive! That is perfectly ridiculous!" she began, hotly; but he swungaround, silencing her:

"Are you criticising my business methods?" he demanded. 

"But that is too silly--"

"Will you mind your business!" he exclaimed, turning and taking her byboth shoulders. She looked into his eyes, searching them in silence. Then:

"You're such a dear, " she sighed; "why do you want to do a thing likethat when my sisters and I can afford to pay the present rent. You arealways doing such things, Clive; you have simply covered mydressing-table with silver; my bureau is full of pretty things, allgifts from you; you've given me the loveliest furniture of my own, andbooks and desk-set and--and everything. And now you are asking me tolive rent-free. . . . And what have I to offer you in return?"

"The happiness of being with you now and then. "

"Oh, Clive! You know that isn't very much to offer you. You know thatour being together is far more to me than it is to you! I dare noteven consider what I'd do without you, now. You mould me, alter mythoughts, make me such a delightfully different girl, take entirecharge and possession of me. . . . I don't want you to give me anythingmore--do anything more for me. . . . When you first began to give mebeautiful things I didn't want to take them. Do you remember howawkward and shy I was--how I blushed. But I always end by doingeverything you wish. . . . And it seems to give us both so muchpleasure--all you do for me. . . . But please _don't_ ask me to livewithout paying rent--"

The limousine drew up by the curb; Clive jumped out, aided Athalie todescend; and started for the grilled door where a light glimmered. 

"This is not the house!" exclaimed Athalie, stopping short. "Where areyou taking me, Clive?"

"Come on, " he said, "I merely want to show you how I've had the newapartment house built--"

"But--it's too late! What an odd idea, taking me to inspect a newapartment house at two in the morning! Are you really serious?"

He nodded and rang. A sleepy night porter opened, recognised Clive, and touched his hat. 

"Take us to the top, Mike, " he said. 

"Have you the keys, sorr?"

"Yes. "

They entered the cage and it shot up to the top floor. 

"Wait for us, Mike. ". . . And to Athalie: "This is Michael Daly who willdo anything you ask of him--won't you, Mike?"

"I will that, sorr, " said the big Irishman, tipping his hat toAthalie. 

"But, Clive, " she persisted, bewildered, still clinging to his arm, "Idon't understand why--"

"Little goose, hush!" he replied, subduing the excitement in his voiceand fitting the key into the door. 

"One moment, Athalie, " he added, "until I light up. Now!"

She entered the lighted hallway, walking on a soft green carpet, andturned, obeying the guiding pressure of his arm, into a big squareroom which sprang into brilliant illumination as he found the switch. 

Green and gold were the hangings and prevailing colours; there wererugs, wide, comfortable chairs and lounges, bookcases, a picture ortwo in deep glowing colours, a baby-grand piano, and an open fireloaded for business. 

"Is it done in good taste, Athalie?" he asked. 

"It is charming. Is it yours, Clive?"

He laughed, slipped his arm under hers and led her along the hallway, opening door after door; and first she was invited to observe a verymodern and glistening bathroom, then a bedroom all done in grey androse with dainty white furniture and a white-bear rug beside the bed. 

"Why this is a woman's room!" she exclaimed, puzzled. 

He only laughed and drew her along the hall, showing her anotherbedroom with twin beds, a maid's room, a big clothes press, andfinally, a completely furnished kitchen, very modern with itsporcelain baseboard and tiled walls. 

"What do you think of all this, Athalie?" he insisted. 

"Why it's exquisite, Clive. Whose is it?"

They walked back to the square living-room. He said, teasingly: "Doyou remember, the first time I saw you after those four years, --thatfirst evening when I came in to surprise you and found you sitting bythe radiator--in your nightie, Athalie?"

"Yes, " she said, laughing and blushing as she always did when hetormented her with that souvenir. 

"And I said that you ought to have an open fire. And a cat. Didn't I?"

"Yes. "

"There's your fire, Athalie;" he drew a match from his tiny flat goldcase, struck it, and lighted the nest of pine shavings under thelogs;--"and Michael has the cat when you want it. "

He drew a big soft arm-chair to the mounting blaze. Athalie stoodmotionless, staring at the flames, then with a sudden, nervous gestureshe sank down on the arm-chair and covered her face with her glovedhands. 

He stood waiting, happy and excited, and finally he went over andtouched her; and the girl caught his hand convulsively in both of hersand looked up at him with wet eyes. 

"How can I do this, Clive? How _can_ I?" she whispered. 

"Any brother would do as much for his sister--"

"Oh, Clive! You are different! You are _more_ than that. You know youare. How can I take all this? Will you tell me? How can I livehere--this way--"

"Your sisters will be here. You saw their room just now--"

"But what can I _tell_ them? How can I explain? They know we cannotafford such luxury as this?"

"Tell them the rent is the same. "

"They won't believe it. They couldn't. They don't understand even nowhow it is with you and me--that you are so dear and generous and kindjust because you are my friend--and no more than my friend. . . . Notthat they really believe--anything--unpleasant--of _me_--but--but--"

"What do you care--as long as it isn't so?" he said, coolly. 

"I don't care. Except that it weakens my authority over them. . . . Catharine is very impulsive, and she dearly loves a good time--and sheis becoming sullen with me when I try to advise her or curb her. . . . And it's so with Doris, too. . . . I'd like to keep my influence. . . . Butif they ever really began to believe that between you and me therewas--more--than friendship, I--I don't know what they might feel freeto think--or do--"

"They're older than you. "

"Yes. But I seem to have the authority, --or I did have. "

They looked into the leaping flames; he threw open his fur coat andseated himself on the padded arm of her chair. 

"All I know is, " he said, "that it gives me the deepest and mostenduring happiness to do things for you. When the architect plannedthis house I had him design a place for you. Ultimately all the row ofold houses are to be torn down and replaced by modern apartments withmoderate rentals. So you will have to move anyway sooner or later. Whynot come here _now_?"

Half unconsciously she had rested her cheek against the fur lining ofhis coat where it fell against his arm. He looked down at her, touchedher hair--a thing he had never thought of doing before. 

"Why not come here, Athalie?" he said caressingly. 

"I don't know. It would be heavenly. Do you want me to, Clive?"

"Yes. And I want you to begin to put away part of your salary, too. You might as well begin, now. You will be free from the burden ofrent, free from--various burdens--"

"I--can't--let you--"

"I want to!"

"Why?"

"Because it gives me pleasure--"

"No; because you desire to give _me_ pleasure! _That_ is the reason!"she exclaimed with partly restrained passion--"because you are_you_--and there is nobody like you in all the world--in all theworld, Clive!--"

To her emotion his own flashed a quick, warm response. He looked downat her, deeply touched, his pride gratified, his boyish vanitysatisfied. Always had the simplicity and candour of her quick andardent gratitude corroborated and satisfied whatever was in him ofyouthful self-esteem. Everything about her seemed to minister toit--her attention in public places was undisguisedly for him alone;her beauty, her superb youth and health, the admiring envy of otherpeople--all these flattered him. 

Why should he not find pleasure in giving to such a girl asthis?--giving without scruple--unscrupulous too, perhaps, concerningthe effect his generosity might have on a cynical world which lookedon out of wearied and incredulous eyes; unscrupulous, perhaps, concerning the effect his too lavish kindness might have on a younggirl unaccustomed to men and the ways of men. 

But there was no harm in him; he was very much self-assured of that. He had been too carefully brought up--far too carefully reared. Andhad people ventured to question him, and had they escaped alive hisrighteous violence, they would have learned that there really was notthe remotest chance that his mother was in danger of becoming what shemost dreaded in all the world. 

 * * * * *

The fire burned lower; they sat watching it together, her flushedcheek against the fur of his coat, his arm extended along the back ofthe chair behind her. 

"Well, " he said, "this has been another happy evening. "

She stirred in assent, and he felt the lightest possible pressureagainst him. 

"Are you contented, Athalie?"

"Yes. "

After a moment he glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock. So herose, placed the screen over the fireplace, and then came back towhere she now stood, looking very intently at the opposite wall. Andhe turned to see what interested her. But there seemed to be nothingin particular just there. 

"What are you staring at, little ghost-seer?" he asked, passing hishand under her arm; and stepped back, surprised, as she freed herselfwith a quick, nervous movement, looked at him, then averted her head. 

"What is the matter, Athalie?" he inquired. 

"Nothing. . . . Don't touch me, Clive. "

"No, of course not. . . . But what in the world--"

"Nothing. . . . Don't ask me. " Presently he saw her very slowly move herhead and look back at the empty corner of the room; and remain so, motionless for a moment. Then she turned with a sigh, came quietly tohim; and he drew her hand through his arm. 

"Of what were you thinking, Athalie?"

"Of nothing. "

"Did you think you saw something over there?"

She was silent. 

"What were you looking at?" he insisted. 

"Nothing. . . . I don't care to talk just now--"

"Tell me, Athalie!"

"No. . . . No, I don't want to, Clive--"

"I wish to know!"

"I can't--there is nothing to tell you--" she laid one hand on hiscoat, almost pleadingly, and looked up at him out of eyes so darkthat only the starry light in them betrayed that they were blue andnot velvet black. 

"That same thing has happened before, " he said, looking at her, deeplyperplexed. "Several times since I have known you the same expressionhas come into your face--as though you were looking at somethingwhich--"

"Please don't, Clive!--"

"--Which, " he insisted, "I did not see. . . . _Could_ not see!"

"Clive!"

He stared at her rather blankly: "Why don't you tell me?"

"I--can't!"

"_Is_ there anything--"

"Don't! Don't!" she begged; but he went on, still staring at her:

"Is there any reason for you to--not to be frank with me? _Is_ there, Athalie?"

"No; no reason. . . . I'll tell you . . . If you will understand. _Must_ Itell you?"

"Yes. "

Her head fell; she stood plucking nervously at his fur coat for awhile in silence. Then:

"Clive, I--I _see clearly_. "

"What?"

"I mean that I see a--a little more clearly than--some do. Do youunderstand?"

"No. "

She sighed, stood twisting her white-gloved fingers, looking away fromhim. 

"I am clairvoyant, " she breathed. 

"Athalie! _You?_"

She nodded. 

For a second or two he stood silent in his astonishment; then, takingher hand, he drew her around facing the light, and she looked up athim in her lovely abashed way, yet so honestly, that anybody who couldrecognise truth and candour, could never have mistaken such eyes ashers. 

"Who told you that you are clairvoyant?" he asked. 

"My mother. "

"Then--"

"It was not necessary for anybody to tell me that I saw--moreclearly--than other people. . . . Mother knew it. . . . She merely explainedand gave a name to this--this--whatever it is--this quality--thisability to see clearly. . . . That is all, Clive. "

He was evidently trying to comprehend and digest what she had said. She watched him, saw surprise and incredulity in conflict withuneasiness and with the belief he could not avoid from lips that werenot fashioned for lies, and from eyes never made to even lookuntruths. 

"I had never supposed there was such a thing as real clairvoyance, " hesaid at last. 

She remained silent, her candid gaze on him. 

"I believe that _you_ believe it, of course. "

She smiled, then sighed:

"There is no pleasure in it to me. I wish it were not so. "

"But, if it is so, you ought to find it--interesting--"

"No. "

"Why not? I should think you would!--if you can see--things--thatother people cannot. "

"I don't care to see them. "

"Why?"

"They--I see them so often--and I seldom know who they are--"

"They?"

"The--people--I see. "

"Don't they ever speak to you?"

"Seldom. "

"Could you find out who they are?"

"I don't know. . . . Yes, I think so;--if I made an effort. "

"Don't you ever use any effort to evoke--"

"Oh, Clive! _No!_ When I tell you I had rather not see so--soclearly--"

"You dear girl!" he exclaimed, half smiling, half serious, "why shouldit distress you?"

"It doesn't--except to talk about it. "

"Let me ask one more question. May I?"

She nodded. 

"Then--did you recognise whoever it was you saw a few moments ago?"

"Yes. "

"Who was it, Athalie?"

"My mother. "

CHAPTER X

Early in April C. Bailey, Jr. , overdrew his account, was politelynotified of that oversight by the bank. He hunted about, casually, forstray funds, but to his intense surprise discovered nothingimmediately available. 

Which annoyed him, and he explained the situation to his father; whodemanded further and sordidly searching explanations concerning theexpenditure on his son's part of an income more than adequate for anyunmarried young man. 

They undertook this interesting line of research together, but therecame a time in the proceedings when C. Bailey, Jr. , betrayed violentinclinations toward reticence, non-communication, and finally secrecy;in fact he declined to proceed any further or to throw any more lightupon his reasons for not proceeding, which symptoms werecharacteristic and perfectly familiar to his father. 

"The trouble is, " concluded Bailey, Sr. , "you have been throwing awayyour income on that Greensleeve girl! What is she--your privateproperty?"

"No. "

The two men looked at each other, steadily enough. Bailey, Sr. , said:"If _that's_ the case--why in the name of common sense do you spend somuch money on her?" Naïve logic on the part of Bailey, Sr. , Clivereplied:

"I didn't suppose I was spending very much. I like her. I like herbetter than any other girl. She is really wonderful, father. You won'tbelieve it if I say she is charming, well-bred, clever--"

"I believe _that_!"

--"And, " continued Clive--"absolutely unselfish and non-mercenary. "

"If she's all that, too, it certainly seems to pay her--materiallyspeaking. "

"You don't understand, " said his son patiently. "From the verybeginning of our friendship it has been very difficult for me to makeher accept anything--even when she was in actual need. Our friendshipis not on _that_ basis. She doesn't care for me because of what I dofor her. It may surprise you to hear me--"

"My son, nothing surprises me any more, not even virtue and honesty. This girl may be all you think her. Personally I never met any likeher, but I've read about them in sentimental fiction. No doubt there'sa basis for such popular heroines. There may have been such paragons. There may be yet. Perhaps you've collided with one of these femininecuriosities. "

"I have. "

"All right, Clive. Only, why linger longer in the side-show than theprice of admission warrants? The main tent awaits you. In more modernmetaphor; it's the same film every hour, every day, the sameorchestrion, the same environment. You've seen enough. There's nothingmore--if I clearly understand your immaculate intentions. Do I?"

"Yes, " said Clive, reddening. 

"All right; there's nothing more, then. It's time to retire. You'vehad your amusement, and you've paid for it like a gentleman--very muchlike a gentleman--rather exorbitantly. That's the way a gentlemanalways pays. So now suppose you return to your own sort and coylyreappear amid certain circles recently neglected, and which, at oneperiod of your career, you permitted yourself to embellish and adornwith your own surpassing personality. "

They both laughed; there had been, always, a very tolerantunderstanding between them. 

Then Clive's face grew graver. 

"Father, " he said, "I've tried remaining away. It doesn't do any good. The longer I stay away from her, the more anxious I am to go back. . . . It's really friendship I tell you. "

"You're not in love with her, are you, Clive?"

The son hesitated: "No!. . . No, I can't be. I'm very certain that I amnot. "

"What would you do if you were?"

"But--"

"What would you _do_ about it?"

"I don't know. "

"Marry her?"

"I couldn't do that!" muttered Clive, startled. Then he remainedsilent, his mind crowded with the component parts of that vaguesum-total which had so startled him at the idea of marrying AthalieGreensleeve. 

Partly his father's blunt question had jarred him, partly the idea ofmarrying anybody at all. Also the mere idea of the storm such aproceeding would raise in the world he inhabited, his mother being thestorm-centre, dispensing anathema, thunder, and lightning, appalledhim. 

"What!"

"I couldn't do _that_, " he repeated, gazing rather blankly at hisfather. 

"You could if you _had_ to, " said his father, curtly. "But I take yourword it couldn't come to that. "

The boy flushed hotly, but said nothing. He shrank from comprehendingsuch an impossible situation, ashamed for himself, ashamed forAthalie, resenting even the exaggerated and grotesque possibility ofsuch a thing--such a monstrous and horrible thing playing any part inher life or in his. 

The frankness and cynicism of Bailey, Sr. , had possibly been pushedtoo far. Clive became restless; and the calm entente cordiale endedfor a while. 

Ended also his visits to Athalie for a while, the paternalconversation having, somehow, chilled his desire to see her andspoiled, for the time anyway, any pleasure in being with her. 

Also his father offered to help him out financially; and, somehow, hefelt as though Bailey, Sr. , was paying for his own gifts to Athalie. Which idea mortified him, and he resolved to remain away from heruntil he recovered his self-respect--which would be duly recovered, he felt certain, when the next coupons fell due and he could detachthem and extinguish the parental loan. 

For a week or two he did not even wish to see her, so ashamed andsullied did he feel after the way his father had handled and bruisedthe delicate situation, and the name of the young girl who soinnocently adorned it. 

No, something had been spoiled for him, temporarily. He felt it. Something of the sweetness, the innocence, the candour of thisblameless friendship had been marred. The bloom was rubbed off; thepiquant freshness and fragrance gone for the present. 

It is true that an unexpected boom in his business kept him and hisfather almost feverishly active and left them both fatigued at night. This lasted for a week or two--long enough to excite all real estatemen with a hope for future prosperity not yet entirely dead. But atthe end of two or three weeks that hope began to die its usual, lingering death. 

Dulness set in; the talk was of Harlem, Westchester, and the Bronx: aprivate bank failed, then three commercial houses went to the wall;and a seat was sold for $25, 000 on the Exchange. Business resumed itsnormal and unexaggerated course. The days of boom were surely ended;and vacant lots on Fifth Avenue threatened to remain vacant for awhile longer. 

Clive began to drop in at his clubs again. One was a Whipper-SnapperClub to which young Manhattan aspired when freshly released fromcollege; the others were of the fashionable and semi-fashionable sort, tedious, monotonous, full of the aimless, the idle, or of thatbustling and showy smartness which is perhaps even less admirable andless easy to endure. 

Men destitute of mental resources and dependent upon others for theiramusement, disillusioned men, lazy men, socially ambitious men, mengluttonously or alcoholically predisposed haunted these clubs. To oneof them repaired those who were inclined to racquettes, squash, tennis, and the swimming tank. It was a sort of social clearing housefor other clubs. 

But The Geyser was the least harmless of the clubs affected by C. Bailey, Jr. , --it being an all-night resort and the haunt of thehopeless sport. Here dissipation, futile, aimless, meaningless, was onits native heath. Here, on his own stamping ground, prowled theyouthful scion of many a dissipated race--nouveau riche andKnickerbocker alike. All that was required of anybody was money and adepthless capacity. 

It was in this place that Clive encountered Cecil Reeve one stormymidnight. 

"You don't come here often, do you?" said the latter. 

Clive said he didn't. 

"Neither do I. But when I do there's a few doing. Will you have a highone, Clive? In deference to our late and revered university?"

Clive would so far consent to degrade himself for the honour of AlmaMater. 

There was much honour done her that evening. 

Toward the beginning of the end Clive said: "I can't sit up all night, Cecil. What do you do for a living, anyway?"

"Bank a bit. "

[Illustration: "It was in this place that Clive encountered CecilReeve one stormy midnight. "]

"Oh, that's just amusement. What do you work at?"

"I didn't mean that kind of bank!" said Reeve, annoyed. All sense ofhumour fled him when hammerlocked with Bacchus. At such psychologicalmoments, too, he became indiscreet. And now he proposed to Clive anexcursion amid what he termed the "high lights of Olympus, " which thelatter discouraged. 

"All right then. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give a Byzantineparty! I know a little girl--"

"Oh, shut up!"

"She's a fine little girl, Clive--"

"This is no hour to send out invitations. "

"Why not? Her name is Catharine--"

"Dry up!"

"Catharine Greensleeve--"

"What!"

"Certainly. She's a model at Winton's joint. She's a peach. Appropriately crowned with roses she might have presided forLucullus. "

Clive said: "By that you mean she's all right, don't you? You'd bettermean it anyway!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that's so. I know her sister. She's a charming girl. All of themare all right. You understand, don't you?"

"I understand numerous things. One of 'em's Catharine Greensleeve. Andshe's some plum, believe _me_!"

"That's all right, too, so stop talking about it!" retorted Clivesharply. 

"Sure it's all right. Don't worry, just because you know her sister, will you?"

Clive shrugged. Reeve was in a troublesome mood, and he left him andwent home feeling vaguely irritated and even less inclined than everto see Athalie; which state of mind perplexed and irritated him stillfurther. 

 * * * * *

He went to one or two dances during the week--a thing he had not donelately. Then he went to several more; also to a number of débutantetheatre parties and to several suppers. He rather liked being with hisown sort again; the comfortable sense of home-coming, ofconventionalism, of a pleasant social security, appealed to him afterseveral months' irresponsible straying from familiar paths. And hebegan to go about the sheep-walks and enjoy it, slipping back rathereasily into accustomed places and relations with men and women whobelonged in a world never entered, never seen by Athalie Greensleeve, and of the existence of which she was aware only through the dailypapers. 

He wrote to her now and then. Always she answered his letter thefollowing 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. 

[Illustration: "He rather liked being with his own sort again. "]

 "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 straightto her--only he couldn't go that evening because he dared not break adinner engagement or fail to appear with his mother at the opera. Infact he was already involved in a mess of social obligations for twoweeks ahead, --not an evening free--and Athalie worked during the day. 

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

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

Only--men were men. And safe and sane friendships between men of hisown caste, and girls like Athalie Greensleeve, were rare. 

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

His clever mother, possibly aware of what ferment was working in herson, watched him out of the tail of her ornamental eyes, but wiselylet him alone to fidget his own way out of it. She had heard that theGreensleeve girl was raising hob with Cecil Reeve and FrancisHargrave. They were other people's sons, however. And it might haveworked itself out of Clive--this restless ferment which soured hismind and gave him an acid satisfaction in being anything but cordialin his own family circle. 

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

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

Which inspired his mother to give a theatre party for little MissStuart and two dozen other youngsters, and a supper at the Reginaafterward. 

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

The shock of recognition--for it was a shock--was mutual. Athalie'sdark eyes widened and a little colour left her cheeks: and Clivereddened painfully. 

It was, perhaps, scarcely the thing to do, but as she advanced hestepped 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 menlooked coolly at each other. 

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

Never had he found any supper party so noisy, so mirthless, and soendless. Half the time he didn't know what he was saying to WinifredStuart or to anybody else. Nor could he seem to see anybody verydistinctly, for the mental phantoms of Athalie and Captain Danefloated persistently before him, confusing everything at momentsexcept the smiling and deadly glance of his mother. 

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

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

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

"Because it was not necessary. . . . That girl you spoke to was theGreensleeve 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 muchis due her from me. She's never had anything from me so far--anythingworth having--"

"Don't be a fool, Clive. "

He said, absently: "It's too late for such advice! I _am_ a fool. AndI 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 thematter with you. "

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

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

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

The maid continued on through the rose and ivory bedroom and into thedressing-room. Mrs. Bailey lingered, intuition and experiencepreparing 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 Greensleevegirl?"

"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 commonabout her?"

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

[Illustration: "'Wasn't a civil bow enough?'"]

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

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

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

She said: "I distinguish between a woman to the manner born, and awoman who is not. The difference is as subtle as intuition and as wideas the ocean. And, dear, no young man, however clever, is cleverenough 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 imitationand 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: "Ifyou will find a chair and light a cigarette, Clive, we can continuetalking. "

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

"Good night, dear. "

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

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

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

Then he turned, went out and down the stairs, and opened the door ofthe butler's pantry. The service telephone was there. He unhooked thereceiver 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, stillin her evening gown, rose from the sofa before the fire, dropping thewhite 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, scarcelyperceptible. 

He dropped coat, hat, and walking stick across a chair; she seatedherself on the sofa, and he came over and found a place for himselfbeside 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 aroundher knees, looked up at his mistress out of sapphire eyes. 

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

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

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 theRegina?"

"To see some moving pictures taken in the South American jungle. Itwas really wonderful, Clive: there were parrots and monkeys andcrocodiles and wild pigs--peccaries I think they are called--and thena big, spotted, chunky-headed jaguar stalked into view! I was soexcited, 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 hehas been almost everything--a naturalist, an explorer, a scout in theBoer War, a soldier of fortune, a newspaper man. He is fascinating totalk to, Clive. "

"Where did you meet him?"

"In the office. Mr. Wahlbaum collects orchids, and Captain Dane lookedup some for him when he was on the Amazon a short time ago. He cameinto the office about week before last and Mr. Wahlbaum introduced himto me. They sat there talking for an hour. It was _so_ interesting tome; and I think Captain Dane noticed how attentively I listened, forvery often he addressed himself to me. . . . And he asked Mr. Wahlbaum, very nicely, if he might show me the orchids which are in theBotanical 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 ofNatural History. Just think, Clive, I had never been. And, do youknow, 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--buteverybody seemed to know everybody else and it was so jolly andinformal--and such good food! I met a number of people there some ofwhom 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 fewdelightful women present, all in some business or profession. Mlle. Delauny of the Opera was there--so pretty and so unaffected. And therewas also that handsome suffragette who looks like Jeanne d' Arc--"

"Nina Grey. "

"Yes. And there was a rather strange and fascinating woman--aphysician I believe--but I am not sure. Anyway she is associated withthe psychical research people, and she asked if she might come to seeme--"

He made an impatient movement--quite involuntary--and Hafiz who wastimid, sprang from Athalie's lap and retreated, tail waving, and earsflattened 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 herhand lightly, questioningly on his sleeve. 

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

But he did not stir. 

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

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

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

"Wrong? No:--if your own sense of--of--" but the right word--if therewere such--eluded him. 

"I know how you feel, " she said in a low voice. "I wrote you that itseemed strange, almost sad, to be with other men where you and I hadbeen together so often and so--so happily. 

"Somehow it seemed to be an invasion of our privacy, of ourintimacy--for me to dine with other men at the same tables, be servedby the same waiters, hear the same music. But I didn't know how toavoid it when I was taken there by other men. Could you tell me what Ishould 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 fromher--"and a very--unhappy one--"

"Clive!"

He said savagely: "I tell you I don't know what's the matter withme--" 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. Thecontact seemed to paralyse him; but when, slipping back unconsciouslyinto the old informalities, she laid her hands on his shoulders andturned him toward the light, instantly and too late she was aware thatthe old and innocent intimacy was ended, done for, --a thing of thepast. 

Incredulous still in the very menace of new and perilous relations--ofa new intimacy, imminent, threatening, she withdrew her hands fromthe shoulders of this man who had been a boy but an instant ago. Andthe 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. 

"Not this, Clive!--For my sake--please--_please_--"

There was colour enough in her face, now. Breathless, still a littlefrightened, she looked away from him, plucking nervously, instinctively, at his hands clasping her waist. 

"Can't you c-care for me, Athalie?" he stammered. 

"Yes . . . You know it. But don't touch me, Clive--"

"When I'm--in love--with you--"

She caught her breath sharply. 

"--What am I to do?" he repeated between his teeth. 

"Nothing! There is nothing to do about it! You know it!. . . What isthere to do?"

He held her closer and she strained away from him, her head stillaverted. 

"Let me go, Clive!" she pleaded. 

"Can't you care for me!"

"Let me go!"

He said under his breath: "All right. " And released her. For a momentshe did not move but her hands covered her burning face and sealed herlids. She stood there, breathing fast and irregularly until she heardhim move. Then, lowering her hands she cast a heart-broken glance athim. And his ashen, haggard visage terrified her. 

"Clive!" she faltered: he swung on his heel and caught her to himagain. 

She offered no resistance. 

She was crying, now, --weeping perhaps for all that had been said--orremained unsaid--or maybe for all that could never be said betweenherself and this man in whose arms she was trembling. No need now forany further understanding, for excuses, for regrets, for any tardywish expressed that things might have been different. 

He offered no explanation; she expected none, would have sufferednone, crying there silently against his shoulder. But the reaction wasalready invading him; the tide of self-contempt rose. 

He said bitterly: "Now that I've done all the damage I could, I shallhave to go--or offer--"

"There is no damage done--yet--"

"I have made you love me. "

"I--don't know. Wait. "

Wet cheek against his shoulder, lips a-quiver, her tragic eyes lookedout into space seeing nothing yet except the spectre of this man'sunhappiness. 

Not for herself had the tears come, the mouth quivered. The flash ofpassionate emotion in him had kindled in her only a response asblameless as it was deep. 

Sorrow for him, for his passion recognised but only vaguelyunderstood, grief for a comradeship forever ended now--regret for thedays that now could come no more--but no thought of self as yet, nothing of resentment, of the lesser pity, the baser pride. 

If she had trembled it was for their hopeless future; if she had weptit was because she saw his boyhood passing out of her life like aghost, leaving her still at heart a girl, alone beside the ashes oftheir friendship. 

As for marriage she knew it would never be--that neither he nor shedared subscribe to it, dared face its penalties and its punishments;that her fear of his unknown world was as spontaneous and abiding ashis was logical and instinctive. 

There was nothing to do about it. She knew that instantly; knew itfrom the first;--no balm for him, no outlook, no hope. For her--hadshe thought about herself, --she could have entertained none. 

She turned her head on his shoulder and looked up at him out ofpitiful, curious eyes. 

"Clive, must this be?"

"I love you, Athalie. "

Her gaze remained fixed on him as though she were trying to comprehendhim, --sad, candid, searching in his eyes for an understanding deniedher. 

"Yes, " she said vaguely, "my thoughts are full of you, too. They havealways been since I first saw you. I suppose it has been love. Ididn't know it. "

"Is it love, Athalie?"

"I--think so, Clive. What else could it be--when a girl is alwaysthinking about a man, always happy with her memories of him. . . . It_is_ love, I suppose . . . Only I never thought of it that way. "

"Can you think of it that way now?"

"I haven't changed, Clive. If it was love in the beginning, it isnow. "

"In the beginning it was only a boy and girl affair. "

"It was all my heart had room for. "

"And now?"

"You fill my heart and mind as always. But you know that. "

"I thought--perhaps--not seeing you--"

"Clive!"

"--Other men--other interests--" he muttered obstinately, and so likea stubborn boy that, for a moment, a pale flash from the past seemedto light them both, and she found herself smiling:

"A girl must go on living until she is dead, Clive. Even if you wentaway I'd continue to exist until something ended me. Other men aremerely other men. You are you. "

"You darling!"

But she turned shy instantly, conscious now of his embrace, confusedby it and the whispered endearment. 

"Please let me go, Clive. "

"But I love you, dear--"

"Yes--but please--"

Again he released her and she stepped back, retreating before him, until the lounge offered itself as refuge. But it was no refuge; shefound herself, presently, drawn close to his shoulder; her flushedcheek rested there once more, and her lowered eyes were fixed on hisstrong, firm hand which had imprisoned both of hers. 

"If you can stand it I can, " he said in a low voice. 

"What?"

"Marrying me. "

"Oh, Clive! They'd tear us to pieces! You couldn't stand it. Neithercould I. "

"But if we--"

"Oh, no, no, no!" she protested, "it would utterly ruin you! There wasone woman there to-night--very handsome--I knew she was your mother. And I saw the way she looked at me. . . . It's no use, Clive. Thosepeople _are_ different. They'd never forgive you, and it would ruinyou or you'd have to go back to them. "

"But if we were once married, there _are_ friends of mine who--"

"How many? One in a thousand! Oh, Clive, Clive, I know you sowell--your family and your pride in them, your position and yoursecurity in it, your wide circle of friends, without which circle youwould wander like a lost soul--yes, Clive, lost, forlorn, unhappy, even with me!"

She lifted her head from his shoulder and sat up, gazing intentlystraight ahead of her. In her eyes was a lovely azure light; her lipswere scarcely parted; and so intent and fixed was her gaze that for amoment he thought she had caught sight of some concrete thing whichheld her fascinated. 

But it was only that she "saw clearly" at that moment--something thathad come into her field of vision--a passing shape, perhaps, whichlooked at her with curious, friendly, inquiring eyes, --and went itsway between the fire and the young girl who watched it pass withfearless and clairvoyant gaze. 

"Athalie?"

"Yes, " she answered as in a dream. 

"Athalie! What is the matter?"

She turned, looked at him almost blindly as her remoter visioncleared. 

"Clive, " she said under her breath, "go home. "

"What?"

"Go home. You are wanted. "

"_What!!!_"

She rose and he stood up, his fascinated eyes never leaving hers. 

"What were you staring at a moment ago?" he demanded. "What didyou--think--you saw?"

Her eyes looked straight into his. She went to him and put both armsaround his neck. 

"Dearest, " she said "--dearest. " And kissed him on the mouth. But hedared not lay one finger on her. 

The next moment she had his coat, was holding it for him. He took hishat and stick from her, turned and walked to the door, wheeled in histracks, shivering. 

And saw her crouched on the sofa, her head buried in her arms. Anddared not speak. 

 * * * * *

There was an automobile standing in the street before his own house ashe turned out of Fifth Avenue; lighted windows everywhere in thehouse, and the iron grille ajar. 

He could scarcely fit the latch-key his hands were so unsteady. 

There were people in the hall, partly clad. He heard his own name infrightened exclamation. 

"What is it?" he managed to ask. 

A servant stammered: "Mr. Clive--it's all over, sir. Mrs. Bailey isasking for you, sir. "

"Is my father--" but he could not go on. 

"Yes, sir. His man heard him call--once--like he was dreamin' bad. Butwhen he got to him Mr. Bailey was gone. . . . The doctor has justarrived, sir. "

For one instant hope gleamed athwart the stunning crash of his senses:he steadied himself on the newel post. Then, in his ear a faint voiceechoed: "Dearest--dearest!" And, knowing that hope also lay dead, helifted his young head, straightened up, and set his foot heavily onthe first step upward into a new and terrible world of grief. 

CHAPTER XII

Athalie ventured to send some Madonna lilies with no card attached;but even the thought of her white flowers crossing the threshold ofClive's world--although it was because of her devotion to him alonethat she dared salute his dead--left her sensitively concerned, wondering whether it had been a proper thing for her to do. 

However, the day following she wrote him. 

 "CLIVE DEAR, "I do not mean to intrude on your grief at such a time. This is merely a line to say that you are never absent from my mind. 

 "And Clive, nothing really dies. This is quite true. I am not speaking of what faith teaches us. Faith is faith. But those who 'see clearly' _know_. Nothing dies, Clive. _Nothing. _ That is even more than faith teaches us. Yet it, also, is true. 

 "Dear little boy of my childhood, dear lad of my girlhood, and, of my womanhood, dearest of men, I pray that God will comfort you and yours. 

 "I was twelve years old the only time I ever saw your father. He spoke so sweetly to me--put his arm around my shoulders--asked me if I were Red Riding Hood or the Princess Far Away. 

 "And, to obey him, I went to find _my_ father. And found him dead. Or what the world calls dead. 

 "Later, as I stood there outside the door, stunned by what had happened, back through the doorway came running a boy. Clive, if you have forgotten what you said to that child there by the darkened doorway of life, the girl who writes this has never forgotten. 

 "And now, since sorrow has come to you, in my turn I seek you where you stand by a darkened door alone, and I send to you my very soul in this poor, inky letter, --all I can offer--Clive--all that I believe--all that I am. "ATHALIE. "

So much for tribute and condolence as far as she could be concernedwhere she remained among the other millions outside the sacredthreshold across which her letter and her flowers had gone, acrosswhich the girl herself might never go. 

After a few days he wrote and thanked her for her letter, not ofcourse knowing about the lilies:

 "It is the first time death has ever come very near me. I had been told and had always thought that we were a long-lived race. 

 "I am still dazed by it. I suppose the sharper grief will come when this dull, unreal sense of stupefaction wears away. 

 "We were very close together, my father and I. Oh, but we might have been closer, Athalie!--I might have been with him oftener, seen more of him, spent less time away from him. 

 "I _did_ try to be a good son. I could have been far better. It's a bitter thing to realise at such a time. 

 "And I had so much to say to him. I cannot understand that I can never say it now. . . . Athalie dear, my mother wishes me to take her abroad. I made arrangements yesterday at the Cunard office. We sail Saturday. Could I see you for a moment before I go? "CLIVE. "

To which she replied:

 "I shall be here every evening. "

He came Friday night looking very sallow and thin in his blackclothes. Catharine, who was sewing by the centre table, rose to shakehands with him in sympathetic silence, then went away to her bedroom, where, once or twice she caught herself whistling some gay refrain ofthe moment, and was obliged to check herself. 

He had taken Athalie's slender hands and was standing by the sofa, looking intently at her. 

"That night, " he said with an effort, "you sent me home--saying that Iwas needed. "

"Yes, Clive. "

"How did you know?"

"I knew. "

"Did you see--anything?"

"Yes, dear, " she said under her breath. 

"Did you see _him_?"

"Yes. "

"Tell me, " he said, but his lips scarcely moved to form the words heuttered. 

"I recognised him at once. I had never forgotten him. . . . It isdifficult to explain how I knew that he was not--what we call living. "

"But you knew?"

"Yes, " she said gently. 

"He--did he speak?" The young fellow turned away with a brusque, hopeless gesture. 

"God, " he muttered--"and I couldn't either see or hear him!"

"He did not speak, Clive. " The boy looked up at her, his haggardfeatures working. 

She said: "When I first noticed him he was looking at you. Then hecaught my eye. Clive--it was this time as it had been before--when Iwas twelve years old--his expression became so sweet and winning--likeyours when I amuse you--and you laugh at me but--like me--"

"Oh, Athalie--I can't seem to endure it! I--I can't be reconciled--"His head fell forward; she put her arms around him and drew his faceagainst her breast. 

"I know, " she whispered. "I also have passed that way. "

After a few moments he lifted his head, looked around, almostfearfully. 

"Where was it that he stood, Athalie?"

She hesitated, then took one of his hands in hers and he followed heruntil she stopped between the sofa and the fireplace. 

"Here?"

"Yes, Clive. "

"So _near_!" he said aloud to himself. "Couldn't he have spoken tome?--just one word--"

"Dearest--dearest!"

"God knows why you should see him and I shouldn't! I don'tunderstand--when I was his son--"

"I do not understand either, Clive. "

He seemed not to hear her, standing there with blank gaze shiftingfrom object to object in the room. "I don't understand, " he keptrepeating in a dull, almost querulous voice, --"I don't understandwhy. " And her heart responded in a passion of tenderness and grief. But she found no further words to say to him, no explanation thatmight comfort him. 

"Will he ever come here--anywhere--again?" he asked suddenly. 

"Oh, Clive, I don't know. "

"Don't you know? Couldn't you find out?"

"How? I don't know how to find out. I never try to inquire. "

"Isn't there some way?"

"I don't really know, Clive. How could I know?"

"But when you see such people--shadows--shapes--"

"Yes. . . . They are not shadows. "

"Do they seem real?"

"Why, yes; as real as you are. "

"Athalie, how _can_ they be?"

"They are to me. There is nothing ghostly about them. "

For a moment it almost seemed to her as though he resented her clearseeing; then he said: "Have you always been able to see--this way?"

"As long as I can remember. "

"And you have never tried to cultivate the power?"

"I had rather you did not call it that. "

"But it is a power. . . . Well, call it faculty, then. Have you?"

"No. I told you once that I did not wish to see more clearly thanothers. It is all involuntary with me. "

"Would you try to cultivate it because I ask you to?"

"Clive!"

"Will you, Athalie?"

The painful colour mantled her face and neck and she turned and lookedaway from him as though he had said a shameful thing. 

He continued, impatiently: "Why do you feel that way about it? Whyshould you not cultivate such a delicate and wonderful sense ofperception? Why are you reluctant? What reason is there for you to beashamed?"

"I don't know why. "

"There is no reason! If in you there happen to be faculties sensitivebeyond ours, senses more complex, more exquisitely attuned to whatothers are blind and deaf to, intuitions that to us seem miraculous, aspirituality, perhaps, more highly developed, what is there in that tocause you either embarrassment or concern? That in certainindividualities such is the case is now generally understood andrecognised. You happen to be one of them. "

She looked up at him very quietly, but still flushed. 

"Why do you wish me to try--make any effort to develop this--thing?"

"So that--if you _could_ see him again--and if, perhaps, he hadanything to say to me--"

"I understand. "

"Will you try, Athalie?"

"I'll try--if you wish it. And if I can learn how to try. "

Had he asked her to strip her gown from her shoulders under his steadygaze, it had been easier than the promise she gave him. 

 * * * * *

And now the hour had come for him to bid her good-bye. He said that heand his mother would not remain abroad for more than the summer. Hesaid he would write often; spoke a little more vaguely of seeing heras soon as he returned; drew her cool, white hands together and kissedthem, laid his cheek against them for a moment, eyes closed wearily. 

The door remained ajar behind him after he had gone. Lingering, herhand heavy on the knob, she listened to the last echo of the elevatoras it dropped into lighted depths below. 

Then, very far away, an iron grille clanged. And that ended it. 

But she still lingered. There was one more shape to pass through thedoor which she yet held open;--the phantom of her girlhood. And whenat last, it had passed across the threshold, never to return, sheshut the door softly, sinking to her knees there, her pale cheekresting against the closed panels, her eyes fixed on vacancy. 

 * * * * *

So departed those twain out of the room and out of her life, together--her lover by brevet, and her lingering girlhood, --leavingbehind them a woman in a world of men suddenly strange and menacingand very still. 

But Clive went back into a familiar world--marred, obscured, distortedfor the moment by shock and sorrow--but still a familiar world. Because neither his grief nor his love--as he had termed it--had madeof him more than he had been, --not yet a man, yet no longer a boy, butsomething with all the infirmities of both and the saving graces ofneither. 

In that borderland where he still lingered, morally and spiritually, the development of character ceases for a while until such time as theoccult frontier be crossed. What is born in the cradle is lowered intothe grave, but always either in nobler or less noble degrees. For nonemay linger in that borderland too long because the unseen boundarymoves for him who will not stir when his time is up--moves slowly, inexorably nearer, nearer, passing beneath his feet, until it is lostfar in the misty years behind him. 

 * * * * *

He wrote her from the steamer twice, the letters being mailed fromPlymouth; then he wrote once from London, once from Paris; later againfrom Switzerland, where he had found it cooler, he said, thananywhere else during that torrid summer. 

[Illustration: "One lovely morning in May she arose early in order towrite to Clive. "]

Winifred Stuart and her mother had joined them for a motor tripthrough Dalmatia. He mentioned it in a letter to Athalie, but afterthat he did not refer to them again. In fact he did not write againfor a month or two. 

It proved to be a scorching summer in New York. May ended in a blastof unseasonable weather, cooling off for a week or two in June, butthe furnace heat of July was terrible for the poor and for thehorses--both of which we have always with us. 

Also, for Athalie, it seemed to be turning into one of those curious, threatening years which begin with every promise but which end withoutfulfilment, and in perplexity and care. She had known such years; shealready recognised the symptoms of changing weather. She seemed to beconscious of premonitions in everybody and everything. Littlevexations and slight disappointments increased; simple plansmiscarried for no reason at all apparently. 

Like one who still feels a fair wind blowing yet looking aloft, seesthe uneasy weather-cock veer and veer in varying flaws, so she, sensitive and fine in mind and body, gradually became aware of thetrend of things; felt the premonition of the distant change in theatmosphere--sensed it gathering vaguely, indefinitely disquieting. 

One lovely morning in May she arose early in order to write to Clive. Then, her long letter accomplished and safely mailed, she wentdowntown to business, still delicately aglow, exhilarated as alwaysby her hour of communion with him. 

Mr. Wahlbaum, as usual, received her with the jolly and kindly humourwhich always characterised him, and they had their usual friendly, half bantering chat while she was arranging the papers which hissecretary had laid on her desk. 

All the morning she took dictation; the soft wind fluttered thecurtains; sparrows chirped noisily; the sky was very blue; Mr. Wahlbaum smoked steadily. 

And when the lunch hour arrived he did a thing which he had neverbefore done; he asked Athalie to lunch with him. 

Which so completely astonished her that she found herself going downin the private lift with him before she realised that she was going atall. 

The luncheon proved to be very simple but very good. There were anumber of other women in the ladies' annex of the DepartmentClub, --nice looking people, quiet, and well dressed. Mr. Wahlbaum alsowas very quiet, very considerate, very attentive, and almost gravelycourteous. Their conversation concerned business. He offered Athalieno cocktail and no wine, but a jug of chilled cider was set at herelbow and she found it delicious. Mr. Wahlbaum drank tea, very weak. 

When they returned to the office, Athalie began to transcribe herstenographic notes. It occupied most of the afternoon although she waswonderfully rapid and accurate and her slim white fingers hoveredmistily over the keys like the vibrating wings of a snowy moth. 

[Illustration: "Mr. Wahlbaum . . . Was very quiet, very considerate, very attentive. "]

Mr. Wahlbaum, always smoking, watched her toward the finish in placidsilence. And for a few moments, also, after she had finished and hadturned to him with a light smile and a lighter sigh of relief. 

"Miss Greensleeve, " he said quietly, "I have now been here in the sameoffice with you, day after day--excepting our summer vacations--formore than five years. "

A trifle surprised and sobered by his gravity and deliberation shenodded silent acquiescence and waited, wondering a little what elsewas to come. 

It came without preamble: "I have the honour, " he said, "to ask you tomarry me. "

Still as a stone she sat, gazing at him. And for a long while his keeneyes sustained her gaze. But presently a slow, deep colour began togather on his face. And after a moment he said: "I am sorry that theverdict is against me. "

Tears filled her eyes; she tried to speak, could not, turned on herpivot-chair, rested her arms on the back, and dropped her face inthem. 

It was a long while before she was able to efface the traces ofemotion. She did all she could before she forced herself to look athim again and say what she must say. 

"If I could--I would, Mr. Wahlbaum, " she faltered. "No man has everbeen kinder to me, none more courteous, none more gentle. "

He looked at her wistfully for a moment, and she thought he was goingto speak. But he was wise in the ways of the world. He had lost. Heunderstood it. Speech was superfluous. He was a quaint combination ofgood sportsman and philosophic economist. 

He held his peace. 

When she left that evening after saying good night to him she pausedat the door, irresolutely, and then came back to his desk where he wasstill standing. For he had never failed to rise when she entered inthe morning or took her leave at night. 

In silence, now, she offered him her hand, the quick tears springingto her eyes again; and he took it, bent, and touched the glovedfingers with his lips, gravely, in silence. 

 * * * * *

A few days later, for the first time in her experience there, Mr. Wahlbaum was not at the office. 

Mr. Grossman came in, leered at her, said that Mr. Wahlbaum would bedown next day, lingered furtively as long as he quite dared, then tookhimself off, still leering. 

In the afternoon Athalie was notified that her salary had been raised. She went home, elated and deeply touched by the generosity of Mr. Wahlbaum, scarcely able to wait for the morrow to express hergratitude to this good, kind man. 

But on the morrow Mr. Wahlbaum was not there; nor did he come the dayafter, nor the day after that. 

The following Tuesday she was seated in the office and generallyoccupied with business provided for her by the thrifty Mr. Grossman, when that same gentleman came into the office on tiptoe. 

"Mr. Wahlbaum has just died, " he said. 

In the sudden shock and consternation she had risen from her chair, and stood there, one hand resting on her desk top for support. 

"Pneumonia, " nodded Mr. Grossman. "Sam he smoked too much all thetime. That is what done it, Miss Greensleeve. "

Her hands crept to her eyes, covered them convulsively. "Oh!" shebreathed--"Oh!"

And, for a moment was not aware of the arm of Mr. Grossman around herwaist, --until it tightened unctuously. 

"Dearie, " he murmured, "don't you take on so hard. You ain't goin' tolose your job, because I'm a-goin' to be your best friend same like hewas--"

With a shudder she stepped clear of him; he caught her by the waistagain and kissed her; and she wrenched herself free and turnedfiercely on him as he advanced again, smirking, watery of eye, armsoutstretched. 

Then in the overwhelming revulsion and horror of the act and of themoment chosen for it when death's shadow already lay dark upon thisvast and busy monument to her dead friend, she turned on him her darkblue eyes ablaze; and to her twisted, outraged lips flew, unbidden, the furious anathema of her ragged childhood:

"Damn you!" she stammered, --"damn you!" And struck him across theface. 

 * * * * *

Which impulsive and unconsidered proceeding left two at home out ofwork, herself and Doris. Also there was very little more forCatharine to do, the dull season at Winton's having arrived. 

"Any honest job, " repeated Doris when she and Athalie and Catharinemet at evening after an all-day's profitless search for that sort ofwork; but honest jobs did not seem to be very plentiful in June, although any number of the other sort were to be had almost withoutthe asking. 

Doris continued to haunt agencies and theatrical offices, dawdling allday from one to the next, sitting for hours in company with otheraspirants to histrionic honours and wages, gossiping, listening tostage talk, professional patter, and theatrical scandal until herpretty ears were buzzing with everything that ought not to concern herand her moral fastidiousness gradually became less delicate. Repetition is the great leveller, the great persuader. The greatestpower on earth, for good or evil, is incessant reiteration. 

Catharine lost her position, worked at a cheap milliner's for a week, addressed envelopes for another week, and was again left unemployed. 

Athalie accepted several offers; at one place they didn't pay her fortwo weeks and then suggested she take half the salary agreed upon; atanother her employer became offensively familiar; at another themanager made her position unendurable. 

By July the financial outlook in the Greensleeve family was becomingrather serious: Doris threatened gloomily to go into burlesque;Catharine at first tearful and discouraged, finally grew careless andmade few real efforts to find employment. Also she began to go outalmost every evening, admitting very frankly that the home larder hadbecome too lean and unattractive to suit her. 

[Illustration: "Doris continued to haunt agencies and theatricaloffices. "]

Doris always went out more or less; and what troubled Athalie was notthat the girl had opportunities for the decent nourishment she needed, but that her reticence concerning the people she dined with wassteadily increasing. 

"Oh, shut up! I can look out for myself, " she always repeatedsullenly. "Anyway, Athalie, _you_ are not the one to bully me. Nobodyever presented me with a cosy flat and--"

"Doris!"

"Didn't your young man give you this flat?"

"Don't speak of him or of me in that manner, " said Athalie, flushingscarlet. 

"Why are you so particular? It's the truth. He's given you abouteverything a man can offer a girl, hasn't he?--jewellery, furniture, clothing--cats--"

"Will you please not say anything more!"

But Doris was still smarting under recent admonition, and she meant tomake an end of Athalie's daily interference: "I will say what I likewhen it's the truth, " she retorted. "You are very free with yourunsolicited advice. And I'll say this, and it's true, that not onegirl in a thousand who accepts what you have accepted from CliveBailey, is straight!"

Athalie's tightening lips quivered: "Do you intimate that I am notstraight?"

"I didn't say that. "

"You implied it. "

There was a silence; Catharine lounged on the sofa, watching andlistening with interest. After a moment Doris shrugged her youngshoulders. 

"Does it matter so much, anyway?" she said with a short, unpleasantlaugh. 

"Does _what_ matter--you little ninny!"

"Whether a girl _is_ straight. "

"Is that the philosophy you learn in your theatrical agencies?"demanded Athalie fiercely. "What nauseating rot you do talk, Doris!"

"Very well. It may be nauseating. But what is a girl to do in a worldrun entirely by men?"

"You know well enough what a girl is _not_ to do, don't you? All rightthen, --leave that undone and do what's left. "

"What _is_ left?" demanded Doris with a mirthless laugh. "There'sscarcely a job that a girl can hold unless she squares some man tokeep it--and keep--her!"

"Shame on you! I held mine for over five years, " said Athalie with hotcontempt. 

"Yes, and then along came the junior partner. You wouldn't square him:you lost your job! There's always a junior partner in everybusiness--when there isn't a senior. There's nothing to it if youstand in with the firm. If you don't--good night!"

"You managed to remain at the Egyptian Garden during the entireseason. "

"But the fights I had, my dear, and the tricks I employed and the liesI told and the promises I made! Oh, it's sickening--sickening! But--"she shrugged--"what are you to do? Thousands of girls go queerbecause they're forced to by starvation--"

"Nonsense!" cried Athalie hotly, "that is all stage twaddle andexaggerated sentimentalism! I don't believe that one girl in athousand is forced into a dishonourable life!"

"Then why do girls go queer?"

"Because they want to; that's why! When they don't want to theydon't!"

Catharine, very wide-eyed, said solemnly: "But think of all the whiteslaves--"

"They'd be that if they had been born to millions!" retorted Athalie. "Ignorance and aptitude, that is white slavery. It's absolutelynothing else. And in cases where the ignorance is absent, the aptitudeis there. If a girl has an aptitude for becoming some man's mistressshe'll probably do it whether she's ignorant or educated. "

Doris, who had taken to chewing-gum furtively and in private, discreetly rolled a morsel under her tongue. 

"All I know is that your salary is advanced and you're given a part atthe Egyptian Garden if you stand in with Lewenbein or go to supperwith Shemsky. Of course, " she added, "there _are_ theatres where youdon't have to be horrid in order to succeed. "

"Then, " said Athalie drily, "you'd better find work in thosetheatres. "

Doris glanced sideways at Catharine, who silently returned her glanceas though an understanding and sympathy existed between them notsuspected or shared in by Athalie. 

It was not very much of a secret. Some prowling genius of the agencieswhom Doris had met had offered to write a vaudeville act for her andhimself if she could find two other girls. And she had persuadedCatharine and Genevieve Hunting to try it; and Cecil Reeve and FrancisHargrave had gaily offered to back it. They were rehearsing in Reeve'sapartments--between a continuous series of dinners and suppers. 

And it had been her sister's going to Reeve's apartments to whichAthalie had seriously objected, --not knowing why she went there. 

 * * * * *

This was one of many scenes that torrid summer in New York, whenAthalie intuitively felt that the year which had begun so happily forher with the entrance of Clive into her life, was growing duller andgreyer; and that each succeeding day seemed to be swinging her into atide of anxiety and mischance, --a current as yet merely perceptible, but already increasing in speed toward something swifter and morestormy. 

Already, to her, the future had become overcast, obscure, disquieting. 

Steer as she might toward any promising harbour, always she seemed tobe aware of some subtle resistance impeding her. 

Every small economy attempted, every retrenchment planned, came tonothing. Always she was met at some corner by an unlooked-fornecessity entailing further expense. 

No money was coming in; her own and her sister's savings were goingsteadily, every day, every week. 

There seemed no further way to check expenditure. Athalie haddismissed their servant as soon as she had lost her position atWahlbaum and Grossman's. Table expenses were reduced to Spartanlimits, much to the disgust of them all. No clothes were bought, noluxuries, no trifles. They did their own marketing, their own cooking, their own housework and laundry. And had it not been that theapartment entailed no outlay for light, heat, and rent, they wouldhave been sorely perplexed that spring and summer in New York. 

Athalie permitted herself only one luxury, Hafiz. And one necessity;stamps and letter paper for foreign correspondence. 

The latter was costing her less and less recently. Clive wrote seldomnow. And always very sensitive where he was concerned, she permittedherself the happiness of writing only after he had taken theinitiative, and a reply from her was due him. 

No, matters were not going very well with Athalie. Also she wasfrequently physically tired. Perhaps it was the lassitude consequenton the heat. But at times she had an odd idea that she lacked courage;and sometimes when lonely, she tried to reason with herself, tried toteach her heart bravery--particularly during the long interims whichelapsed between Clive's letters. 

As for her attitude toward him--whether or not she was in love withhim--she was too busy thinking about him to bother her head aboutattitudes or degrees of affection. All the girl knew--when shepermitted herself to think of herself--was that she missed himdreadfully. Otherwise her concern was chiefly for him, for hishappiness and well-being. Also she was concerned regarding the promiseshe had made him--and to which he usually referred in hisletters, --the promise to try to learn more about this faculty of hersfor clear vision, and, if possible, to employ it for his sake and inhis unhappy service. 

This often preoccupied her, troubled her. She did not know how to goabout it; she hesitated to seek those who advertised their allegedoccult powers for sale, --trance-mediums, mind-readers, palmists--allthe heterogeneous riffraff lurking always in metropolitan purlieus, and always with a sly weather-eye on the police. 

As usual in her career since the time she could first remember, shecontinued to "see clearly" where others saw and heard nothing. 

Faint voices in the dusk, a whisper in darkness; perhaps in her bedroomthe subtle intuition of another presence. And sometimes a touch on herarm, a breath on her cheek, delicate, exquisite--sometimes the hauntingsweetness of some distant harmony, half heard, half divined. And now andthen a form, usually unknown, almost always smiling and friendly, visiblefor a few moments--the space of a fire-fly's incandescence--thenfading--entering her orbit out of nothing and, going into nothing, out of it. 

Of these episodes she had never entertained any fear. Sometimes theyinterested her, sometimes even slightly amused her. But they had neversaddened her, not even when they had been the flash-lit harbingers ofdeath. For only a sense of calmness and serenity accompanied them:and to her they had always been part of the world and of life, nothingto wonder at, nothing to fear, and certainly nothing to intrudeon--merely incidents not concerning her, not remarkable, but naturaland requiring no explanation. 

But she herself did not know and could not explain why, even as achild, she had been always reticent regarding these occurrences, --whyshe had always been disinclined to discuss them. Unless it were anatural embarrassment and a hesitation to discuss strangers, as thoughcomment were a species of indelicacy, --even of unwarranted intrusion. 

One night while reading--she had been scanning a newspaper column ofadvertisements hoping to find a chance for herself or Catharine--glancingup she again saw Clive's father seated near her. At the same moment helifted his head, which had been resting on one hand, and looked acrossthe hearthstone at her, smiling faintly. 

Entirely unembarrassed, conscious of that atmosphere of serenity whichalways was present when such visitors arrived, the girl sat looking atwhat her eyes told her she perceived, a slight and friendly smilecurving her lips in silent response. 

Presently she became aware that Hafiz, too, saw the visitor, and waswatching him. But this fact she had noticed before, and it did notsurprise her. 

And that was all there was to the incident. He rose, walked to thewindow, stood there. And after a little while he was not there. Thatended it. And Hafiz went to sleep again. 

CHAPTER XIII

In September Athalie Greensleeve wrote her last letter to CliveBailey. It began with a page or two of shyly solicitous inquiriesconcerning his well-being, his happiness, his plans; did not refer tohis long silence; did refer to his anticipated return; did not mentionher own accumulating domestic and financial embarrassments and thesuccessive strokes of misfortune dealt her by those twin andformidable bravos, Fate and Chance; but did mention and enumerateeverything that had occurred in her life which bore the slightestresemblance to a blessing. 

Her letter continued:

 "My sisters Doris and Catharine have gone into vaudeville with a very pretty act called 'April Rain. '

 "That they had decided to do this and had been rehearsing it came as a complete surprise to me. Genevieve Hunting is also in it, and a man named Max Klepper who wrote the piece including lyrics and music. 

 "They opened at the Old Dominion Theatre, remained there a week, and then started West. Which makes it a trifle lonely for me; but I don't really mind if they only keep well and are successful and happy in their venture. Their idea and their desire, of course, is to return to New York at the earliest opportunity. But nobody seems to have any idea how soon that may happen. Meanwhile the weather is cooler and Hafiz remains well and adorable. 

 "I have been out very little except to look for a position. Mr. Wahlbaum is dead and I left the store. Sunday morning I took a few flowers to Mr. Wahlbaum's grave. He was very kind to me, Clive. In the afternoon I took a train to the Spring Pond Cemetery. Father's and mother's graves had been well cared for and were smoothly green. The four young oak trees I planted are growing nicely. Mother was fond of trees. I am sure she likes my little oaks. 

 "It was a beautiful, cool, sunny day; and after I left the Cemetery I walked along the well remembered road toward Spring Pond. It is not very far, but I had never been any nearer to it than the Cemetery since my sisters and I went away. 

 "Such odd sensations came over me as I walked alone there amid familiar scenes: and, curiously, everything seemed to have shrunk to miniature size--houses, fields, distances all seemed much less impressive. But the Bay was intensely blue; the grasses and reeds in the salt meadows were already tipped with a golden colour here and there; flocks of purple grackle and red-winged blackbirds rose, drifted, and settled, chattering and squealing among the cat-tails just as they used to do when I was a child; and the big, slow-sailing mouse-hawks drifted and glided over the pastures, and when they tipped sideways I could see the white moon-spot on their backs, just as I remembered to look for it when I was a little, little girl. 

 "And the odours, Clive! How the scent of the August fields, of the crisp salt hay, seemed to grip at my heart!--all the subtle, evanescent odours characteristic of that part of Long Island seemed to gather, blend, and exhale for my particular benefit that afternoon. 

 "The old tavern appeared to me so much smaller, so much more weather-beaten and shabby than my recollection of it. The sign still hung there--'Hotel Greensleeve'--and as I walked by it I looked up at the window of my mother's room. The blinds were closed; nobody appeared to be around. I don't know why, Clive, but it seemed to me that I must go in for a moment and take one more look at my mother's room. . . . I am glad I did. There was nobody to stop me. I went up the stairs on tiptoe and opened her door, and looked in. _She was there, sewing. _

 "I went in very softly and sat down on the carpet by her chair. . . . It was the happiest moment I have known since she died. 

 "And when she was no longer there I rose and crept down the stairs and through the hallway to the bar; and peeped in. An old man sat there asleep by the empty stove. And after a moment I decided it was Mr. Ledlie. But he has grown old--old!--and I let him sleep on in the sunshine without disturbing him. 

 "It was the same stove where you and I sat and nibbled peach turnovers so many years ago. I wanted to see it again. 

 * * * * *

 "So I went back to New York in the late golden afternoon feeling very peaceful and dreamy, --and a trifle tired. And found Hafiz stretched on the lounge; and stretched myself out beside him, taking the drowsy, purring, spoiled thing into my arms. And went to sleep to dream of you who gave me Hafiz, my dear and beloved friend. 

 * * * * *

 "Write me when you can; as often as you desire. Always your letters are welcome messengers. "ATHALIE. "

CHAPTER XIV

In her letters Athalie never mentioned Captain Dane; not because shehad anything to conceal regarding him or herself; but she seemed to beaware that any mention of that friendship might not evoke asympathetic response from Clive. 

So, in her last letter, as in the others, she had not spoken ofCaptain Dane. Yet, now, he was the only man with whom she ever wentanywhere and whom she received at her own apartment. 

He had a habit of striding in two or three evenings in a week, --a big, fair, broad-shouldered six-footer, with sun-narrowed eyes of arcticblue, a short blond moustache, and skin permanently burned by theunshadowed glare of many and tropic days. 

They went about together on Sundays, usually; sometimes in hot weatherto suburban restaurants for dinner and a breath of air, sometimes toroof gardens. 

Why he lingered in town--for he seemed always to be at leisure--shedid not know. And she wondered a little that he should elect to remainin the heat-cursed city whence everybody else she knew had fled. 

Dane was a godsend to her. With him she went to the Bronx ZoologicalPark several times, intensely interested in what he had to sayconcerning the creatures housed there, and shyly proud and delightedto meet the curators of the various departments who all seemed to knowDane and to be on terms of excellent fellowship with him. 

With him she visited the various museums and art galleries; and wentwith him to concerts, popular and otherwise; and took long trolleyrides with him on suffocating evenings when the poor slept on thegrass in the parks and the slums, east and west, presented endlessvistas of panting nakedness prostrate under a smouldering red moon. 

Every diversion he offered her helped to sustain her courage; everytime she lunched or dined with him meant more to her than he dreamedit meant. Because her savings were ebbing fast, and she had not yetbeen able to find employment. 

Some things she would not do--write to her sisters for any financialaid; nor would she go to the office of her late employers and ask forany recommendation from Mr. Grossman which might help her to secure aposition. Never could she bring herself to do either of these things, although the ugly countenance of necessity now began to stare herpersistently in the face. 

Also she was sensitive lest Dane suspect her need and offer aid. Buthow could he suspect?--with her pretty apartment filled with prettythings, and the luxurious Hafiz pervading everything with hisincessant purring and his snowy plume of a tail waving fastidiouscontentment. He fared better than did his mistress, who denied herselfthat Hafiz might flourish that same tail. And after a while the girlactually began to grow thinner from sheer lack of nourishment. 

It never occurred to her to sell or pawn any of the furniture, silver, furs, rugs, --anything at all that Clive had given her. And there wasone reason why she never would do it: she refused to consider anythinghe had given her as her own property to dispose of if she chose. Forshe had accepted these things from Clive only because it gave himpleasure to give. And what she possessed she regarded as his propertyheld in trust. Nothing could have induced her to consider these thingsin any other light. 

One souvenir, only, did she look upon as her own. It had no financialvalue; and, if it had, she would have starved before disposing of it. This was the first thing he ever gave her--his boy's offering--thegun-metal wrist-watch. 

And her only recent extravagance had been a sentimental one; she hadthe watch cleaned and regulated, and a new leather strap adjusted. Theevening it was returned to her she wore it; and that night she sleptwith the watch strapped to her wrist. 

So much for a young girl's sentiment!--for no letter came from him onthe morrow although the European mail was in. None came the next day;nor the next. 

Toward the end of the week, one sultry evening, when Athalie returnedfrom an unsuccessful tour of job-hunting, and nearer depression thanever she had yet been, Captain Dane came stalking in, shook hands withhis usual decision, picked up Hafiz who adored him, and took thechair nearest to the lounge where Athalie lay. 

[Illustration: "With him she visited the various museums and artgalleries. "]

"Suppose we dine somewhere?" he suggested, fondling the purring Angoraand rubbing its ears. 

"Would you mind, " she said, "if I didn't?"

"You're very tired, aren't you, Miss Greensleeve?"

"A little. I don't believe I have the energy to go out with you. "

Still fondling the willing cat he said: "What's wrong? Something'swrong, isn't it?"

"No indeed. "

He turned and gave her a square look: "You're quite sure?"

"Quite. "

"Oh; all right. Will you let me have dinner here with you?"

She said without embarrassment: "I neglected my marketing: there'svery little in the pantry. "

"Well, " he said, "I'm hungry and I'm going to call up the HotelTrebizond and have them send us some dinner. "

She seemed inclined to demur, but he had his way, went to thetelephone and gave his orders. 

The dinner arrived in due time and was excellent. And when the remainsof the dinner and the waiter who served it had been cleared out, Athalie felt better. 

"You ought to go to the country for two or three weeks, " he remarked. 

"Why don't _you_ go?" she asked, smilingly. 

"Don't need it. "

"Neither do I, Captain Dane. Besides I have to continue my search fora position. "

"No luck yet?"

"Not yet. "

He mused over his cigar for a few moments, lifted his blond head asthough about to speak, but evidently decided not to. 

She had taken up her sewing and was now busy with it. From moment tomoment Hafiz took liberties with her spool of thread where he sprawledbeside her, patting it this way and that until it fell upon the floorand Dane was obliged to rescue it. 

It had grown cooler. A breeze from the open windows occasionallystirred her soft hair and the smoke of Dane's cigar. They had beensilent for a few moments. Threading her needle she happened to glanceup at him, and saw somebody else standing just behind him--a tall man, olive-skinned and black-bearded--and knew instantly that he was notalive. 

Serenely incurious, she looked at the visitor, aware that the clotheshe wore were foreign, and that his features, too, were not American. 

And the next moment she gazed at him more attentively, for he had laidone hand on Dane's shoulder and was looking very earnestly across ather. 

He said distinctly but with a foreign accent: "Would you please say tohim that the greatest of all the ancient cities is hidden by thejungle near the source of the middle fork. It was called Yhdunez. "

"Yes, " she said, unconscious that she had spoken aloud. 

Dane lifted his head, and remained motionless, gazing at her intently. The visitor was already moving across the room. Halfway across helooked back at Athalie in a pleasant, questioning manner; and shenodded her reassurance with a smile. Then her visitor was there nolonger; and she found herself, a trifle confused, looking into thekeen eyes of Captain Dane. 

Neither spoke for a moment or two; then he said, quietly: "I did notknow you were clairvoyant. "

"I--see clearly--now and then. "

"I understand. It is nothing new to me. "

"You _do_ understand then?"

"I understand that some few people see more clearly than the greatmajority. "

"Do you?"

"No. . . . There was a comrade of mine--a Frenchman--Jacques Renouf. Hewas like you; he saw. "

"Is he living?--I mean as we are?"

"No. "

"Was he tall, olive-skinned, black-bearded--"

"Yes, " said Dane coolly; "did you see him just now?"

"Yes. "

"I wondered. . . . There are moments when I seem to feel his presence. Iwas thinking of him just now. We were on the upper Amazon togetherlast winter. "

"How did he die?"

"He'd been off by himself all day. About five o'clock he came intocamp with a poisoned arrow broken off behind his shoulder-blade. Heseemed dazed and stupefied; but at moments I had an idea that he wastrying to tell us something. "

Dane hesitated, shrugged: "It was no use. We left our fire as usualand went into the forest about two miles to sleep. Jacques died thatnight, still dazed by the poison, still making feeble signs at me asthough he were trying to tell me something. . . . I believe that he hasbeen near me very often since, trying to speak to me. "

"He laid his hand on your shoulder, Captain Dane. "

Dane's stern lips quivered for a second, then self-command resumedcontrol. He said: "He usually did that when he had something to tellme. . . . Did he speak to me, Miss Greensleeve?"

"He spoke to me. "

"Clearly?"

"Yes. He said: 'Would you please say to him that the greatest of allthe ancient cities is hidden by the jungle near the source of themiddle fork. It was called Yhdunez. '"

For a long while Dane sat silent, his chin resting on his clenchedhand, looking down at the rug at his feet. After a while he said, still looking down: "He must have found it all alone. And got an arrowin him for his reward. . . . They're a dirty lot, those cannibals alongthe middle fork of the Amazon. Nobody knows much about them yet exceptthat they _are_ cannibals and their arrows are poisoned. . . . I broughtback the arrow that I pulled out of Jacques. . . . There's no analysisthat can determine what the poison is--except that it's vegetable. "

He leaned forward, as though weary, resting his face between bothhands. 

"Yhdunez? Is that what it was called? Well, it and everything in itwas not worth the life of my friend Renouf. . . . Nor is anything I'veever seen worth a single life sacrificed to the Red God ofDiscovery. . . . Those accursed cities full of vile and monstrouscarvings--they belong to the jaguars now. Let them keep them. Let theworld's jungles keep their own--if only they'd give me back myfriend--"

He rested a moment as he was, then straightened up impatiently asthough ashamed. 

"Death is death, " he said in matter-of-fact tones. 

Athalie slowly shook her head: "There is no death. "

He nodded almost gratefully: "I know what you mean. I dare say you areright. . . . Well--I think I'll go back to Yhdunez. "

"Not this evening?" she protested, smilingly. 

He smiled, too: "No, not this evening, Miss Greensleeve. I shall nevercare to go anywhere again--". . . His face altered. . . . "Unless you careto go--with me. "

What he had said she would have taken gaily, lightly, had not thegravity of his face forbidden it. She saw the lean muscles tightenalong his clean-cut cheek, saw the keen eyes grow wistful, then steadythemselves for her answer. 

She could not misunderstand him; she disdained to, honouring thesimplicity and truth of this man to whom she was so truly devoted. 

Her abandoned sewing lay on her lap. Hafiz slept with one velvet pawentangled in her thread. She looked down, absently freeing thread andfabric, and remained so for a moment, thinking. After a while shelooked up, a trifle pale:

"Thank you, Captain Dane, " she said in a low voice. 

He waited. 

"I--am afraid that I am--in love--already--with another man. "

He bent his head, quietly; there was no pleading, no asking for achance, no whining of any species to which the monarch man is soconstitutionally predisposed when soft, young lips pronounce the deathwarrant of his sentimental hopes. 

All he said was: "It need not alter anything between us--what I haveasked of you. "

"It only makes me care the more for our friendship, Captain Dane. "

He nodded, studying the pattern in the Shirvan rug under his feet. Aprocession of symbols representing scorpions and tarantulasembellished one of the rug's many border stripes. His grave eyesfollowed the procession entirely around the five-by-three bit ofweaving. Then he rose, bent over her, took her slim hand in silence, saluted it, and asking if he might call again very soon, went outabout his business, whatever it was. Probably the most importantbusiness he had on hand just then was to get over his love for AthalieGreensleeve. 

For a long while Athalie sat there beside Hafiz considering the worldand what it was threatening to do to her; considering man and what hehad offered and what he had not offered to do to her. 

Distressed because of the pain she had inflicted on Captain Dane, yetproud of the honour done her, she sat thinking, sometimes of Clive, sometimes of Mr. Wahlbaum, sometimes of Doris and Catharine, and ofher brother who had gone out to the coast years ago, and from whom shehad never heard. 

But mostly she thought of Clive--and of his long silence. 

Presently Hafiz woke up, stretched his fluffy, snowy limbs, yawned, pink-mouthed, then looked up out of gem-clear eyes, blinkinginquiringly at his young mistress. 

"Hafiz, " she said, "if I don't find employment very soon, what is tobecome of you?"

The evening paper, as yet unread, lay on the sofa beside her. Shepicked it up, listlessly, glancing at the headings of the front pagecolumns. There seemed to be trouble in Mexico; trouble in Japan;trouble in Hayti. Another column recorded last night's heat and gavethe list of deaths and prostrations in the city. Another column--thelast on the front page--announced by cable the news of a fashionableengagement--a Miss Winifred Stuart to a Mr. Clive Bailey; both atpresent in Paris--

She read it again, slowly; and even yet it meant nothing to her, conveyed nothing she seemed able to comprehend. 

But halfway down the column her eyes blurred, the paper slipped fromher hands to the floor, and she dropped back into the hollow of thesofa, and lay there, unstirring. And Hafiz, momentarily disturbed, curled up on her lap again and went peacefully to sleep. 

CHAPTER XV

To her sisters Athalie wrote:

 "For reasons of economy, and other reasons, I have moved to 1006 West Fifty-fifth Street where I have the top floor. I think that you both can find accommodations in this house when you return to New York. 

 "So far I have not secured a position. Please don't think I am discouraged. I do hope that you are well and successful. "

Their address, at that time, was Vancouver, B. C. 

 * * * * *

To Clive Bailey, Jr. , his agent wrote:

 "Miss Athalie Greensleeve called at the office this morning and returned the keys to the apartment which she has occupied. 

 "Miss Greensleeve explained to me a fact of which I had not been aware, viz. : that the furniture, books, hangings, pictures, porcelains, rugs, clothing, furs, bed and table linen, silver, etc. , etc. , belong to you and not to her as I had supposed. 

 "I have compared the contents of the apartment with the minute inventory given me by Miss Greensleeve. Everything is accounted for; all is in excellent order. 

 "I have, therefore, locked up the apartment, pending orders from you regarding its disposition, "--etc. , etc. 

 * * * * *

The tall shabby house in Fifty-fourth Street was one of a five-storiedrow built by a speculator to attract fashion many years before. Fashion ignored the bait. 

A small square of paper which had once been white was pasted on thebrick front just over the tarnished door-bell. On it was written inink: "Furnished Rooms. "

Answering in person the first advertisement she had turned to in themorning paper Athalie had found this place. There was nothingattractive about it except the price; but that was sufficient in thisemergency. For the girl would not permit herself to remain anothernight in the pretty apartment furnished for her by the man whoseengagement had been announced to her through the daily papers. 

And nothing of his would she take with her except the old gun-metalwrist-watch, and Hafiz, and the barred basket in which Hafiz hadarrived. Everything else she left, her toilet silver, desk-set, herevening gowns and wraps, gloves, negligées, boudoir caps, slippers, silk stockings, all her bath linen, everything that she herself hadnot purchased out of her own salary--even the little silver cupidholding aloft his torch, which had been her night-light. 

[Illustration: "With a basket containing Hafiz, her suit-case, and afurled umbrella she started for her new lodgings. "]

Never again could she illuminate that torch. The other woman must dothat. 

 * * * * *

She went about quietly from room to room, lowering the shades anddrawing the curtains. There was brilliant colour in her cheeks, anundimmed beauty in her eyes; pride crowned the golden head held steadyand high on its slender, snowy neck. Only the lips threatenedbetrayal; and were bitten as punishment into immobility. 

Her small steamer trunk went by a rickety private express for fiftycents: with the basket containing Hafiz, her suit-case, and a furledumbrella she started for her new lodgings. 

Michael, opening the lower grille for her, stammered: "God knows whyye do this, Miss! Th' young Masther'll be afther givin' me the sack avye lave the house unbeknowns't him!"

"I can't stay, Michael. He knows I can't. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye Miss! God be good to ye--an' th' pusheen--!" laying a hugebut gentle paw on Hafiz's basket whence a gentle plaint arose. 

And so Athalie and Hafiz departed into the world together; andpresently bivouacked; their first étape on life's long journey endingon the top floor of 1006 West Fifty-fifth Street. 

The landlady was a thin, anxious, and very common woman with falsehair and teeth; and evidently determined to secure Athalie for alodger. 

But the terms she offered the girl for the entire top floor were soabsurdly small that Athalie hesitated, astonished and perplexed. 

"Oh, there's a jinx in the place, " said the landlady; "I ain't aimingto deceive nobody, and I'll tell you the God-awful truth. If I don't, "she added naïvely, "somebody else is sure to hand it to you and you'llget sore on me and quit. "

"What _is_ the matter with the apartment?" inquired the girl uneasily. 

"I'll tell you: the lady that had it went dead on me last August. "

"Is that all?"

"No, dearie. It was chloral. And of course, the papers got hold of itand nobody wants the apartment. That's why you get it cheap--if you'lltake it and chase out the jinx that's been wished on me. Will you, dearie?"

"I don't know, " said the girl, looking around at the newly decoratedand cheerful rooms. 

The landlady sniffed: "It certainly was one on me when I let that jinxinto my house--to have her go dead on me and all like that. "

"Poor thing, " murmured Athalie, partly to herself. 

"No, she wasn't poor. You ought to have seen her rings! Them's whatgot her into trouble, dearie;--and the roll she flashed. "

"Wasn't it suicide?" asked Athalie. 

[Illustration: "'Wasn't it suicide?' asked Athalie. "]

"I gotta tell you the truth. No, it wasn't. She was feeling fine anddandy. Business had went good. . . . There was a young man to visit herthat evening. I seen him go up the stairs. . . . But I was that sleepyI went to bed. So I didn't see him come down. And next day at noonwhen I went up to do the room she lay dead onto the floor, and herrings gone, and the roll missing out of her stocking. "

"Did the man kill her?"

"Yes, dearie. And the papers had it. That's what put me in Dutch. Igotta be honest with _you_. You'd hear it, anyway. "

"But how could he give her chloral--"

The anxious, excited little woman's volubility could suffer restraintno longer:

"Oh, he could dope her easy in the dark!" she burst out. "Not that thehouse ain't thur'ly respectable as far as I can help it, and all mylodgers is refined. No, Miss Greensleeve, I won't stand for nothingthat ain't refined and genteel. Only what can a honest woman do whenshe's abed and asleep, what with all the latch keys and entertainin', and things like that? No, Miss Greensleeve, I ain't got myself toblame, being decent and law-abiding and all like that, what with thepolice keeping tabs and the neighbourhood not being Fifth Avenooeither!--and this jinx wished on me--"

"Please--"

"Oh, I suppose you ain't a-goin' to stay here now that you've learnedall about these goin's on and all like that--"

"_Please_ wait!"--for the voluble landlady was already beginning tosniffle;--"I am perfectly willing to stay, Mrs. Meehan, --if you willpromise to be a little patient about my rent until I secure aposition--"

"Oh, I will, Miss Greensleeve! I ain't plannin' to press you none! Iknow how it is with money and with young ladies. Easy come, easy go!Just give me what you can. I ain't fixed any too good myself, whatwith butchers and bakers and rent owed me and all like that. I guess Ican trust you to act fair and square--"

"Yes; I am square--so far. "

Mrs. Meehan began to sob, partly with relief, partly with a generaltendency to sentimental hysteria: "I can see that, dearie. And say--ifyou're quiet, I ain't peekin' around corners and through key-holes. No, Miss Greensleeve; that ain't my style! Quiet behaved young ladiescan have their company without me saying nothing to nobody. All I askis that no lady will cut up flossy in any shape, form, or manner, butbehave genteel and refined to one and all. I don't want no policemanin the area. That ain't much to ask, is it?" she gasped, fairly out ofbreath between eloquence and tears. 

"No, " said Athalie with a faint smile, "it isn't much to ask. "

And so the agreement was concluded; Mrs. Meehan brought in fresh linenfor bed and bathroom, pulled out the new bureau drawers and dustedthem, carried away a few anæmic geraniums in pots, and swept the newhardwood floor with a dry mop, explaining that the entire apartmenthad been renovated and redecorated since the tragic episode of lastAugust, and that all the furniture was brand new. 

"Her trunks and clothes and all like that was took by the police, "explained Mrs. Meehan, "but she left some rubbish behind a slidingpanel which they didn't find. I found it and I put it on the top shelfin the closet--"

She dragged a chair thither, mounted it, and presently came trottingback to the front room, carrying in both arms a bulky box of greenmorocco and a large paper parcel bursting with odds and ends of tinseland silk. These she dumped on the centre table, saying: "She had acabinet-maker fix up a cupboard in the baseboard, and that's where shekept gimcracks. The police done me damage enough without my showin'them her hidin' place and the things she kept there. Here--I'll showit to you! It's full of keys and electric wires and switches--"

She took Athalie by the arm and drew her over to the west side of theroom. 

"You can't see nothing there, can you?" she demanded, pointing at thehigh wainscoting of dull wood polished by age. 

Athalie confessed she could not. 

"Look!"

Mrs. Meehan passed her bony hand along the panels until her work-wornforefinger rested on a polished knot in the richly grained wood. Thenshe pushed; and the entire square of panels swung outward, loweringlike a drawbridge, and presently rested flat on the floor. 

"How odd!" exclaimed Athalie, kneeling to see better. 

What she saw was a cupboard lined with asbestos, and an elaborateelectric switchboard set with keys from which innumerable insulatedwires radiated, entering tubes that disappeared in every direction. 

"What are all these for?" she asked, rising to her feet. 

"Dearie, I've got to be honest with _you_. This here lady was ameejum. "

"A--what?"

"A meejum. "

"What is that?"

"Why don't you know, dearie? She threw trances for twenty per. Sheseen things. She done stunts with tables and tambourines andaccordions. Why this here place is all wired and fixed up between thewalls and the ceiling and roof and the flooring, too. There is chimesand bells and harmonicas and mechanical banjos under the flooring andin the walls and ceiling. There's a whispering phonograph, too, andsomething that sighs and sobs. Also a machine that is full of singingbirds that pipe up just as sweet and soft and natural as can be. 

"On rainy days you can amuse yourself with them keys; I don't like tofool with them myself, being nervous with a weak back and my vittlesnot setting right and all like that--" Again she ran down from sheerlack of breath. 

Athalie gazed curiously at the secret cupboard. After a few momentsshe bent over, lifted and replaced the panelling and passed her slimhand over the wainscot, thoughtfully. 

"So the woman was a trance-medium, " she said, half to herself. 

"Yes, Miss Greensleeve. She read the stars, too, and she done cards onthe side; you know--all about a blond gentleman that wants to meet youand a dark lady comin' over the water to do something mean to you. Shecharged high, but she had customers enough--swell ladies, too, intheir automobiles, and old gentlemen and young and all like that. . . . Here's part of her outfit"--leading Athalie to the centre table andopening the green morocco box. 

In the box was a slim bronze tripod and a big sphere of crystal. Mrs. Meehan placed the tripod on the table and set the crystal sphere uponit, saying dubiously: "She claimed that she could see things in that. I guess it was part of her game. I ain't never seen nothing into thatglass ball, and I've looked, too. You can have it if you want it. It'skind of cute to set on the mantel. "

She began to paw and grub and rummage in the big paper parcel, scratching about in the glittering mess of silk and embroidery with apertinacity entirely gallinaceous. 

"You can have these, too, " she said to Athalie--"if you want 'em. They're heathen I guess--" holding up some tawdry Japanese andhome-made Chinese finery. 

But Athalie declined the dead woman's robes of office and Mrs. Meehanrolled them up in the wrapping paper and took them and herself off, very profuse in her gratitude to Athalie for consenting to occupy theapartment and thereby remove the "jinx" that had inhabited it sincethe tragedy of the month before. 

A very soft and melancholy mew from the basket informed the girl thatHafiz desired his liberty. So she let him out and he trotted at herheels as she walked about inspecting the apartment. Also he didconsiderable inspecting on his own account, sniffing at everydoor-sill and crack, jumping up on chairs to look out of windows, prowling in and out of closets, his plumy tail jerking withdubiousness and indecision. 

The apartment was certainly clean. Evidently the house had been a goodone in its day, for the trim was dark old mahogany, rich and beautifulin colour; and the fireplace was rather pretty with its acanthusleaves and roses deeply carved in marble which time had toned to anivory tint. 

The darkly stained floor of hardwood was, of course, modern. So werethe new and very hideous oriental rugs made in Hoboken, and theaniline pink wall-paper, and the brand new furniture still smelling ofdepartment store varnish. Hideous, too, were the electric fixtures, the gas-log in the old-time fireplace, and the bargain counterbric-a-brac geometrically spaced upon the handsome old mantel. 

But there were possibilities in the big, square room facing south andin the two smaller bed chambers fronting the north. A modern bathroomconnected these. 

To find an entire top floor in New York at such a price was asamazing as it was comfortable to the girl who had not expected to beable to afford more than a small bedroom. 

 * * * * *

She had a little money left, enough to purchase food and a few potsand pans to cook it over the gas range in one of the smaller rooms. 

And here she and Hafiz had their first meal on the long world-trailstretching away before her. After which she sat for a while by thewindow in a stiff arm-chair, thinking of Clive and of his silence, andof the young girl he was one day to marry. 

Southward, the lights of the city began to break out and sparklethrough the autumn haze; tall towers, hitherto invisible, suddenlyglimmered against the sky-line. A double vista of lighted street lampsstretched east and west below her. 

The dusty-violet light of evening softened the shabby street below, veiling ugliness and squalor and subtly transmuting meanness andpoverty to picturesqueness--as artists, using only the flatteringsimplicity of essentials, show us in etching and aquarelle the romanceof the commonplace. And so the rusty iron balconies of a chop sueyacross the street became quaint and curious: dragon and swinginggilded sign, banner and garish fretwork grew mellow and mysteriousunder the ruddy Hunter's Moon sailing aloft out of the city's hazelike a great Chinese lantern. 

From an unseen steeple or two chimes sounded the hour. Farther away inthe city a bell answered. It is not a city of belfries and chimes;only locally and by hazard are bell notes distinguishable above theinterminable rolling monotone of the streets. 

And now, the haze thickening, distant reverberations, deep, mellow, melancholy, grew in the night air: fog horns from the two rivers andthe bay. 

Leaning both elbows on the sill of the opened window Athalie gazedwearily into the street where noisy children shrilled at one anotherand dodged vehicles like those quick tiny creatures whirling on ponds. 

Here and there, the flare of petroleum torches lighted push-cartspiled with fruit or laden with bowls of lemonade and hokey-pokey. Sidewalks were crowded with shabby people gossiping in groups orpassing east and west--about what squalid business only they couldknow. 

On the stoops of all the dwellings, brick or brownstone, people sat;the men in shirt-sleeves, the young girls bare-headed, and in lightsummer gowns. Pianos sounded through open parlour windows; there wasdancing going on somewhere in the block. 

Eastward where the street intersected the glare of the dingy avenue, apoliceman stood on fixed post, the electric lights guttering on hismetal-work when he turned. Athalie had laid her cheek on her arms andclosed her eyes, from fatigue, perhaps; perhaps to force back thetears which, nevertheless, glimmered on her lashes where they layclose to the curved white cheeks. 

Little by little the girl was taking degree after degree in herpost-graduate course, the study of which was man. 

And for the first time in her life a new reaction in the laboratory ofexperience had revealed to her a new element in her analysis;bitterness. 

Which is akin to resentment. And to these it is easy to allyrecklessness. 

 * * * * *

There came to her a moment, as she sat huddled there at the window, when endurance suddenly flashed into a white anger; and she foundherself on her feet, pacing the room as caged things pace, with a sortof blindly fixed purpose, seeing everything yet looking at nothingthat she passed. 

But after this had lasted long enough she halted, gazing about her asthough for something that might aid her. But there was only the roomand the furniture, and Hafiz asleep on a chair; only these and thecrystal sphere on its slim bronze tripod. And suddenly she foundherself on her knees beside it, staring into its dusky transparentdepths, fixing her mind, concentrating every thought, straining everyfaculty, every nerve in the one desperate and imperative desire. 

But through the crystal's depths there is no aid for those who "seeclearly, " no comfort, no answer. She could not find there the man shesearched for--the man for whom her soul cried out in fear, in anger, in despair. As in a glass, darkly, only her own face she saw, fire-edged with a light like that which burns deep in black opals. 

Prone on the floor at last, her white face framed by her hands, hereyes wide open in the dark, she finally understood that her clearvision was of no avail where she herself was concerned; that they whosee clearly can never use that vision to help themselves. 

Fiercely she resented it, --the more bitterly because for the firsttime in her life she had condescended to any voluntary effort towardclairvoyance. 

Wearily she sat up on the floor and gathered her knees into her arms, staring at nothing there in the darkness while the slow tears fell. 

Never before had she known loneliness. A man had made her understandit. Never before had she known bitterness. A man had taught it to her. Never again should any man do what this man had done to her! She waslearning resentment. 

All men should be the same to her hereafter. All men should standalready condemned. Never again should one among them betray her mindto reveal itself, persuade her heart to response, her lips tosacrifice their sweetness and their pride, her soul to stir in itssleep, awake, and answer. And for what the minds and hearts of menmight bring upon themselves, let men be responsible. Theirinclinations, offers, protests, promises as far as they regardedherself could never again affect her. Let man look to himself; hisdesires no longer concerned her. Let him keep his distance--or takehis chances. And there were no chances. 

Athalie was learning resentment. 

 * * * * *

Somebody was knocking. Athalie rose from the floor, turned on thelights, dried her eyes, went slowly to the door, and opened it. 

A large, fat, pallid woman stood in the hallway. Her eyes were aswashed out as her faded, yellowish hair; and her kimono neededwashing. 

"Good evening, " she said cordially, coming in without anyencouragement from Athalie and settling her uncorseted bulk in thearm-chair. "My name is Grace Bellmore, --Mrs. Grace Bellmore. I havethe rear rooms under yours. If you're ever lonely come down and talkit over. Neighbours are not what they might be in this house. Look outfor the Meehan, too. I'd call her a cat only I like cats. Say, that'sa fine one on your bed there. Persian? Oh, Angora--" here she fishedout a cigarette from the pocket of her wrapper, found a match, scratched it on the sole of her ample slipper, and lighted hercigarette. 

"Have one?" she inquired. "No? Don't like them? Oh, well, you'll cometo 'em. Everything comes easy when you're lonely. _I_ know. You don'thave to tell me. God! I get so sick of my own company sometimes--"

She turned her head to gaze about her, twisting her heavy, creasedneck as far as the folds of fat permitted: "You had your nerve withyou when you took this place. I knew Mrs. Del Garmo. I warned her, too. But she was a bone-head. A woman can't be careless in this town. And when it comes to men--say, Miss Greensleeve, I want to know theirnames before they ask me to dinner and start in calling me Grace. It'sGrace _after_ meat with _me_!" And she laughed and laughed, slappingher fat knee with a pudgy, ring-laden hand. 

Athalie, secretly dismayed, forced a polite smile. Mrs. Bellmore blewa few smoke rings toward the ceiling. 

"Are you in business, Miss Greensleeve?"

"Yes. . . . I am looking for a position. "

"What a pretty voice--and refined way of speaking!" exclaimed Mrs. Bellmore frankly. "I guess you've seen better days. Most people have. Tell you the truth, though, I haven't. I'm better off than I ever wasbefore. Of course this is the dull season, but things are picking up. What is your line, Miss Greensleeve?"

"Stenographer. "

"Oh! Well, I don't suppose I could do anything for you, could I?"

"I don't know what your business is, " ventured Athalie, who, heretofore had not dared even to surmise what might be the vocation ofthis very large and faded woman who wore a pink kimono and a dozenrings on her nicotine-stained fingers, and who smoked incessantly. 

The woman seemed to be a trifle surprised: "Haven't you ever heard ofGrace Bellmore?" she asked. 

"I don't think so, " said Athalie with increasing diffidence. 

"Well, maybe you wouldn't, not being in the profession. The managersall know me. I run an Emergency Agency on Broadway. "

"I don't think I understand, " said the girl. 

"No? Then it's like this: a show gets stuck and needs a quick study. They call me up and I throw them what they want at an hour's notice. They can always count on me for anything from wardrobe mistress toprima donna. That's how I get mine, " she concluded with a jolly laugh. 

Athalie, feeling a little more confidence in her visitor, smiled ather. 

"Say--you're a beauty!" exclaimed Mrs. Bellmore, gazing at her. "You're all there, too. I could place you easy if you ever need it. You don't sing, do you?"

"No. "

"Ever had your voice tried?"

"No. "

"Dance?"

"I dance--whatever is being danced--rather easily. "

"No stage experience?"

"No. "

"Well--what do you say, Miss Greensleeve?"

Athalie coloured and laughed: "Thank you, but I had rather work atstenography. "

Mrs. Bellmore said: "I certainly hate to admit it, and knock my ownprofession, but any good stenographer in a year makes more than many astar you read about. . . . Unless there's men putting up for her. "

Athalie nodded gravely. 

"All the same you'd make a peach of a show-girl, " added Mrs. Bellmoreregretfully. And, after a rather intent interval of silent scrutiny:"You're a _good_ girl, too. . . . Say, you _do_ get pretty lonelysometimes, don't you, dear?"

Athalie flushed and shook her head. Mrs. Bellmore lighted anothercigarette from the smouldering remnant of the previous one, and flungthe gilt-tipped remains through the window. 

"Ten to one it hits a crook if it hits anybody, " she remarked. "Thisis a fierce neighbourhood, --all sorts of joints, and then some. But Ilike my rooms. I don't guess you'll be bothered. A girl is more likelyto get spoken to in the swell part of town. Well, --" she struggled toher fat feet--"I'll be going. If you're lonely, drop in during theevening. I'm at the office all day except Sundays and holidays. "

They stood, confronted, looking at each other for a moment. Then, impulsively the fat woman offered her hand:

"Don't be afraid of me, " she said. "I may look crooked, but I'm not. Your mother wouldn't mind my knowing you. "

She held Athalie's narrow hand for a moment, and the girl looked intothe faded eyes. 

"Thank you for coming, " she said. "I _was_ lonely. "

"Good girls usually are. It's a hell of an alternative, isn't it? Idon't mean to be profane; hell is the word. It's hell either way for agirl alone. "

Athalie nodded silently. Mrs. Bellmore looked at her, then glancedaround the room, curiously. 

"Hello, " she said abruptly, "what's that?"

Athalie's eyes followed hers: "Do you mean the crystal?"

"Yes. . . . Say--" she turned to Athalie, nodding profound emphasis onevery word she uttered:--"Say, I _thought_ there was something elseto you--something I couldn't quite get next to. Now I know what's beenbothering me about you. You're clairvoyant!"

Athalie's cheeks grew warm: "I am not a medium, " she said. "Thatcrystal is not my own. "

"That may be. Maybe you don't think you are a medium. But you are, Miss Greensleeve. _I_ know. I'm a little that way, too, --just a verylittle. Oh, I could go into the business and fake it of course, --likeall the others--or most of them. But you are the real thing. Why, " sheexclaimed in vexation, "didn't I know it as soon as I laid eyes onyou? I certainly was subconscious of something. Why you could doanything you pleased with the power you have if you'd care to learnthe business. There's money in it--take it from me!"

Athalie said, after a few moments of silence: "I don't think Iunderstand. Is there a way of--of developing clear vision?"

"Haven't you ever tried?"

"Never. . . . Except when a little while ago I went over to the crystaland--and tried to find--somebody. "

"Did you find--that person?"

"No. "

Mrs. Bellmore shook her fat head: "You needn't tell me any more. Youcan't ever do yourself any good by crystal gazing--you poor child. "

Athalie's head dropped. 

"No, it's no use, " said the other. "If you go into the business andplay square you can sometimes help others. But I guess the crystal ismostly fake. Mrs. Del Garmo had one like yours. She admitted to methat she never saw anything in it until she hypnotised herself. Andshe could do that by looking steadily at a brass knob on a bed-post;and see as much in it as in her crystal. "

The fat woman lighted another cigarette and blew a contemplative whifftoward the crystal: "No: at best the game is a crooked one, even forthe few who have really any occult power. "

"Why?" asked the girl, surprised. 

"Because they are usually clever, nimble-witted, full of intuition. Deduction is an instinct with them. And it is very easy to elaboratefrom a basis of truth;--it's more than a temptation to intelligence tocomplete a story desired and already paid for by a client. Becausealmost invariably the client is as stupid as the medium isintelligent. And, take it from me, it's impossible not to use yourintelligence when a partly finished business deal requires it. "

Athalie was silent. 

"_I'd_ do it, " laughed Mrs. Bellmore. 

Athalie said nothing. 

"Say, on the level, " said the older woman, "do you see a lot that weothers can't see, Miss Greensleeve?"

"I have seen--some things. "

"Plenty, too, I'll bet! Oh, it's in your pretty face, in youreyes!--it's in you, all about you. I'm not much in that line but I canfeel it in the air. Why I felt it as soon as I came into your room, butI was that stupid--thinking of Mrs. Del Garmo--and never associating itwith you!. . . Do you do any trance work?"

"No. . . . I have never cultivated--anything of that sort. "

"I know. The really gifted don't cultivate the power as a rule. Only onenow and then, and here and there. The others are pure frauds--almostevery one of them. But--" she looked searchingly at the girl, --"you'reno fraud! Why you're full of it!--full--saturated--alive with--withvitality--psychical and physical!--You're a glorious thing--halfspiritual, half human--a superb combination of vitality, sacred andprofane!"--She checked herself and turned on the girl almost savagely:"Who was the fool of a man you were looking for in the crystal?. . . Verywell; don't tell then. I didn't suppose you would. Only--God help himfor the fool he is--and forgive him for what he has done to you!. . . Andmay I never enter this room again and find you with the tears freshlyscrubbed out of the most honest eyes God ever gave a woman!. . . Goodnight, Miss Greensleeve!"

"Good night, " said Athalie. 

After she had closed the door and locked it she turned back into theempty room, moving uncertainly as though scarcely knowing what she wasabout. And then, suddenly, the terror of utter desolation seized her, and for the first time she realised what Clive had been to her, _andwhat he had not been_--understood for the first time in her life thecomplex miracle called love, its synthesis, its every element, everymolecule, every atom, and flung herself across the bed, halfstrangled, sobbing out her passion and her grief. 

Dawn found her lying there; but the ravage of that night had strippedher of much that she had been, and never again would be. And what hadbeen taken from her was slowly being replaced by what she had neveryet been. Night stripped her; the red dawn clothed her. 

She sat up, dry-eyed, unbound her hair, flung from her the crumplednegligée. Presently the first golden-pink ray of the rising sun fellacross her snowy body, and she flung out her lovely arms to it asthough to draw it into her empty heart. 

Hafiz, blinking his jewelled eyes, watched her lazily from hispillow. 

CHAPTER XVI

As she came, pensively, from her morning bath into the sunny frontroom Athalie noticed the corner of an envelope projecting from beneathher door. 

For one heavenly moment the old delight surprised her at sight ofClive's handwriting, --for one moment only, before an overwhelmingreaction scoured her heart of tenderness and joy; and the terribleresurgence of pain and grief wrung a low cry from her: "Why couldn'the let me alone!" And she crumpled the letter fiercely in her clenchedhand. 

Minute after minute she stood there, her white hand tightening asthough to strangle the speech written there on those crushedsheets--perhaps to throttle and silence the faint, persistent cry ofher own heart pleading a hearing for the man who had written to her atlast. 

And after a while her nerveless hand relaxed; she looked down at thecrushed thing in her palm for a long time before she smoothed it outand finally opened it. 

He wrote:

 "It is too long a story to go into in detail. I couldn't, anyway. My mother had desired it for a long time. I have nothing to say about it except this: I would not for all the world have had you receive the first information from the columns of a newspaper. Of that part of it I have a right to speak, because the announcement was made without my knowledge or consent. And I'll say more: it was made even before I myself was aware that an engagement existed. 

 "Don't mistake what I write you, Athalie. I am not trying to escape any responsibility excepting that of premature publicity. Whatever else has happened I am fully responsible for. 

 "And so--what can I have to say to you, Athalie? Silence were decenter perhaps--God knows!--and He knows, too, that in me he fashioned but an irresolute character, void of the initial courage of conviction, without deep and sturdy belief, unsteady to a true course set, and lacking in rugged purpose. 

 "It is not stupidity: in the bottom of my own heart I _know_! Custom, habit, acquired and inculcated acquiescence in unanalysed beliefs--these require more than irresolution and a negative disposition to fight them and overcome them. 

 "Athalie, the news you must have read in the newspapers should first have come from me. Among many, many debts I must ever owe you, that one at least was due you. And I defaulted; but not through any fault of mine. 

 "I could not rest until you knew this. Whatever you may think about me now--however lightly you weigh me--remember this--if you ever remember me at all in the years to come: I was aware of my paramount debt: I should have paid it had the opportunity not been taken out of my own hands. And that debt paramount was to inform you first of anybody concerning what you read in a public newspaper. 

 "Now there remains nothing more for me to say that you would care to hear. You would no longer care to know, --would probably not believe me if I should tell you what you have been to me--and still are--and still are, Athalie! Athalie!--"

The letter ended there with her name. She kept it all day; but thatnight she destroyed it. And it was a week before she wrote him:

 "--Thank you for your letter, Clive. I hope all is well with you and yours. I wish you happiness; I desire for you all things good. And also--for _her_. Surely I may say this much without offence--when I am saying good-bye forever. "ATHALIE. "

In due time, to this came his answer, tragic in its brevity, terriblein its attempt to say nothing--so that its stiff cerement of formalityseemed to crack with every written word and its platitudes split openunder the fierce straining of the living and unwritten words beneaththem. 

And to this she made no answer. And destroyed it after the sun hadset. 

 * * * * *

Her money was now about gone. Indian summer brought no prospect ofemployment. Never had she believed that so many stenographers existedin the world; never had she supposed that vacant positions could beso pitifully few. 

During October her means had not afforded her proper nourishment. 

The vigour of young womanhood demands more than milk and crackers anda rare slab from some delicatessen shop. 

As for Hafiz, to his astonishment he had been introduced tochuck-steak; and the pleasure was anything but unmitigated. Butchuck-steak was more than his mistress had. 

Mrs. Bellmore was inclined to eat largely of late suppers prepared onan oil stove by her own fair and very fat hands. 

Athalie accepted one or two invitations, and then accepted no more, being unable to return anybody's hospitality. 

Captain Dane called persistently without being received, until shewrote him not to come again until she sent for him. 

Nobody else knew where she was except her sisters. Doris wrote fromLos Angeles complaining of slack business. Later Catharine wroteasking for money. And Athalie was obliged to answer that she had none. 

Now "none" means not any at all. And the time had now arrived whenthat was the truth. The chuck-steak cut up on Hafiz's plate in thebathroom had been purchased with postage stamps--the last of a sheetbought by Athalie in days of affluence for foreign correspondence. 

There was no more foreign correspondence. Hence the chuck-steak, anda bottle of milk in the sink and a packet of biscuits on the shelf. And a rather pale, young girl lying flat on the lounge in the frontroom, her blue eyes wide, staring up at the fading sun-beams on theceiling. 

If she was desperate she was quiet about it--perhaps even at moments alittle incredulous that there actually could be nothing left for herto live on. It was one of those grotesque episodes that did not seemto belong in her life--something which ought not--that could nothappen to her. At moments, however, she realised that it hadhappened--realised that part of the nightmare had been happening forsome time--that for a good while now, she had always been more or lesshungry, even after a rather reckless orgy on crackers and milk. 

Except that she felt a little fatigued there was in her no tendency toaccept the _chose arrivée_, no acquiescence in the _fait accompli_, nothing resembling any bowing of the head, any meek desire to kiss therod; only a still resentment, a quiet but steady anger, the new andcool opportunism that hatches recklessness. 

What channel should she choose? That was all that chance had left forher to decide, --merely what form her recklessness should take. 

Whatever of morality had been instinct in the girl now seemed to be inabsolute abeyance. In the extremity of dire necessity, cornered atlast, face to face with a world that threatened her, and watching itnow out of cool, intelligent eyes, she had, without realising it, slipped back into her ragged childhood. 

There was nothing else to slip back to, no training, no discipline, nofoundation other than her companionship with a mother whom she hadloved but who had scarcely done more for her than to respond vaguelyto the frankness of inquiring childhood. 

Her childhood had been always a battle--a happy series of conflicts asshe remembered--always a fight among strenuous children to maintainher feet in her little tattered shoes against rough aggression andruthless competition. 

And now, under savage pressure, she slipped back again in spirit tothe school-yard, and became a watchful, agile, unmoral thing again--acreature bent on its own salvation, dedicated to its own survival, atrociously ready for any emergency, undismayed by anything that mightoffer itself, and ready to consider, weigh, and determine any chancefor existence. 

Almost every classic alternative in turn presented itself to her asshe lay there considering. She could go out and sell herself. But, oddly enough, the "easiest way" was not easy for her. And, as a child, also, a fastidious purity had been instinctive in her, both in bodyand mind. 

There were other and easier alternatives; she could go on the stage, or into domestic service, or she could call up Captain Dane and tellhim she was hungry. Or she could let any one of several young menunderstand that she was now permanently receptive to dinnerinvitations. And she could, if she chose, live on her personalpopularity, --be to one man or to several _une maitressevierge_--manage, contrive, accept, give nothing of consequence. 

For she was a girl to flatter the vanity of men; and she knew that ifever she coolly addressed her mind to it she could rule them, entanglethem, hold them sufficiently long, and flourish without the ultimateconcession, because there were so many, many men in the world, and ittook each man a long, long time to relinquish hope; and always therewas another ready to try his fortune, happy in his vanity to attemptwhere all so far had failed. 

Something she _had_ to do; that was certain. And it happened, whileshe was pondering the problem, that the only thing she had notconsidered, --had not even thought of--was now abruptly presented toher. 

For, as she lay there thinking, there came the sound of footstepsoutside her door, and presently somebody knocked. And Athalie rose inthe dusk of the room, switched on a single light, went to the door andopened it. And opportunity walked in wearing the shape of an elderlygentleman of substance, clothed as befitted a respectable dweller inany American city except New York. 

"Good evening, " he said, looking at her pleasantly but inquiringly. "Is Mrs. Del Garmo in?"

"Mrs. Del Garmo?" repeated Athalie, surprised. "Why, Mrs. Del Garmo isdead!"

"God bless us!" he exclaimed in a shocked voice. "Is that so? Well, I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. Well--well--well! Mrs. Del Garmo! Icertainly am sorry. "

He looked curiously about him, shaking his head, and an absentexpression came into his white-bearded face--which changed to livelyinterest when his eyes fell on the table where the crystal stoodmounted between the prongs of the bronze tripod. 

"No doubt, " he said, looking at Athalie, "you are Mrs. Del Garmo'ssuccessor in the occult profession. I notice a crystal on the table. "

And in that instant the inspiration came to the girl, and she took itwith the coolness and ruthlessness of last resort. 

"What is it you wish?" she asked calmly, "a reading?"

He hesitated, looking at her out of aged but very honest eyes; and ina moment she was at his mercy, and the game had gone against her. Shesaid, while the hot colour slowly stained her face: "I have never reada crystal. I had not thought of succeeding Mrs. Del Garmo untilnow--this moment. "

"What is your name, child?" he asked in a gently curious voice. 

"Athalie Greensleeve. "

"You are not a trance-medium?"

"No. I am a stenographer. "

"Then you are not psychical?"

"Yes, I am. "

"What?"

"I am naturally clairvoyant. "

He seemed surprised at first; but after he had looked at her for amoment or two he seemed less surprised. 

"I believe you are, " he said half to himself. 

"I really am. . . . If you wish I could try. But--I don't know how to goabout it, " she said with flushed embarrassment. 

He gazed at her it seemed rather solemnly and wistfully. "There is onething very certain, " he said; "you are honest. And few mediums are. Ithink Mrs. Del Garmo was. I believed in her. She was the means ofgiving me very great consolation. "

Athalie's face flushed with the shame and pity of her knowledge of thelate Mrs. Del Garmo; and the thought of the secret cupboard with itsnest of wires made her blush again. 

The old gentleman looked all around the room and then asked if hemight seat himself. 

Athalie also sat down in the stiff arm-chair by the table where hercrystal stood on its tripod. 

"I wonder, " he ventured, "whether you could help me. Do you think so?"

"I don't know, " replied the girl. "All I know about it is that Icannot help myself through crystal gazing. I never looked into acrystal but once. And what I searched for was not there. "

The old gentleman considered her earnestly for a few moments. "Child, "he said, "you are very honest. Perhaps you could help me. It would bea great consolation to me if you could. Would you try?"

"I don't know how, " murmured Athalie. 

"Maybe I can aid you to try by telling you a little about myself. "

The girl lifted her flushed face from the crystal:

"Don't do that, please. If you wish me to try I will. But don't tellme anything. "

"Why not?"

"Because--I am--intelligent and quick--imaginative--discerning. Imight unconsciously--or otherwise--be unfair. So don't tell meanything. Let me see if there really is in me any ability. "

He met her candid gaze mildly but unsmilingly; and she folded her slimhands in her lap and sat looking at him very intently. 

"Is your name Symes?" she asked presently. 

He nodded. 

"Elisha Symes?"

"Yes. "

"And--do you live in Brook--Brookfield--no!--Brookhollow?"

"Yes. "

"That town is in Connecticut, is it not?"

"Yes. "

His trustful gaze had altered, subtly. She noticed it. 

"I suppose, " she said, "you think I could have found out these thingsthrough dishonest methods. "

"I was thinking so. . . . I am satisfied that you are honest, MissGreensleeve. "

"I really am--so far. "

"Could you tell me how you learned my name and place of residence. "

Her expression became even more serious: "I don't know, Mr. Symes. . . . I don't know _how_ I knew it. . . . I think you wish me to help you findyour little grandchildren, too. But I don't know why I think so. "

When he spoke, controlled emotion made his voice sound almost feeble. 

He said: "Yes; find my little grandchildren and tell me what they aredoing. " He passed a transparent hand unsteadily across his dim eyes:"They are not living, " he added. "They were lost at sea. "

She said: "Nothing dies. Nothing is really lost. "

"Why do you think so, child?"

"Because the whole world is gay and animated and lovely with what wecall 'the dead. ' And, by the dead I mean _all_ things great and smallthat have ever lived. "

He sat listening with all the concentration and rapt attention of achild intent upon a fairy tale. She said, as though speaking toherself: "You should see and hear the myriads of birds that have'died'! The sky is full of their voices and their wings. . . . Everywhere--everywhere the lesser children live, --those long dead ofinhumanity or of that crude and temporary code which we call the lawof nature. All has been made up to them--whatever of cruelty and painthey suffered--whatever rigour of the 'natural' law in that chain ofdestruction which we call the struggle for existence. . . . For there isonly one real law, and it rules all of space that we can see, and moreof it than we can even imagine. . . . It is the law of absolute justice. "

The old man nodded: "Do you believe that?"

She looked up at him dreamily: "Yes; I believe it. Or I should nothave said it. "

"Has anybody ever told you this?"

"No. . . . I never even thought about it until this moment whilelistening to my own words. ". . . She lifted one hand and rested itagainst her forehead: "I cannot seem to think of your grandchildren'snames. . . . Don't tell me. "

She remained so for a few moments, motionless, then with a gracefulgesture and a shake of her pretty head: "No, I can't think of theirnames. Do you suppose I could find them in the crystal?"

"Try, " he said tremulously. She bent forward, resting both elbows onthe table and framing her lovely face in her hands. 

Deep into the scintillating crystal her blue gaze plunged; and for afew moments she saw nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, faint huesand rainbow tints grew in the brilliant and transparentsphere--gathered, took shape as she watched, became coherent andlogical and clear and real. 

She said in a low voice, still watching intently: "Blue sky, greentrees, a snowy shore, and little azure wavelets. . . . Two childrenbare-legged, playing in the sand. . . . A little girl--so pretty!--withher brown eyes and brown curls. . . . And the boy is her brother Ithink. . . . Oh, certainly. . . . And what a splendid time they are havingwith their sand-fort!. . . There's a little dog, too. They are callinghim, 'Snippy! Snippy! Snippy!' How he barks at the waves! And now hehas seized the little girl's doll! They are running after him, chasinghim along the sands! Oh, how funny they are!--and what a glorioustime they are having. . . . The puppy has dropped the doll. . . . The doll'sname is Augusta. . . . Now the little girl has seated herselfcross-legged on the sand and she is cradling the doll and singing toit--such a sweet, clear, happy little voice. . . . She is singingsomething about cherry pie--Oh!--now I can hear every word:

 "Cherry pie, Cherry pie, You shall have some bye and bye. Bye and Bye Bye and Bye You and I shall have a pie, Cherry pie Cherry pie--

"The boy is saying: 'Grandpa will have plenty for us when we get home. There's always cherry pie at Grandpa's house. '

"And the little girl answers, 'I think Grandpa will come here prettysoon and bring us all the cherry pie we want. '. . . Her name isJessie. . . . Her brother calls her 'Jessie. ' She calls him 'Jim. '

"Their other name is Colden, I think. . . . Yes, that is it--Colden. . . . They seem to be expecting their father and mother; but I don't seethem--Oh, yes. I can see them now--in the distance, walking slowlyalong the sands--"

She hesitated, remained silent for a few moments; then: "The coloursare blurring to a golden haze. I can't see clearly now; it is likelooking into the blinding disk of the rising sun. . . . All splendourand dazzling glory--and a too fierce light--"

For a moment more she remained bent over above the sphere, thenraising her head: "The crystal is transparent and empty, " she said. 

[Illustration: "She said in a low voice, still watching intently:'Blue sky, green trees, a snowy shore, and little azurewavelets. . . . '"]

CHAPTER XVII

It was about five months later that Cecil Reeve wrote his long replyto a dozen letters from Clive Bailey which heretofore had remainedunanswered and neglected:

 "--For Heaven's sake, do you think I've nothing to do except to write you letters? I _never_ write letters; and here's the exception to prove it. And if I were not at the Geyser Club, and if I had not dined incautiously, I would not write this!

 "But first permit me the indiscretion of asking you why an engaged man is so charitably interested in the welfare of a young girl who is not engaged to him? And if he is interested, why doesn't he write to her himself and find out how she is? Or has she turned you down?

 "But you need not incriminate and degrade yourself by answering this question. 

 "Seriously, Clive, you'd better get all thoughts of Athalie Greensleeve out of your head as long as you intend to get married. I knew, of course, that you'd been hard hit. Everybody was gossiping last winter. But this is rather raw, isn't it?--asking me to find out how Athalie is and what she is doing; and to write you in detail? Well anyway I'll tell you once for all what I hear and know about her and her family--her family first, as I happen to have had dealings with them. And hereafter you can do your own philanthropic news gathering. 

 "Doris and Catharine were in a rotten show I backed. And when I couldn't afford to back it any longer Doris was ungrateful enough to marry a man who cultivated dates, figs, and pecan nuts out in lower California, and Catharine has just written me a most impertinent letter saying that real men grew only west of the Mississippi, and that she is about to marry one of them who knows more in half a minute than anybody could ever learn during a lifetime in New York, meaning me and Hargrave. I guess she meant me; and I guess it's so--about Hargrave. Except for myself, we certainly are a bunch of boobs in this out-of-date old town. 

 "Now about Athalie, --she dropped out of sight after you went abroad. Nobody seemed to know where she was or what she was doing. Nobody ever saw her at restaurants or theatres except during the first few weeks after your departure. And then she was usually with that Dane chap--you know--the explorer. I wrote to her sisters making inquiries in behalf of myself and Francis Hargrave; but they either didn't know or wouldn't tell us where she was living. Neither would Dane. I didn't suppose he knew at the time; but he did. 

 "Well, what do you think has happened? Athalie Greensleeve is the most talked about girl in town! She has become the fashion, Clive. You hear her discussed at dinners, at dances, everywhere. 

 "Some bespectacled guy from Columbia University had an article about her in one of the recent magazines. Every paper has had something to say concerning her. They all disagree except on one point, --that Athalie Greensleeve is the most beautiful woman in New York. How does that hit you, Clive?

 "Well, here's the key to the box of tricks. I'll hand it to you now. Athalie has turned into a regular, genuine, out and out clairvoyant, trade-marked patented. And society with a big _S_ and science with a little _s_ are fighting to take her up and make a plaything of her. And the girl is making all kinds of money. 

 "Of course her beauty and pretty manners are doing most of it for her, but here's another point: rumour has it that she's perfectly sincere and honest in her business. 

 "How can she be, Clive? I ask you. Also I hand it to her press-agent. He's got every simp in town on the run. He knows his public. 

 "Well, the first time I met her she was dining with Dane again at the Arabesque. She seemed really glad to see me. There's a girl who remains unaffected and apparently unspoiled by her success. And she certainly has delightful manners. Dane glowered at me but Athalie made me sit down for a few minutes. Gad! I was that flattered to be seen with such a looker!

 "She told me how it began--she couldn't secure a decent position, and all her money was gone, when in came an old guy who had patronised the medium whose rooms she was living in. 

 "That started it. The doddering old rube insisted that Athalie take a crack at the crystal business; she took one, and landed him. And when he went out he left a hundred bones in his wake and a puddle of tears on the rug. 

 "She didn't tell it to me like this: she really fell for the old gentleman. But I could size him up for a come-on. The rural districts crawl with that species. Now what gets me, Clive, is this: Athalie seems to me to be one of the straightest ever. Of course she has changed a lot. She's cleverer, livelier, gayer, more engaging and bewitching than ever--and believe me she's some flirt, in a sweet, bewildering sort of way--so that you'd give your head to know how much is innocence and how much is art of a most delicious--and, sometimes, malicious kind. 

 "That's the girl. And that's all she is, just a girl, with all the softness and freshness and fragrance of youth still clinging to her. She's some peach-blossom, take it from uncle! And she is straight; or I'm a million miles away in the lockup. 

 "And now, granted she's morally straight, how _can_ she be square in business? Do you get me? It's past me. All I can think of is that, being straight, the girl feels herself that she's also square. 

 "Yet, if that is so, how can she fool others so neatly?

 "Listen, Clive: I was at a dance at the Faithorn's; tremendous excitement among pin-heads and débutantes! Athalie was expected, professionally. And sure enough, just before supper, in strolls a radiant, wonderful young thing making them all look like badly faded guinea-hens--and somehow I get the impression that she is receiving her hostess instead of the contrary. Talk about self-possession and absolute simplicity! She had 'em all on the bench. Happening to catch my eye she held out her hand with one of those smiles she can be guilty of--just plain assassination, Clive!--and I stuck to her until the pin-heads crowded me out, and the rubbering women got my shoulders all over paint. And now here's where she gets 'em. There's no curtained corner, no pasteboard trophies, no gipsy shawls and bangles, no lowering of lights, no closed doors, no whispers. 

 "Whoever asks her anything spooky she answers in a sweet and natural voice, as though replying to an ordinary question. She makes no mystery of it. Sometimes she can't answer, and she says so without any excuse or embarrassment. Sometimes her replies are vague or involved or even apparently meaningless. She admits very frankly that she is not always able to understand what her reply means. 

 "However she says enough--tells, reveals, discovers, offers sound enough advice--to make her _the_ plaything of the season. 

 "And it's a cinch that she scores more bull's eyes than blanks. I had a séance with her. Never mind what she told me. Anyway it was devilish clever, --and true as far as I knew. And I suppose the chances are good that the whole business will happen to me. Watch me. 

 "I think Athalie must have cleared a lot of money already. Mrs. Faithorn told me she gave her a cheque for five hundred that evening. And Athalie's private business must be pretty good because all the afternoon until five o'clock carriages and motors are coming and going. And you ought to see who's in 'em. Your prospective father-in-law was in one! Perhaps he wanted inside information about Dominion Fuel--that damn stock which has done a few things to me since I monkeyed with it. 

 "But you should see the old dragons and dowagers and death-heads, and frumps who go to see Athalie! And the younger married bunch, too. I understand one has to ask for an appointment a week ahead. 

 "So she must be making every sort of money. And yet she lives simply enough--sky floor of a new office-apartment building on Long Acre--hoisted way up in the air above everything. You look out and see nothing but city and river and bay and haze on every side as far as the horizon's circle. At night it's just an endless waste of electric lights. There's very little sound from the street roar below. It's still up there in the sky, and sunny; silent and snowy; quiet and rainy; noiseless and dark--according to the hours, seasons, and meteorological conditions, my son. And it's some joint, believe me, with the dark old mahogany trim and furniture and the dull rich effects in azure and gold; and the Beluch carpets full of sombre purple and dusky fire, and the white cat on the window-sill watching you put of its sapphire blue eyes. 

 "And Athalie! curled up on her deep, soft divan, nibbling sweetmeats and listening to a dozen men--for there are usually as many as that who drop in at one time or another after business is over, and during the evening, unless Athalie is dining out, which she often does, damn it!

 "Business hours for her begin at two o'clock in the afternoon; and last until five. She could make a lot more money than she does if she opened earlier. I told her this, once, but she said that she was determined to educate herself. 

 "And it seems that she studies French, Italian, German, piano and vocal music; and has some down-and-out old hen read with her. I believe her ambition is to take the regular Harvard course as nearly as possible. Some nerve! What?

 "Well, that's how her mornings go; and now I've given you, I think, a fair schedule of the life she leads. That fellow Dane hangs about a lot. So do Hargrave and Faithorn and young Allys and Arthur Ensart. And so do I, Clive; and a lot of others. Why, I don't know. I don't suppose we'd marry her; and yet it would not surprise me if any one of us asked her. My suspicions are that the majority of the men who go there _have_ asked her. We're a fine lot, we men. So damn fastidious. And then we go to sentimental pieces when we at last get it into our bone-heads that there is no other way that leads to Athalie except by marrying her. And we ask her. And _then_ we get turned down!

 "Clive, _that_ girl ought to be easy. To look at her you'd say she was made of wax, easily moulded, and fashioned to be loved, and to love. But, by God, I don't think it's in her to love. . . . For, if it were--good night. She'd have raised the devil in this world long ago. And some of us would have done murder before now. 

 "If I had not dined so copiously and so rashly I wouldn't write you all this. I'd write a page or two and lie to you, politely. And so I'll say this: I really do believe that it is in Athalie to love some man. And I believe, if she did love him, she'd love him in any way he asked her. He hasn't come along yet; that's all. But Oh! how he will be hated when he does--unless he is the marrying kind. And anyway he'll be hated. Because, however he does it, he'll get one of the loveliest girls this town ever set eyes on. And the rest of us will realise it then, and there will be some teeth-gnashing, believe me!--and some squirming. Because the worm that never dieth will continue to chew us one and all, and never, never let us forget that the girl no man of our sort could really condescend to marry, had been asked by every one of us in turn to marry him; and had declined. 

 "And I'll add this for my own satisfaction: the man who gets her, and doesn't marry her, will ultimately experience a biting from that same worm which will make our lacerations resemble the agreeable tickling of a feather. 

 "We're a rotten lot of cowards. And what hypocrites we are!

 "I saw Fontaine sending flowers to his wife. He'd been at Athalie's all the evening. There are only two occasions on which a man sends flowers to his wife; one of them is when he's in love with her. 

 "Aren't we the last word in scuts? Custom-ridden, habit-cursed, afraid, eternally afraid of something--of our own sort always, and of their opinions. And that offering of flowers when the man who sends them hopes to do something of which he is ashamed, or has already done it!

 "How I do run on! In _vino veritas_--there's some class to pickled truth! Here are olives for thought, red peppers for honesty, onions for logic--and cauliflower for constancy--and fifty-seven other varieties, Clive--all absent in the canned make-up of the modern man. 

 "'When you and I behind the veil have passed'--but they don't wear veils now; and now is our chance. 

 "We'll never take it. Hall-marks are our only guide. When absent we merely become vicious. We know what we want; we know what we ought to have; but we're too cowardly to go after it. And so are you. And so am I. "Yours-- "REEVE. "

CHAPTER XVIII

During that first year Athalie Greensleeve saw a great deal of NewYork society, professionally, and of many New York men, socially. 

But the plaything which society attempted to make of her she gentlybut adroitly declined to become. She herself drew this line wheneverit was necessary to draw it, never permitting herself to mistake thefundamental attitude of these agreeable and amicably demonstrativepeople toward her, or toward any girl who lived alone in New York andwho practised such a profession. 

Not among the people who employed her and who paid her lavishly for anevening's complacency; not among people who sought her at her ownplace during business hours for professional advice or for lighteramusement could she expect any other except professional recognition. 

And after a few months of wistful loneliness she came, gradually, todesire from these people nothing except what they gave. 

But there were some people she met during that first year's practiceof her new profession who seemed to be unimpressed by the popularbelief in such an awesome actuality as New York "society. " And some ofthese, oddly enough, were the descendants of those who, perhaps, hadformed part of the only real society the big, raw, sprawling cityever had. But that was long, long ago, in the day of the firstPresident. 

New York will always be spotted with the symptoms but will never againhave it. Paris has gone the same way. London is still flushed with it, Berlin hectic, Vienna fevered. But the days of a "society" as adistinct _ensemble_, with a logical reason for being, with authority, with functions, with offensive and defensive powers and fixedboundaries, is over forever; possibly never existed, certainly neverwill exist in the series of gregarious aggregations and segregationsknown to a perplexed and slightly amused world as the city of NewYork. 

For Athalie that first year of new interests and of unfamiliarsuccesses passed more rapidly than had any single month ever beforepassed in her life since the strenuous and ragged days of childhood. 

It was a year of novelty, of excitement, of self-development, and thedevelopment of interests as new as they had been unsuspected. 

Like a gaily illuminated pageant the processional passed before herwith its constantly changing surroundings, new faces, new voices, newideas, new motives. 

And the new faces were to be scanned and understood, the new voiceslistened to intently, the new ideas analysed, the new motives detectedand dissected. 

In drawing-rooms, in ballrooms, in boudoirs, new scenes constantlypresented themselves; one house was never like the next, one hostessnever resembled another; wealth itself was presented to her underinnumerable aspects ranging all the way from that false modesty andsmugness known as meekness, to fevered pretence, arrogance, and noisyaggressiveness. 

Wonderful school for a girl to learn in!--the gilded halls of whichwere eternally vexed and swept by the winds and whirlwinds of everyhuman passion. 

For here, under her still, clear scrutiny, was huddled humanityitself, unconsciously bent on self-revelation. And Athalie's verypresence amid assemblies ever shifting, ever renewed, was educatingher eyes and ears and intellect to an insight and a comprehension shehad never dreamed of. 

In some the supreme necessity for self-ventilation interested her; inothers, secretiveness hermetically sealed fascinated her. Motivesinterested or disinterested, sordid or noble; desires, aspirations, hopes, perplexities, --whatever a glance, a word, an attitude, asilence, suggested to her, fixed her attention, excited herintelligence to curiosity, and focussed her interest to a mentalconcentration. 

Out of which emerged deductions--curious fruits of logic, experience, instinct, intuitiveness, and of some extraneous perception, outside ofand independent of her own conscious and objective personality. 

But in one radical particular Athalie differed from any individual ofeither sex ever recorded in the history of hypnotic therapeutics or ofpsychic phenomena. 

For those two worlds in which we all dwell, the supraliminal or wakingworld, the transliminal, or sleeping world, were merged in this younggirl. 

The psychological fact that natural or induced sleep is necessary forextraneous or for auto-suggestion, did not exist for her. Her psychicqualities were natural and beautiful, as much a part of her objectiveas of her subjective life. Neither the trance induced by mesmerism orhypnotism, nor the less harmful slumber by induction, nor the sleep ofnature itself was necessary for the girl to find herself in rapportwith others or with her own higher personality--her superior spiritualself. Nor did her clairvoyance require trances; nor was sleep inothers necessary before she ventured suggestion. 

A celebrated physician who had been eager to meet her found herextremely interesting but rather beyond his ability to classify. 

How much of her he believed to be fraud might be suspected by what hesaid to her that evening in a corner of a very grand house on FifthAvenue:

"There is no such thing as a 'control'; there is no such thing as a'medium. ' No so-called medium has ever revealed anything that did notexist either in her own consciousness or in the consciousness of someother living human being. 

"Self-delusion induced by auto-suggestion accounts for the morerespectable victims of Spiritism. For Spiritism is a doctrine acceptedby many people of education, intelligence, refinement, and ofgenerally excellent judgment. 

"And it is a pity, because Spiritism is a bar to all realintellectual, material, moral, and spiritual progress. It thrives onlybecause it pretends to satisfy an intense human craving--the desireto re-establish personal relations with the dead. It never has donethis; it never will, Miss Greensleeve. And if you really believe ithas done this you are sadly and hopelessly mistaken. "

"But, " said Athalie, looking at him out of blue eyes the chiefestbeauty of which was their fearless candour, "I do not concern myselfwith what is called Spiritism--with trances, table-tipping, table-rapping, slate-writing, apparitions, reincarnations--withcabinets, curtains, darkened rooms, psychic circles. "

"You employ a crystal in your profession. "

"Yes. I need not. "

"Why do you do it, then?"

"Some clients ask for it. "

"And you see things in it?"

"Yes, " said the girl simply. 

"And when your clients do not demand a crystal-reading?"

"I can see perfectly well without it--when I can see clearly at all. "

"Into the future?"

"Sometimes. "

"The past, too, of course. "

"Not always. "

She fascinated the non-scientific side of this famous physician; heinterested her intensely. 

"Do you know, " she ventured with a faint smile, "that you are reallyquite as psychically endowed as I am?"

His handsome, sanguine features flushed deeply, but he smiled inappreciation. 

"Not in the manner you so saucily imply, Miss Greensleeve, " he saidgaily. "My work is sound, logical, reasonable, and based onfundamental truths capable of being proven. I never saw an apparitionin my life--and believed that it was really there!"

"Oh! So you _have_ seen an apparition?"

"None that could have really existed independently of my own vision. In other words it wouldn't have been there at all if I hadn't supposedI had seen it. "

"You _did_ suppose so?"

"I knew perfectly well that I didn't see it. I didn't even think I sawit. "

"But you _saw_ it?"

"I imagined I did, and at the same time I knew I didn't. "

"Yes, " she said quietly, "you did see it, Dr. Westland. You have seenit more than once. You will see it again. "

A heavier colour dyed his face; he started impatiently as though tocheck her--as though to speak; and did not. 

She said: "If what I say is distasteful to you, please stop me. " Shewaited a moment; then, as he evinced no desire to check or interrupther: "I _am_ very diffident about saying this to you--to a man sojustly celebrated--pre-eminent in the greatest of all professions. Iam so insignificant in comparison, so unimportant, so ignorant whereyou are experienced and learned. 

"But may I say to you that nothing dies? I am not referring to apossible spiritual world inhabited perhaps by souls. I mean that here, on this earth, all around us, nothing that has ever lived reallydies. . . . Is what I say distasteful to you?"

He offered no reply. 

"Because, " she said in a low voice, "if I say anything more it wouldconcern you. And what you saw. . . . For what you saw was alive, andreal--as truly living as you and I are. It is nothing to wonder at, nothing to trouble or perplex you, to see clearly--anybody--you haveever--_loved_. "

He looked up at her in a silence so strained, so longing, so intense, that she felt the terrific tension. 

"Yes, " she said, "you saw clearly and truly when you saw--her. "

"Who? in God's name!"

"Need I tell you, Dr. Westland?"

No, she had no need to tell him. His wife was dead. But it was not hiswife he had seen so often in his latter years. 

No, she had no need to tell him. 

 * * * * *

Athalie had never been inclined to care for companions of her own sex. As a child she had played with boys, preferring them. Few womenappealed to her as qualified for her friendship--only one or two hereand there and at rare intervals seemed to her sufficiently interestingto cultivate. And to the girl's sensitive and shy advances, here andthere, some woman responded. 

Thus she came to know and to exchange occasional social amenities withAdele Millis, a youthful actress, with Rosalie Faithorn, a handsomegirl born to a formal social environment, but sufficiently independentto explore outside of it and snap her fingers at the opinions of thosepeeping over the bulwarks to see what she was doing. 

Also there was Peggy Brooks, a fascinating, breezy, capable youngcreature who was Dr. Brooks to many, and Peggy to very few. And therewere one or two others, like Nina Grey and Jeanne Delauny and AnneRandolph. 

But of men there would have been no limit and no end had Athalie notlearned very early in the game how to check them gently but firmly;how to test, pick, discriminate, sift, winnow, and choose those to beadmitted to her rooms after the hours of business had ended. 

Of these the standards differed, so that she herself scarcely knew whysuch and such a one had been chosen--men, for instance, like CecilReeve and Arthur Ensart--perhaps even such a man as James Allys, 3rd. Captain Dane, of course, had been a foregone conclusion, and JohnLyndhurst was logical enough; also W. Grismer, and the jaunty, obeseMr. Welter, known in sporting circles as Helter Skelter Welter, andmore briefly and profanely as Hel. His running mate, Harry Ferris hadbeen included. And there was a number of others privileged to driftinto the rooms of Athalie Greensleeve when she chose to be at home toanybody. 

From Clive she heard nothing: and she wrote to him no more. Of him shedid hear from time to time--mere scraps of conversation caught, a wordor two volunteered, some careless reference, perhaps, perhaps somescrap of intentional information or some comment deliberate if not atrifle malicious. 

But to all who mentioned him in her presence she turned a serene faceand unclouded eyes. On the surface she was not to be read concerningwhat she thought of Clive Bailey--if indeed she thought about him atall. 

Meanwhile he had married Winifred Stuart in London, where, itappeared, they had taken a house for the season. All sorts ofhonourables and notables and nobles as well as the resident andvisiting specimens of a free and sovereign people had been bidden tothe wedding. And had joyously repaired thither--the bride beingfabulously wealthy and duly presented at Court. 

The American Ambassador was there with the entire staff of theEmbassy; also a king in exile, several famished but receptive dukesand counts and various warriors out of jobs--all magnetised by thesubtle radiations from the world's most powerful loadstone, money. 

They said that Mrs. Bailey, Sr. , was very beautiful and impressive ina gown that hypnotised the peeresses--or infuriated them--nobodyseemed to know exactly which. 

Cecil Reeve, lounging on the balcony by the open window one Mayevening, said to Hargrave--and probably really unconscious thatAthalie could hear him if she cared to: "Well, he got her allright--or rather his mother got her. When he wakes up he'll be sickenough of her millions. "

Hargrave said: "She's a cold-blooded little proposition. I've knownWinifred Stuart all my life, and I never knew her to have any impulseexcept a fishy one. "

"Cold as a cod, " nodded Cecil. "Merry times ahead for Clive. "

And on another occasion, later in the summer, somebody said in thecool dusk of the room:

"It's true that the Bailey Juniors are living permanently in England. I saw Clive in Scotland when I was fishing out Banff way. He saysthey're remaining abroad indefinitely. "

Some man's voice asked how Clive was looking. 

"Not very fit; thin and old. I was with him several times that monthand I never saw him crack a smile. That's not like him, you know. "

"What is it? His wife?"

"Well, I fancy it lies somewhere between his mother and his wife--thispre-glacial freeze-up that's made a bally mummy of him. "

And still again, and in the tobacco-scented dusk of Athalie's room, and once more from a man who had just returned from abroad:

"I kept running into Clive everywhere. He seems to haunt thecontinent, turning up like a ghost here and there; and believe me helooks the part of the lonely spook. "

"Where's his Missis?"

"They've chucked the domestic. Didn't you know?"

"Divorced?"

"No. But they don't get on. What man could with that girl? So poor oldClive is dawdling around the world all alone, and his wife'sentertainments are the talk of London, and his mother has become piousand is building a chapel for herself to repose in some day when thecards go against her in the jolly game. "

 * * * * *

The cards went against her in the game that autumn. 

Athalie had been writing to her sister Catharine, and had risen fromher desk to find a stick of sealing-wax, when, as she turned to gotoward her bedroom, she saw Clive's mother coming toward her. 

Never but once before had she seen Mrs. Bailey--that night at theRegina--and, for the first time in her life, she recoiled before sucha visitor. A hot, proud colour flared in her cheeks as she drewquietly aside and stood with averted head to let her pass. 

But Clive's mother gazed at her gently, wistfully, lingering as shepassed the girl in the passage-way. And Athalie, turning her headslowly to look after her, saw a quiet smile on her lips as she wenther silent way; and presently was no longer there. Then the girlcontinued on her own way in search of the sealing-wax; but she wasmoving uncertainly now, one arm outstretched, feeling along thefamiliar walls and furniture, half-blinded with her tears. 

 * * * * *

[Illustration: "Mrs. Bailey, Jr. , looked pale and pretty sittingthere. "]

So the chapel fulfilled its functions. 

It was a very ornamental private chapel. Mrs. Bailey, Sr. , had had itpretty well peppered with family crests and quarterings, authentic andimaginary. 

Mrs. Bailey, Jr. , looked pale and pretty sitting there, the Englishsunlight filtered through stained glass; the glass also was thoroughlypeppered with insignia of the House of Bailey. Rich carving, richcolouring, rich people!--what more could sticklers demand for anyexclusive sanctuary where only the best people received the Body ofChrist, and where God would meet nobody socially unknown. 

Clive arrived from Italy after the funeral. The meeting between himand his wife was faultless. He hung about the splendid country placefor a while, and spent much time inside the chapel, and also outside, where he directed the planting of some American evergreens, hemlock, spruce, and white pine. 

But the aromatic perfume of familiar trees was subtly tearing him totatters; and there came a day when he could no longer endure it. 

His young wife was playing billiards with Lord Innisbrae, knownintimately as Cinders, such a languid and burnt out young man was he, with his hair already white, and every lineament seared with the firesof revels long since sunken into ashes. 

He watched them for a while, his hands clenched where they rested inhis coat pockets, the lean muscles in his cheeks twitching atintervals. 

When Innisbrae took himself off, Winifred still lounged gracefullyalong the billiard table taking shots with any ball that lay for her. And Clive looked on, absent-eyed, the flat jaw muscles working atintervals. 

"Well?" she asked carelessly, laying her cue across the table. 

"Nothing. . . . I think I'll clear out to-morrow. "

"Oh. "

She did not even inquire where he was going. For that matter he didnot know, except that there was one place he could not go--home; theonly place he cared to go. 

He had already offered her divorce--thinking of Innisbrae, or of someof the others. But she did not want it. It was, perhaps, not in her tocare enough for any man to go through that amount of trouble. Besides, Their Majesties disapproved divorce. And for this reason alone nothingwould have induced her to figure in proceedings certain to exclude herfrom one or two sets. 

"Anything I can do for you before I leave?" he asked, dully. 

It appeared that there was nothing he could do for his young wifebefore he wandered on in the jolly autumn sunshine. 

So the next morning he cleared out. Which proceeding languidlyinterested Innisbrae that evening in the billiard-room. 

 * * * * *

That winter Clive got hurt while pig-sticking in Morocco, being but anindifferent spear. During convalescence he read "Under Two Flags, " andapproved the idea; but when he learned that the Spahi cavalry was notrecruiting Americans, and when, a month later, he discovered howmuch romance did not exist in either the First or Second ForeignLegions, he no longer desired dangers incognito under the tri-colouror under the standard bearing the open hand. 

[Illustration: "During convalescence he read 'Under Two Flags' andapproved the idea. "]

Some casual wanderer through the purlieus of science whom he met inBrindisi, induced him to go to Sumatra where orchids and ornithopteraare the game. But he acquired only a perfectly new species of fever, which took six months to get over. 

He convalesced at leisure all the way from Australia to Cape Town; andwould have been all right; but somebody shot at somebody else oneevening, and got Clive. So it was several months more before hearrived in India, and the next year before he had enough of China. 

But Clive had seen many things in those two years and had learnedfairly well the lesson of his own unimportance in a world which missesno man, neither king nor clown, after the dark curtain falls andsatiated humanity shuffles home to bed. 

He saw a massacre--or the remains of it--where fifteen thousand yellowmen and one white priest lay dead. He saw Republican China, 40, 000strong, move out after the banditti, shouldering its modern rifles, while its regimental music played "Rosie O'Grady" in quick march time. He saw the railway between Hankow and Pekin swarming with White Wolf'sbloody pack, limping westward from the Honan-Anhui border withdripping fangs. He peered into the stinking wells of Honan where womenwere cutting their own throats. He witnessed the levity of Lhasapriests and saw their grimy out-thrust hands clutching for tipsbeside their prayer-wheels. 

In India he gazed upon the degradation of woman and the unspeakablebestiality of man till that vile and dusty hell had sickened him tothe soul. 

Back into Europe he drifted; and instantly and everywhere appeared theawful Yankee--shooting wells in Hungary, shooting craps in Monaco, digging antiques in Greece, digging tunnels in Servia, --everywhere theYankee, drilling, bridging, constructing, exploring, pushing, arguing, quarrelling, insisting, telegraphing, gambling, touring, over-runningolder and better civilisations than his own crude Empire where he hasnothing to learn from anybody but the Almighty--and then only when hecondescends to ask for advice on Sunday. 

And Clive, nevertheless, longed with a longing that made him sick, for"God's country" where all that is worst and best on earth still boilsin the vast and seething cauldron of a continent in the making. Therebubbles the elemental broth, dregs, scum, skimmings, residue, by-products, tailings, smoking corruption above the slowly forming andincorruptible matrix in its depths where lies imbedded, and evergrowing, the Immam, the Hope of the World--gem indestructible, pearlbeyond price. Difficilia quae pulchra. 

And once, Clive had almost set out for home; and then, grimly, turnedaway toward the southern continent of the hemisphere. 

In Lima he heard of an expedition fitting out to search for the lostAmericans, Cromer and Page, and for the Hungarian Seljan. And thatsame evening he met Captain Dane. 

They looked at each other very carefully, and then shook hands. Clivesaid: "If you want a handy man in camp, I'd like to go. "

"Come on, " said Dane, briefly. 

Later, looking over together some maps in Dane's rooms, the big blondsoldier of fortune glanced up at the younger man, and saw a lean, bronzed visage clamped mute by a lean bronzed jaw; but he also saw twodark eyes fixed on him in the fierce silence of unuttered inquiry. After a moment Dane said very quietly:

"Yes, she was well, and I think happy, when I left New York. . . . Howlong is it since you have heard from her?"

"Three years. "

"Three years, " mused Dane, gazing into space out of his slitted eyesof arctic blue; "yes, that's some little time. Bailey. . . . She iswell--I think I said that. . . . And very prosperous, and greatly admired. . . And happy--I believe. "

The other waited. 

Dane picked up a linen map, looked at it, fiddled with the corner. Then, carelessly: "She is not married, " he said. . . . "Here's theHuallaga River as I located it four years ago. Seljan and O'Higginswere making for it, I believe. . . . That red crayon circle over theremarks the habitat of the Uta fly. It's worse than the Tsetse. Ifanybody is hunting death--_esta aquí_!. . . Here is the Putumayodistrict. Hell lies up here, just above it. . . . Here's Iquitos, andhere lies Para, three thousand miles away. . . . Were you going to saysomething?"

But if Clive had anything to say he seemed to find no words to say it. And he only folded his arms on the table's edge and looked down at thestained and crumpled map. 

"It will take us about a year, " remarked Dane. 

Clive nodded, but his eye involuntarily sought the irregular redcircle where trouble of all sorts might be conveniently ended by aperfectly respectable Act of God. 

 * * * * *

Actus Dei nemini facit injuriam. 

CHAPTER XIX

There was a slight fragrance of tobacco in the room mingling with thefresh, spring-like scent of lilacs--great pale clusters of themdecorated mantel and table, and the desk where Athalie sat writing toCaptain Dane in the semi-dusk of a May evening. 

Here and there dim figures loomed in the big square room; the gracefulshape of a young girl at the piano detached itself from the gloom; aman or two dawdled by the window, vaguely silhouetted against thelilac-tinted sky. 

Athalie wrote on: "I had not supposed you had landed until Cecil Reevetold me this evening. If you are not too tired to come, please do so. Do you realise that you have been away over a year? Do you realisethat I am now twenty-four years old, and that I am growing older everyminute? You had better hasten, then, because very soon I shall be tooold to believe your magic fairy tales of field and flood and all yourwonder lore of travel in those distant golden lands I dream of. 

"Who was your white companion? Cecil tells me that you said you hadone. Bring him with you this evening; you'll need corroboration, Ifear. And mostly I desire to know if you are well, and next I wish tohear whether you did really find the lost city of Yhdunez. "

A maid came to take the note to Dane's hotel, the Great Eastern, andCecil Reeve looked up and laid aside his cigarette. 

"Come on, Athalie, " he said, "tell Peg to turn on one of thosePeruvian dances. "

Peggy Brooks at the piano struck a soft sensuous chord or two, butFrancis Hargrave would not have it, and he pulled out the properphonographic record and cranked the machine while Cecil rolled up theBeluch rugs. 

The somewhat muffled air that exuded from the machine was the lovelyMiraflores, gay, lively, languorous, sad by turns--and much danced atthe moment in New York. 

A new spring moon looked into the room from the west where likeelegant and graceful phantoms the dancers moved, swayed, glided, swungback again with sinuous grace into the suavely delicate courtship ofthe dance. 

The slender feet and swaying figure of Athalie seemed presently tobewitch the other couple, for they drew aside and stood togetherwatching that exquisite incarnation of youth itself, gliding, bending, floating in the lilac-scented, lilac-tinted dusk under the young moon. 

The machine ran down in the course of time, and Hargrave went over tore-wind it, but Peggy Brooks waved him aside and seated herself at thepiano, saying she had enough of Hargrave. 

She was still playing the quaint, sweet dance called "The Orchid, " andHargrave was leaning on the piano beside her watching Cecil and Athaliedrifting through the dusk to the music's rhythm, when the door openedand somebody came in. 

Athalie, in Cecil's arms, turned her head, looking back over hershoulder. Dane loomed tall in the twilight. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed; "I am so glad!"--slipping out of Cecil's arms andwheeling on Dane, both hands outstretched. 

The others came up, also, with quick, gay greetings, and after amoment or two of general and animated chatter Athalie drew Dane into acorner and made room for him beside her on the sofa. Peggy had turnedon the music machine again and, snubbing Hargrave, was alreadybeginning the Miraflores with Cecil Reeve. 

Athalie said: "_Are_ you well? That's the first question. "

He said he was well. 

"And did you find your lost city?"

He said, quietly: "We found Yhdunez. "

"We?"

"I and my white companion. "

"Why didn't you bring him with you this evening?" she asked. "Did youtell him I invited him?"

"Yes. "

"Oh. . . . Couldn't he come?"

And, as he made no answer: "Couldn't he?" she repeated. "Who is he, anyway--"

"Clive Bailey. "

She sat motionless, looking at him, the question still parting herlips. Dully in her ears the music sounded. The pallor which hadstricken her face faded, grew again, then waned in the faint return ofcolour. 

Dane, who was looking away from her rather fixedly, spoke first, stillnot looking at her: "Yes, " he said in even, agreeable tones, "Clivewas my white companion. . . . I gave him your note to read. . . . He did notseem to think that he ought to come. "

"Why?" Her lips scarcely formed the word. 

"--As long as you were not aware of whom you were inviting. . . . Therehad been some misunderstanding between you and him--or so Igathered--from his attitude. "

A few moments more of silence; then she was fairly prepared. 

"Is he well?" she asked coolly. 

"Yes. He had one of those nameless fevers, down there. He's coming outof it all right. "

"Is he--his appearance--changed?"

"He's changed a lot, judging from the photographs he showed me takenthree or four years ago. He's changed in other ways, too, I fancy. "

"How?"

"Oh, I only surmise it. One hears about people--and theircharacteristics. . . . Clive is a good deal of a man. . . . I never had abetter companion. . . . There were hardships--tight corners--we had a badtime of it for a while, along the Andes. . . . And the natives aretreacherous--every one of them. . . . He was a good comrade. No man cansay more than that, Miss Greensleeve. That includes about everything Iever heard of--when a man proves to be a good comrade. And there is noplace on earth where a man can be so thoroughly tried out as in thatsunless wilderness. "

"Is he stopping at the Great Eastern?"

"Yes. I believe he's going back on Saturday. "

She looked up sharply: "Back? Where?"

"Oh, not to Peru. Only to England, " said Dane, forcing a laugh. 

After a moment she said: "And he wouldn't come. . . . It is only threeblocks, isn't it?"

"It wasn't the distance, of course--"

"No; I remember. He thought I might not have cared to see him. "

"That was it. "

Another silence; then in a lower voice which sounded a little hard:"His wife is living in England, I suppose. "

"She is living--I don't know where. "

"Have they--children?"

"I believe not. "

She remained silent for a while, then, coolly enough:

"I suppose he is sailing on Saturday to see his wife. "

"I think not, " said Dane, gravely. 

"You say he is sailing for England. "

"Yes, but I imagine it's because he has nowhere else to go. "

"Why doesn't he stay here?"

"I don't know. "

"He is American. His friends live here. Why doesn't he remain here?"

Dane shook his head: "He's a restless man, Miss Greensleeve. That kindof man can't stay anywhere. He's got to go on--somewhere. "

"I see. "

There came a pause; then they talked of other things for a while untilother people began to drop in, Arthur Ensart, Anne Randolph, and youngWelter--Helter Skelter Welter, always, metaphorically speaking, redolent of saddle leather and reeking of sport. His theme happened tobe his own wonderful trap record, that evening; and the fat, good-humoured, ardent young man prattled on about "unknown angles, "and "incomers, " until Dane, who had been hunting jaguars and cannibalsalong the unknown Andes, concealed his yawns with difficulty. 

Ensart insisted on turning on the lights and starting the machine; andpresently Anne Randolph and Peggy were dancing the Miraflores withCecil and Ensart. 

Welter had cornered Hargrave and Dane and was telling them all aboutit, and Athalie went slowly through the passage-way and into her ownbedroom, where she stood quite motionless for a while, looking at thefloor. Hafiz, dozing on the bed, awoke, gazed at his mistress gravely, yawned, and went to sleep again. 

[Illustration: "His theme happened to be his own wonderful traprecord, that evening. "]

Presently she dropped onto a chair by her little ivory-tinted LouisXVI desk. There was a telephone there and a directory. 

When she had decided to open the latter, and had found the number shewanted, she unhooked the receiver and called for it. 

After a few minutes somebody said that he was not in his room, butthat he was being paged. 

She waited, dully attentive to the far noises which sounded over thewire; 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 tostrike her speechless. And it was only when he spoke again, inquiringly, that she said in a low voice: "Clive!"

"Yes. . . . Is--is it _you_!"

"Yes. "

And in the next heavily pulsating moment her breath came back with herself-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 ofyour 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--ifyou 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 atherself. From the front room came the sound of the dance music, aripple or two of laughter. Welter's eager voice singing still of armsand the man. 

Long she stood there, motionless, studying herself, so that, when themoment came that was coming now so swiftly upon her, she might knowwhat she appeared like in his eyes. 

All, so far, was sheer, fresh youth with her; her eyes had not losttheir dewy beauty; the splendour of her hair remained unchanged. Therewere no lines, nothing lost, nothing hardened in contour. Clear andsmooth her snowy chin; perfect, so far, the lovely throat: nothing ofblemish 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 atransformation was beginning somewhere deep within her--a newcharacter emerging--a personality unfamiliar, disturbing, as thoughnot entirely to be depended on. 

And in the mirror she saw her lips, scarcely parted, more vivid thanshe had ever seen them, and her eyes two wells of azure splendour; sawthe 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 theastonished 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 towardthe living-room. 

In her heart a voice was crying, crying: "Let the world see so thatthere may be no mistake! This man who was friendless is my friend. Letthere be no mistake that he is more or less than that. " But she onlysaid with a quick smile, and offering her hand: "I am so glad to seeyou, Clive. I am so glad you came. " And stood, still smiling, lookinginto the lean, sun-tanned face, under the concentrated eyes of herfriends around them both. 

For a second it was difficult for him to speak; but only she saw theslight quiver of the mouth. 

"You are--quite the same, " he said; "no more beautiful, no less. Timeis not the essence of your contract with Venus. "

"Oh, Clive! And I am twenty-four! Tell me--_are_ you a triflegrey!--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 stillrather full of bacilli, Mr. Bailey? And would you mind if I took adrop of blood from you some day?"

"Not at all, " said Clive, laughing away the strain that still fetteredhis speech a little. "You may have quarts if you like, Dr. Brooks. "

"How was the shooting?" inquired Welter, bustling up like a judge at abench-show when the awards are applauded. 

"Oh--there was shooting--of course, " said Clive with an involuntaryand half-humorous glance at Captain Dane. 

"Good nigger hunting, " nodded Dane. "Unknown angles, Welter. You oughtto run down there. "

"Any incomparable Indian maidens wearing nothing but ornaments ofgold?" 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 sothat he forgot what he had meant to say, and stood without a word amidthe chatter that rose and ebbed about him. 

Anne Randolph and Arthur Ensart had joined hands, their restless feetsketching the first steps of the Miraflores; and presently somebodycranked the machine. 

"Come on!" said Peggy imperiously to Dane; "you've been too long inthe 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 withoutembarrassment 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 expectednothing less from her. 

Rosalie continued to smoke and to inspect him critically: "You're abit 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 youngmen 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--ifyou 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. Theprettiest woman I ever saw, he side-stepped in Lima. And even thenevery 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 youplease, Dane. "

"Ask Clive, " he called back. 

Athalie, still smiling, said: "Shall I ask you, Clive?"

"Don't ask that South American adventurer anything, " interruptedCecil, "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 thecharming music lasted, --Clive among the others, standing a littleapart, lean, erect, his dark gaze fixed. 

She came back to him after the dance, delicately flushed and a triflebreathless. 

"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 do _something_, 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 newadministration 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 athim, and remained watching this new, sun-browned, lean-visaged versionof the boy she had first known and the boyish man who had gone out ofher life four years before. 

"Would you like to see Hafiz?" she asked. 

He turned quickly toward her: "Yes, " he said, the ghost of a smilelining the corners of his eyes. 

"He's on my bed, asleep. Will you come?"

Slipping along the edges of the dancing floor and stepping daintilyover the rolled rugs, she led the way through the passage to her roseand ivory bedroom, Clive following. 

Hafiz opened his eyes and looked across at them from the pillow, stoodup, his back rounding into a furry arch; yawned, stretched first onehind leg and then the other, and finally stood, flexing his forepawsand uttering soft little mews of recognition and greeting. 

"I wonder, " she said, smilingly, "if you have any idea how much Hafizhas 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 theappreciative head of Hafiz, dropping inert by his side, and he stoodlooking 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 eachother, 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 notspeak, and stood savagely controlling his quivering lip with histeeth. 

"I just want you as I had you, Clive--my first boy friend--who turnedaside from the bright highway of life to speak to a ragged child. . . . Ihave 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 ourfriendship is blameless? I am not taking you from _her_, am I? I amnot taking anything away from her, am I?

"I have not always played squarely with men. I don't think it ispossible. They have hoped for--various eventualities. I have notencouraged 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--ifyou come 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 evenhis thoughts just yet; he stood with his lean head turned partly fromher, motionless as a rock, in the desperate grip of self-mastery, crushing the slender hands that alternately yielded and clasped hisown. 

"Oh, Clive, " she said, "Clive! You don't know--you never can know whatloneliness means to such a woman as I am. . . . I thought once--manytimes--that I could never again speak to you--that I never again couldcare to hear about you. . . . But I was wrong, pitifully wrong. 

"It was not jealousy of her, Clive; you know that, don't you? Therehad never been any question of such sentiment between you andme--excepting once--one night--that last night when you saidgood-bye--and you were very much overwrought. 

"So it was not jealousy. . . . It was loneliness. I wanted you, even ifyou 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 andme?. . . Besides, if such an ephemeral thought ever drifted through myidle mind, I knew on reflection that you and I could never be destinedto marry, even if such sentiment ever inclined us. I knew it andaccepted it without troubling to analyse the reasons. I had no desireto invade your world--less desire now that I have penetrated itprofessionally and know a little about it. 

"It was not jealousy, Clive. "

He swung around, bent swiftly and pressed his lips to her hands. Andshe abandoned them to him with all her heart and soul in anoverwhelming passion of purest emotion. 

"I couldn't stand it, Clive, " she said, "when I heard you were at yourhotel alone. . . . And all the unhappiness I had heard of--your marriedlife--I--I couldn't stand it; I couldn't let you remain there allalone!

"And when you came here to-night, and I saw in your face how thesefour years had altered you--how it had been with you--I wanted youback--to let you know I am sorry--to let you know I care for the manwho has known unhappiness, as I cared for the boy who had known onlyhappiness. 

"Do you understand, Clive? Do you, dear? Don't you see what I see?--aman standing all alone by a closed door behind which his hopes liedead. 

"Clive, that is where you came to me, offering sympathy andfriendship. That is where I come to you in my turn, offering whateveryou care to take of me--if there is in me anything that may comfortyou. "

He bent and laid his lips to her hands again, remaining so, curbedbefore her; and she looked down at his lean and powerful head andshoulders, and saw the hint of grey edging the crisp, dark hair, andthe dark stain of tropic suns, that never could be effaced. 

So far no passion, other than innocent, had she ever known for anyman, --nothing of lesser emotion, nothing physical. And, had shethought of it at all she must have believed that it was that way withher still. For no thought concerning it disturbed her tender, tremulous happiness with this man beside her who still held her handsimprisoned against his breast. 

And presently they were seated on the couch at the foot of her bed, excited, garrulous, exchanging gossip, confidences, ideas longunuttered, desires long unexpressed. 

Under the sweeping flashlight of her intelligence the four years ofhis absence were illuminated, and passed swiftly in review for hisinspection. Of loneliness, perplexity, grief, deprivation, she madelight, laughingly, shrugging her smooth young shoulders. 

"All that was yesterday, " she said. "There is only to-day, now--untilto-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 togo--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 tobe--there. "

"Then I am not robbing her of you?--I am not depriving her of thetiniest 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. Andthat 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 ifshe could understand me and let me be your friend, --that would bewonderful, Clive!"

He remained silent, thinking of Winifred and of her quality of"understanding"; and of the miserable matter of business which hadmade 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 consciousthat he had never cared for any woman except Athalie. All else hadbeen but a vague realisation of axioms and theorems, --of premises thathad rusted into his mind, --of facts which he accepted asself-evident, --such as the immutable fact that he couldn't marryAthalie, 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 buryAthalie out of sight forever. 

His parents had so reasoned with him; his mother continued theinculcation after his father's death. And then Winifred and her mothercame floating into his cosmic ken like two familiar planets. 

For a while, far away in interstellar space, Athalie glimmered like afading comet. Then orbits narrowed; adhesion and cohesion followedcollision; the bi-maternal pressure never lessened. And he gave up. 

Of this he was thinking now as he sat there in her rose and ivoryroom, gazing at the grey silk carpet underfoot; and all the whileexquisitely, vitally conscious of Athalie--of her nearness to him--totears at moments--to that happiness akin to tears. 

"Clive, do you remember--" and she breathlessly recalled some gay andlong forgotten incident of that never to be forgotten winter togetherwhen the theatres and restaurants knew them so well, and the day-worldand night-world both credited them with being to each other everythingthat they had never been. 

"Where will you live?" she asked. 

He said: "You know I have sold our old house. . . . I don't know--" Helooked at her gravely and ashamed: "I think I will take your oldapartment. "

She blushed to her hair: "Were you annoyed with me because I left it?"

"It hurt. "

"But Clive!--I _couldn't_ remain, --after you had become engaged tomarry. "

"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 oflittle consideration . . . Who paid herself, philosophically, for whatshe had lost. . . . Like a man's mistress after the inevitable break hascome--"

"Don't say that!"

She shrugged her pretty shoulders: "I am a woman old enough to knowwhat the world is, and what women do in it sometimes; and what mendo. . . . 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. Andwhen the sympathy which must exist between giver and receiver ends, then also possession ends, for me. . . . Why do you look at me soseriously?"

But he dared not say. And presently she went on, happily, and atrandom: "Of course I kept Hafiz and the first thing you ever gaveme--the gun-metal wrist-watch. Here it is--" leaning across him andpulling out a drawer in her dresser. "I wear it every day when I amout. It keeps excellent time. Isn't it a darling, Clive?"

He examined it in silence, nodded, and returned it to her. And shelaid it away again, saying:

"So you think of taking my old apartment? How odd! And how verysentimental 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 theclosets--"

"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 bureausand 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 frightfullysentimental?"

"Is it?" he said, trying to laugh. "Well that snivelling and falsesort of sentiment is about the best that such men as I know how tocomfort 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; andare comforted. . . . I made out of that place a smug little monument toyou--while you were living alone and almost penniless in a shabbyrooming house on--"

"Oh, Clive! You didn't know that! And anyway it would not have alteredthings for me. "

"I suppose not. . . . Well, Athalie; you are very wonderful tome--merciful, forgiving, nobly blind--God!" he muttered under hisbreath, "I don't understand how you can be so generous and gentle withme, --I don't, indeed. "

"If you only knew how easy it is to care for you, " she said with thatsweet 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 wittyat 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 issaid about us, I don't. " And she looked up at him with the mostengaging candour. 

"I'm only thinking about you, Athalie--"

"Don't bother to, Clive. Pretty nearly everything has been said aboutme, I fancy. And, unless it might damage you I'll go anywhere withyou, do anything with you. _I_ know that I'm all right; and I care nolonger 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 popularactress may have. Her friends are not disturbed by her reputation; thepublic 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 amnot, --whatever he and his brothers and sisters may imagine. "

"So why should I care?--as long as the public affords me an honestliving! _I_ know 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, --notthat ignorance and stupidity which is called innocence, but innocencebased on a worldly wisdom which neither her intelligence nor herexperience permitted her to escape. 

After a short silence he bent forward and laid one hand on a crystalwhich stood clasped by a tiny silver tripod on the table beside herbed. 

"So you did develop your--qualities--after all, Athalie. "

"Yes. . . . It happened accidentally. " And she told him about the oldgentleman who had come to her rooms when she stood absolutelypenniless and at bay before the world. 

After she had ended he asked her whether she had ever again seen hisfather. 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 willcome to me--"

"Thank you, dear . . . You are wonderful--wonderfully good--"

"Oh, Clive, I'm not! I'm careless, pleasure-loving, inclined tolaziness--and even to dissipation--"

"You!"

"Within certain limits, " she added demurely. "I dance a lot: I know Ismoke too much and drink too much champagne. I'm no angel, Clive. Iwon altogether too much at auction last night; ask Jim Allys. Andreally, if I didn't have a mind and feel a desire to cultivate it, I'dbe the limit I suppose. " She laughed and tossed her chin; and the pureloveliness of her child-like throat was suddenly and exquisitelyrevealed. 

"I'm too intelligent to go wrong I suppose, " she said. "I adorecultivating my mental faculties even more than I like to misbehave. "She added a trifle shyly. "I speak French and Italian and German verynicely. 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 hauntedby the vision of all that he had denied his manhood and this girl'syoung womanhood--all that he had lost, irretrievably and forever onthat 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--tome. "

CHAPTER XX

A May afternoon was drawing to a close; the last appointment had beenmade for the morrow, and the last client for the day still lingeredwith Athalie where she sat with her head propped thoughtfully on oneslim hand, her gaze concentrated on the depths of the crystal sphere. 

After a long silence she said: "You need not be anxious. Her wirelessapparatus is out of order. They are repairing it. . . . It was a badstorm. "

"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 isover. . . . Yes, the _Empress of Borneo_ proceeds. The _Empress ofFormosa_ will 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 thecrystal and smiled reassuringly at him. He was a stocky, red-faced, trim, middle-aged man; but his sanguine visage bore the haggardimprint of sleepless nights, and the edges of his teeth had bitten hisunder lip raw. 

Athalie glanced carelessly at the crystal, then nodded. 

"Yes, " she said patiently. "I am sure of it, Mr. Clements. The_Empress of Formosa_ will dock on Monday--about--nine in the morning. She will be reported by wireless from the _Empress of Borneo_ thisevening. . . . They have been relaying it from the Delaware Capes. . . . There will be an extra edition of the evening papers. You may dismissall 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 foryou. . . . It can't hurt you anyway--" he checked himself, stammering, and the deep colour stained him from his brow to his thick, powerfulneck as he stood fumbling with his portfolio. 

But Athalie smilingly put aside the recompense he offered: "It is toomuch, 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: but _you_ are not. My refusal of payment will encourageyou to confidence in me. You have been ill with anxiety, Mr. Clements. I know what that means. And now your bruised mind cannot realise thatthe trouble is ended--that there is no reason now for the deadly fearthat has racked you. But everything will help you now--what I havetold you--and my refusal of payment until your own eyes corroborateeverything I have said. "

"I believe you now, " he said, staring at her. "I wish to offer you inbehalf 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 andwalked swiftly and silently to the open window. 

"There is your extra, " she said pleasantly. "The _Empress of Borneo_has been reported. "

 * * * * *

She was still lying on the couch beside the crystal, idly watchingwhat scenes were drifting, mist-like, through its depths--scenesvague, and faded in colour, and of indefinite outline; for, like themonotone of a half-heard conversation which does not concern alistener 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 endunder her dark blue dreaming eyes. 

She had turned and dropped her head back upon the silken pillows whenhis signal sounded in telegraphic sequence on the tiny concealed bell. 

The still air of the room was yet tremulous with the silvery vibrationwhen he entered, looked around, caught sight of her, and came swiftlytoward 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 thatthe girl laughed outright and stretched out one hand to him. 

"Clive, you're becoming ponderous! Do you know it? Suppose I didn'tcare to see you this particular afternoon. Is there any reason why youshould take it so seriously?"

"Plenty of reasons, " he said, saluting her smooth, cool hand, --"withall these people at your heels every minute--"

"Please don't pretend--"

"I'm _not_ jealous. But all these men--Cecil and Jimmy Allys--they'rebeginning to be a trifle annoying to me. "

She laughed in unfeigned and malicious delight:

"They don't annoy _me_! No girl ever was annoyed by overattention fromher suitors--except Penelope--and _I_ don't believe she had such ahorrid time of it either, until her husband came home and shot up thewhole _thé dansant_. "

He was still standing beside her couch without offering to seathimself; and she let him remain standing a few minutes longer beforeshe condescended to move aside on her pillows and nod a tardyinvitation. 

"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 augustreappearance?" she inquired mischievously. 

"I haven't a doubt of it, " he said with gravity. 

[Illustration: "'There is your extra, ' she said pleasantly. "]

"Wonderful, Clive! And I think I'd better get in on the ground floorbefore 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 beenthinking about it. Do you suppose it could be bought reasonably? It'sreally a pretty place. And there's a hundred acres--or there was. . . . Iwould 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 ifthe gingerbread verandas and modern bay windows are done away with. "

He nodded; and she went on with shy enthusiasm: "I don't really knowanything about gardens, except I know that I should adore them. . . . Ithought of a garden--just a simple one. . . . And some cows and chickens. And one nice old horse. . . . It is really very pretty there in springand summer. And the bay is so blue, and the salt meadows are sosweet. . . . And the cemetery is near. . . . I should not wish to altermother'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 atepeach turnovers. . . . About how much do you suppose the place could bebought for?"

"I haven't the least idea, Athalie. But I'll see what can be doneto-morrow. . . . It ought to be a good purchase. You can scarcely gowrong 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 overhers where it lay between them. 

She smiled up at him. Then, distrait, turned her blue eyes toward thewindow, and remained gazing out at the late afternoon sky where a fewwhite 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 thesame 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 onthe currents flowing through my mind--flowing through it and outagain--away, somewhere--back to the source of thought, perhaps. "

He was still bending above her, and she looked up dreamily into hiseyes. 

"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 Isuppose. . . . Tell me, do you think my profession disreputable?"

"You have made it otherwise, haven't you?"

"I don't know. I'm eternally tempted. My intelligence bothers me. Andwhere to draw the line between what I really see and what I divine bydeduction--or by intuition--I scarcely know sometimes. . . . I try to behonest. . . . When you came in just now, were they calling an extra?"

"Yes. "

"Did you hear what they were calling?"

"Something about the _Empress of Borneo_ being reported safe. "

She nodded. Then: "That is the hopeless part of it. I can sometimeshelp others; never myself. . . . I suppose you have no idea how many, many hours I have spent looking for you. . . . I never could find you. Ihave never found you in my crystal, or in my clearer vision, or in mydreams; . . . Never heard your voice, never had news of you except bycommon report in everyday life. . . . Why is it, I wonder?"

His expression was inscrutable. She said, her eyes still lingering onhis: "You know it makes me indignant to see so much that neitherconcerns nor interests me--so much that passes--in this!--" laying onehand on the crystal beside the couch . . . "and never, never in the dullmonotony of the drifting multitude to catch a glimpse of you. . . . Iwonder, 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. Imeant, 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 onthe horizon?. . . Palms, tall reeds, endless forests--everything sostill--except birds flying--and a broad river rolling betweenforests. . . . And a mud-bar, swarming with crocodiles. . . . And a deadtree stranded there, on which large birds are sitting. . . . There is abig cat-shaped animal on the bank; but the forest is dark andsunless, --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 apheasant; there are feathers everywhere--bright feathers, brilliant asjewels. . . . Hark! You didn't hear that, did you, Clive? Somebody hasshot the jaguar. They've shot him again. He's whirling 'round and'round--and now he's down, biting at sticks and leaves. . . . There goesanother shot. The jaguar lies very still. His jaws are partly open. Hehas 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 furledaround 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 isit that a girl can't find the man she cares for most in the wholeworld?"

"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 fearlesssmile: "_Quantum suff_, " she said. "You know you oughtn't to care_too_ much for me, Clive. "

"How much is too much?"

"You know, " she said, watching his face, the smile still lingering onher 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 whilethe smile in her eyes slowly died out. Then, all in a moment, a swiftchange altered her expression; and she sat up on the couch, supportingherself 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 knewit. 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 lockingevery 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 youagain 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, apparentlyconsidering what he had said. Then the uplifted candour of her eyesquestioned 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 ithas not yet happened to me. It couldn't. . . . And it would be too--tooghastly if you--if anything--"

"Don't talk about it that way!" he said sharply. "If it _did_happen--what of it?". . . He forced a smile. "But it won't happen. . . . Things like that don't happen to people like you and me. We care toomuch for each other, don't we, Athalie?"

"Yes. . . . It would be terrible. . . . I don't know why I put such ideasinto your head--or into my own. But you--there was something in yourexpression. . . . Oh, Clive, dear, it _couldn't_ happen to you, couldit?"

She leaned forward impulsively and put both hands on his shoulders, gazing into his eyes, searching them fearfully for any trace of whatshe thought for a moment she had seen in them. 

He said gaily enough: "No fear, dear. I'm exactly what I always havebeen. 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 it _does_ happen 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 haveto 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 itever happened that you fell in love with me again I had rather youtold me than that you kept silent. I had rather know it than have ithappen and never know it. Is there anything wrong in a man if hehappens 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 somethinginconceivable. 

"I do not think of you that way, " she said. "I do not think of yousentimentally at all. . . . Only that I care for you--deeply. I don'tbelieve it's in me to love. I mean--as the world defines love. . . . Sodon'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 knowit. "

"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 lovewith her?"

"Could you--respond?"

"Respond? With love? I don't know. How can I tell? I believe that Ihave never been in love in all my life. I don't know what it feelslike. You might as well ask somebody born blind to read an ordinarybook. . . . But one thing is certain: if that ever happens to you, youought 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 thatvery dreadful?"

"My responsibility would be. "

"The responsibility is mine. I'm my own mistress. If I chose to beyours the responsibility is mine--"

"Don't say such things, Athalie!"

"Why not? Such things happen--or they don't happen. I have no ideathey'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 withthe same curious, questioning look in her eyes, --"Perhaps because Icannot comprehend any such temptation. . . . And never could. . . . Nevertheless if you fall in love with me, tell me. I would not wishyou to remain dumb. You have a right to speak. Love isn't a questionof 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 meyou would wish to win my love, wouldn't you? And if you did, and Igave it to you, you would have won me for yourself, wouldn't you? Thenwhy should you worry concerning _how_ I might love you? That would bemy affair, my personal responsibility. And I admit to you that I knowno 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 everbefore take part in such a ridiculous conversation?" she demanded. "Oh, but I have always adored theoretical conversations. Only give mean interesting subject and take one end of it and I'll gratefullygrasp the other, Clive. What an odd man you are; and I suppose I'modd, too. And we may yet live to inhabit an odd little housetogether. . . . Wouldn't the world tear me to tatters!. . . I wonder if I'ddare--even knowing I was all right!". . . The laughter died in hereyes; 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. . . . Youknow it isn't silliness or love or anything except what I've alwaysfelt for you--loyalty and devotion, endless, eternal. And that is allthere is or ever will be in my heart and mind. "

So clear and sweet and confident in his understanding were her eyesthat the quick emotion that leaped responsive left only a ruddy traceon his face and a slight quiver on his lips. 

He said: "Nothing shall ever threaten your trust in me. No man can askfor 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 silenceshe laughed, uncertainly, almost nervously. 

"You--you _do_ imagine it!" she said. "Don't you?"

He made no reply. 

Presently she began to laugh again, a gay, tormenting, excited littlelaugh. Something in his face seemed to exhilarate her, sending theblood like wine to her cheeks. 

"You _do_ imagine it! Oh, Clive! _You!_ You think yourself in lovewith your old comrade!. . . I _knew_ it! There was something aboutyou--I can't explain exactly what--but there was _something_ that toldme. "

She was laughing, now, almost wickedly and with all the naïve andinnocently malicious delight of a child delighting in its fellow'storment. 

"Oh, Clive!" she said, "what are you going to do about it? And why doyou gaze at me so oddly?--as though I were angry or disconcerted. I'mnot. I'm happy. I'm crazy about this new relation of ours. It makesyou more interesting than I ever dreamed even you could be--"

"You know, " he said almost grimly, "if you are going to take it likethis--"

"Take what?"

"The knowledge that--"

"That you are in love with me? Then you _are_! Oh, Clive, Clive! Youdear, sweet, funny boy! And you've told me so, haven't you? Or itamounts 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'tknow why: happiness--excitement--pride--I don't know. . . . Do yousuppose 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 excitingenough 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 Icould win you. "

"Oh, " she said airily, "I don't say that. You see I don't know themethod of procedure. I don't know what you're going to do about yourfalling in love with me. "

He leaned over and took her by the waist; and she drew backinstinctively, 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 thebelief entered his heart like a slim steel blade that she had neverloved, and that there was in her nothing except what she had saidthere was, loyalty and devotion, unsullied and spiritual, clean of allelse lower and less noble, guiltless of passion, ignorant of desire. 

As he looked at her he remembered the past--remembered that once hemight have taught her love in all its attributes--that once he mighthave married her. For in a school so gentle and secure as wedlock sucha girl might learn to love. 

He had had his chance. What did he want of her now, then?--more thanhe had of her already. Love? Her devotion amounted to that--all of itthat could concern a man already married--hopelessly married to awoman 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 thecity. 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 hisshoulder. 

It remained there after her imprisoned waist yielded a little to hisarm. 

"You are not unhappy, are you, Clive?"

"No. "

"I didn't mean to take it lightly. I don't comprehend; that's all. Itseems to me that I can't care for you more than I do already. Do youunderstand?"

"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 armsaround his neck and kissed him. It had been like the serene touch of acrucifix to his lips. It was like that now, --the smooth, passionlesstouch of her cool, young face against his, and her slim hand framinghis cheek. 

"To think, " she murmured to herself, "that you should ever care for mein that way, too. . . . It is wonderful, wonderful--and very sweet--if itdoes not make you unhappy. Does it?"

"No. "

"It's so dear of you to love me that way, Clive. Could--could _I_ doanything--about it?"

"How?"

"Would you care to kiss me?" she asked with a faint smile. And turnedher 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 cheekagainst 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 inlove with me. "

CHAPTER XXI

It was in the days when nothing physical tainted her passionateattachment to Clive. When she was with him she enjoyed the moment withall her heart and soul--gave to it and to him everything that was bestin her--all the richness of her mental and bodily vigour, all theunspoiled enthusiasm of her years, all the sturdy freshness of youth, eager, receptive, credulous, unsatiated. 

With them, once more, the old happy companionship began; the CaféArabesque, the Regina, the theatres, the suburban restaurants knewthem again. Familiar faces among the waiters welcomed them to the sametables; the same ushers guided them through familiar aisles; the sametaxi drivers touched their caps with the same alacrity; the sameporters bestirred themselves for tips. 

Sometimes when they were not alone, they and their friends danced lateat Castle House or the Sans-Souci, or the Humming-Bird, or some suchresort, at that time in vogue. 

Sometimes on Saturday afternoons or on Sundays and holidays they spenthours in the museums and libraries--not that Clive had eitherinherited or been educated to any truer appreciation of things worthwhile than the average New York man--but like the majority he admittedthe solemnity and fearsomeness of art and letters, and his attitudetoward them was as carefully respectful as it was in church. 

Which first perplexed and then amused Athalie who, with noopportunities, had been born with a wholesome passion for all thingsbeautiful of the mind. 

The little she knew she had learned from books or from hercompanionship with Captain Dane that first summer after Clive had goneabroad. And there was nothing orthodox, nothing pedantic, nothingsimulated or artificial in her likes or dislikes, her preferences orher indifference. 

Yet, somehow, even without knowing, the girl instinctively gravitatedtoward all things good. 

In modern art--with the exception of a few painters--she found littleto attract her; but the magnificence of the great Venetians, thesombre splendour of the great Spaniards, the nobility of the greatEnglish and Dutch masters held her with a spell forever new. And, asfor the exquisite, naïvely self-conscious works of Greuze, Lancret, Fragonard, Boucher, Watteau, and Nattier, she adored them with all thefresh and natural appetite of a capacity for visual pleasure unjaded. 

He recognised Raphael with respect and pleasure when authorityreassured him it _was_ Raphael. Also he probably knew more about thehistory 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 Chineseporcelains and the masterpieces of the Renaissance. And thither shefrequently beguiled Clive, --not that he required any persuading tofollow this young and lovely creature who ranged the full boundariesof her environment, living to the full life as it had been allottedher. 

Wholesome with that charming and rounded slenderness of perfect healththere yet seemed no limit to her capacity for the enjoyment of allthings for which an appetite exists--pleasures, mental or physical--itdid not seem to matter. 

She adored walking; to exercise her body delighted her. Always she ateand drank with a relish that fascinated; she was mad about the theatreand about music:--and whatever she chanced to be doing she did withall 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 shemet--even in the small circle of friends whom she received and withwhom she went about. Arthur Ensart entirely mistook her until fiercelyset right one evening when alone with him; James Allys also listenedto a curt but righteously impassioned discourse which he never forgot. Hargrave's gentlemanly and suavely villainous intentions, when finallycomprehended, became radically modified under her coolly scornfulrebuke. Welter, fat and sentimental, never was more than tiresomelysaccharine; Ferris and Lyndhurst betrayed symptoms of beingmisunderstood, but it was a toss-up as to the degree of seriousness intheir intentions. 

[Illustration: "Once more, the old happy companionship began. "]

The intentions of men are seldom more serious than they have to be. But they all were helplessly, hopelessly caught in the magic, gossamerweb of Athalie's beauty and personal charm; and some merely kicked andbuzzed and some tried to rend the frail rainbow fabric, and somestruggled silently against they knew not what--themselves probably. And some, like Dane, hung motionless, enmeshed, knowing that tostruggle was futile. And some, like Clive, were still lying under herjewelled feet in the very centre of the sorcery, so far silent andunstirring, awaiting to see whether the grace of God would fall uponthem or the _coup-de-grâce_ that ended all. Eventually, however, likeall other men, Clive gave signs of life and impatience. 

"_Can't_ you love me, Athalie?" he said abruptly one night, when theyhad returned from the theatre and he had already taken his leave--andhad come back from the door to take it again more tenderly. The girllet him kiss her. 

She, in her clinging, sparkling evening gown was standing by hercrystal, the fingers of one hand lightly poised upon it, looking downat it. 

"Love you, Clive, " she repeated in smiling surprise. "Why, I do, youdear, foolish boy. I've admitted it to you. Also haven't you justkissed me?"

"I know. . . . But I mean--couldn't you love me above all othermen--above everything in this world--"

"But I _do_! Were you annoyed because I was silly with Cecilto-night?"

"No. . . . I understand. You simply can't help turning everybody's head. It's in you, --it's part of you--"

"I'm merely having a good time, " she protested. "It means no more thanyou see, when I flirt with other men. . . . It never goes anyfarther--except--once or twice I have let men kiss me. . . . Only two orthree. . . . Before you came back, of course--"

"I didn't know that, " he said sullenly. 

"Didn't you? Then the men were more decent than I supposed. . . . Yes, Ilet John Lyndhurst kiss me once. And Francis Hargrave did it. . . . AndJim Allys tried to, against my wishes--but he never attempted it afterthat. "

She had been looking down again at the crystal while speaking; herattitude was penitential, but the faint smile on her lips adorablymischievous. Presently she glanced up at him to see how he was takingit. He must have been taking it very badly, for:

"Clive!" she said, startled; "are you really annoyed with me?"

The gathering scowl faded and he forced a smile. Then the frownreturned; he flung one arm around her supple waist and gathered bothher hands into his, holding them closely imprisoned. 

"You _must_ love!" he said almost roughly. 

"My dear! I've told you that I do love you. "

"And I tell you you don't! Your calm and cheerful friendship for meisn't love!"

"Oh. What else is it, please?"

He kissed her on the mouth. She suffered his lips again withoutflinching, then drew back laughingly to avoid him. 

"Why are you becoming so very demonstrative?" she asked. "If you arenot careful it will become a horrid habit with you. "

"Does it mean nothing more than a habit to you?" he asked, unsmilingly. 

"It means that I care enough for you to let you do it more than once, doesn't it?"

He shrugged and turned his face toward the window:

"And you believe that you love me, " he said, sullenly and partly tohimself. 

"You amazingly sulky man, _what_ are you muttering to yourself?" shedemanded, bending forward and across his shoulder to see his facewhich was still turned from her. He swung about and caught herfiercely in his arms; and the embrace left her breathless and flushed. 

"Clive--please--"

"_Can't_ you care for me! For God's sake show it if you can!"

"Please, dear--I--"

"_Can't_ you!" he repeated unsteadily, drawing her closer. "You knowwhat I am asking. Answer me!"

She bent her head and rested it against his shoulder a moment, considering; she then looked away from him, troubled:

"I don't want to be your--mistress, " she said. Truth disconcerts thevast majority. It disconcerted him--after a ringing silence throughwhich the beating of rain on the window came to him like the steadytattoo of his own heart. 

"I did not ask that, " he said, very red. 

"You meant that. . . . Because I've been everything to you except that. "

"I want you for my wife, " he interrupted sharply. 

"But you are married, Clive. So what more can I be to you, unless Ibecome--what I don't want to become--"

"I merely want you to love me--until I can find some way out of thishell on earth I'm living in!"

"Dear, I'm sorry! I'm sorry you are so unhappy. But you can't getfree, --can you? She won't let you, will she?"

"I've got to have my freedom! I can't stand this. Good God! Must a mando life for being a fool once? Isn't there any allowance to be madefor a first offence? I've always wanted to marry you. I was amiserable, crazy coward to do what I did! Haven't I paid for it? Doyou know what I've been through?"

She said very sweetly and pitifully: "Dear, I know what peoplesuffer--what lonely hearts endure. I think I understand what you havebeen through. "

"I know you understand! Fool that I am who enlightened you. But yourswas the injury of bruised faith--the suffering caused by outrage. Nohell of self-contempt set _you_ crawling about the world in agony; nodespicable self-knowledge drove _you_ out into the waste places. Yourswas the sorrow of a self-respecting victim; mine the grief of thedamned fool who has done to death all that he ever loved for the loveof expediency and of self!"

"Clive!--"

"That's what I am!" he interrupted fiercely, "a damned fool! I don'tknow what else I am, but I can't live without you, and I won't!"

She said: "You told me that being in love with me would not make youunhappy. So I told you to love me. I was wrong to let you do it. "

"You darling! I am more than happy!"

"It was a dreadful mistake, Clive! I shouldn't have let you. "

"Do you think you could have stopped me?"

"I don't know. Couldn't I? I've stopped other men. . . . I shouldn't havelet you. But it was so delightful--to be really loved by _you_! All mypride responded. It seemed to dignify everything; it seemed to make mereally a woman, with a place among other women--to be loved by such aman as you . . . And I was _not_ selfish about it; I did ask you whetherit would make you unhappy to be in love with me. Oh, I see now that Iwas very wrong, Clive--very foolish, very wrong! Because it _is_making you restless and unhappy--"

"If you could only love me a little in return!"

"I don't know how to love you except the way I am doing--"

"There is a more vital emotion--"

"It seems impossible that I could care for you more deeply than Ido. "

"If you could only respond with a little tenderness--"

"I _do_ respond--as well as I know how, " she said piteously. 

He drew her nearer and touched her cheek with his lips:

"I know, dear. I don't mean to complain. "

"Oh, Clive! I have let you fall in love with me and it is making youmiserable! And now it's making me miserable, too, because you aredisappointed in me. "

"No--"

"You are! I'm not what you expected--not what you wanted--"

"You are everything I want!--if I could only wake your heart!" he saidin a low tense voice. 

"It isn't my heart that is asleep. . . . I know what you miss in me. . . . And I can't help it. I--I don't wish to help it--or to be different. "

She dropped her head against his shoulder. After a few moments shespoke from there in a muffled, childish voice:

"What can I do about it? I don't want to be your mistress, Clive. . . . Inever wanted to do--anything--like that. "

A deeper colour burnt his face. He said: "Could you love me enough tomarry me if I managed to free myself?"

"I have never thought of marrying you, Clive. It isn't that I couldn'tlove you--that way. I suppose I could. Probably I could. Only--I don'tknow anything about it--"

"Let me try to free myself, anyway. "

"How is it possible?"

He said, exasperated: "Do you suppose I can endure this sort ofexistence forever?"

The swift tears sprang to her eyes. "I don't know--I don't know, " shefaltered. "I thought this existence of ours ideal. I thought you weregoing to be happy; I supposed that our being together again wouldbring happiness to us both. It doesn't! It is making us wretched. Youare not contented with our friendship!" She turned on himpassionately: "I don't wish to be your mistress. I don't want you tomake me wish to be. No girl naturally desires less than she isentitled to, or more than the law permits--unless some man teaches herto wish for it. Don't make such a girl of me, Clive! You--you arebeginning to do it. And I don't wish it! Truly I don't!"

In that fierce flash of candour, --of guiltless passion, she hadrevealed herself. Never, until that moment, had he supposed himself soabsolutely dominant, invested with such power for good or evil. Thathe could sway her one way or the other through her pure loyalty, devotion, and sympathy he had not understood. 

To do him justice he desired no such responsibility. He had meant tobe honest and generous and unselfish even when the outlook seemed mosthopeless, --when he was convinced that he had no chance of freedom. 

But a man with the girl he loves in his arms might as well set a netto catch the wind as to set boundaries to his desires. Perhaps hecould not so ardently have desired his freedom to marry her had he notas ardently desired her love. 

Love he had of her, but it was an affection utterly innocent ofpassion. He knew it; she realised it; realised too that the capacityfor passion was in her. And had asked him not awaken her to it, instinctively recoiling from it. Generous, unsullied, proudlyignorant, she desired to remain so. Yet knew her peril; and candidlyrevealed it to him in the most honest appeal ever made to him. 

For if the girl herself suspected and dreaded whither her loyalty anddeep devotion to him might lead her, he had realised very suddenlywhat his leadership meant in such a companionship. 

Now it sobered him, awed him, --and chilled him a trifle. 

Himself, his own love for her, his own passion he could control and ina measure subdue. But, once awakened, could he control such an ally asshe might be to his own lesser, impatient and hot-headed self?

Where her disposition was to deny, he could still fetter self andacquiesce. But he began to understand that half his strength lay inher unwillingness; half of their safety in her inexperience, herundisturbed tranquillity, her aloofness from physical emotion and herignorance of the mastery of the lesser passions. 

The girl had builded wholesomely and wisely for herself. Instinct hadled her truly and well as far as that tangled moment in her life. Instinct still would lead her safely if she were let alone, --instinctand the intelligence she herself had developed. For the ethical viewof the question remained only as a vague memory of precepts mechanicaland meaningless to a healthy child. She had lost her mother too earlyto have understood the casual morals so gently inculcated. And nobodyelse had told her anything. 

Also intelligence is often a foe to instinct. She might, with littlepersuasion accept an unconventional view of life; with a littleemotional awakening she might more easily still be persuaded to alogic builded on false foundations. Add to these her ardent devotionto this man, and her deep and tender concern lest he be unhappy, andAthalie's chances for remaining her own mistress were slim enough. 

Something of this Clive seemed to understand; and the understandingleft him very serious and silent where he stood in the soft glow ofthe lamp with this young girl in his arms and her warm, sweet head onhis breast. 

He said after a long silence: "You are right, Athalie. It is better, safer, not to respond to me. I'm just in love with you and I want tomarry you--that's all. I shall not be unhappy about it. I am not, now. If I marry you, you'll fall in love, too, in your own way. That willbe as it should be. I could desire no more than that. I _do_ desirenothing more. "

He looked down at her, smiled, releasing her gently. But she clung tohim for a moment. 

"You are so wonderful, Clive--so dear! I _do_ love you. I will marryyou if I can. I want to make up everything to you--the lonely years, your deep unhappiness--even, " she added shyly, "your littledisappointment in me--"

"You don't understand, Athalie. I am not disappointed--"

"I _do_ understand. And I am thinking of what will happen if you failto free yourself. . . . Because I realize now that I don't propose toleave you to grow old all alone. . . . I shall live with you when you'reold whatever people may think. I tell you, Clive, I'm the same child, the same girl that you once knew, only grown into a woman. I knowright from wrong. I had rather not do wrong. But if I've got to--Iwon't whimper. And I'll do it thoroughly!"

"You won't do it at all, " he said, smiling at her threat to the littletin gods. 

"I don't know. If they won't give you your freedom, and if--"

"Nonsense, Athalie, " he said, laughing, coolly master of himself oncemore. "We mustn't be unwholesomely romantic, you and I. I'll marry youif I can; if I can't, God help us, that's all. "

But she had become very grave: "God help us, " she repeated slowly. "Because I believe that, rightly or wrongly, I shall one day belong toyou. "

He said: "It can be only in one way. The right way. " Perhaps he hadawakened too late to a realisation of his power over her, for the girlmade no response, no longer even looked at him. 

"Only one way, " he repeated, uneasily;--"the right way, Athalie. "

But into her dark blue eyes had come a vague and brooding beautywhich he had never before seen. In it was tenderness, and a newwisdom, alas! and a faint and shadowy something, profound, starlike, inscrutable. 

"As for love, " he said, forcing a lighter tone, "there are fifty-sevendifferent varieties, Athalie; and only one is poisonous, --unless takenwith the other fifty-six, and in small doses. "

She smiled faintly and walked to the window. Rain beat there in thedarkness spattering the little iron balcony. Below, the bleared lightsof the city stretched away to the sky-line. 

He followed, and slipped his arm through hers; and she bent her wrist, interlacing her slim fingers with his. 

"You know, " he said, "that when I often speak with apparent authorityI am wrong. In the final analysis _you_ are the real leader, Athalie. Your instincts are the right ones; your convictions honest, yourconclusions just. Mine are too often confused with selfishness andindecision. For mine is an irresolute character;--or it was. I'mtrying to make it firmer. "

She pressed his hand lightly, her eyes still fixed on thelight-smeared darkness. 

He went on more gravely: "Candour and the intuition born of commonsense, --that is where you are so admirable, dear. Add to that thetenderest heart that ever beat, and a proud ignorance of the lesser, baser emotions--and, who am I to interfere, --to come into the sweetorder of your life with demands that confuse you--with complaintsagainst the very destiny I brought upon us both--with the clamour ofa selfish and ignoble philosophy which your every instinct rejects, and which your heart entertains only because it _is_ your heart, andits heavenly sympathy has never failed me yet. . . . Oh, Athalie, Athalie, it would be a shameful day for me and a bitter day for you ifmy selfishness and irresolution ever swerved you. What I have lost--ifI have indeed lost it--is lost irrevocably. And I've got to learn toface it. "

She said, still gazing absently into the darkness: "Yes. But I am justbeginning to wonder what it is that _I_ may have lost, --what it isthat I have never known. "

"Don't think of it! Don't permit anything I have said or done totrouble you or stir you toward such an awakening. . . . I don't want tostand charged with that. You are tranquil, now--"

"I--_was_. "

"You are still!" he said in quick concern. "Listen, Athalie--themajority of men lose their grip at moments; men as irresolute as Ilose it oftener. Don't waste sympathy on me; it was nothing but awhine born of a lesser impulse--born of emotions less decent than youcould comprehend--"

"Maybe I am beginning to comprehend. "

"You shall not! You shall remain as you are! Dear, don't you realisethat I can't steady myself unless I can look up to you? You've raisedyourself to where you stand; you've made your own pedestal. Look downat me from it; don't ever _step_ down; don't ever condescend; don'tever let me think you mortal. You are not, now. Don't ever descendentirely to my level--even if we marry. "

She turned, smiling too wisely, yet adorably: "What endless romancethere is in that boy's heart of yours! There always was, --when youcame running back to me where I stood alone by the closed door, --whenyou found me living as all women who work live, and made a beautifulhome for me and gave me more than I wished to take, asking nothing ofme in return. Oh, Clive, you were chivalrous and romantic, too, whenyou listened to your mother's wishes and gave me up. I understand itso much better, now. I know how it was--with your father dead and yourbeautiful mother, broken, desolate, confiding to your keeping all herhope and pride and future happiness, --all the traditions of thefamily, and its dignity and honour!

"In the light of a clearer knowledge, do you suppose I blame you now?Do you suppose I blame you for anything?--for your long andbroken-hearted and bitter silence?--for the quick resurgence of youraffection for me--for your love--Oh, Clive!--for your passion?

"Do you suppose I think less of you because you love me--care for mein the many and inexplicable ways that a man cares for awoman?--because you want me as a man wants the woman he loves, as hiswife if it may be so, as his _own_, anyhow?"

She let her eyes rest on him in a new and fearless comprehension, tender, curious, sad by turns. 

"It is the romance of passion in you that has been fighting to awakenthe Sleeping Princess of a legend, " she said with a slight smile; "itis the same illogical, impulsive romance that draws back just as herclosed lids tremble, fearing to awaken her to the sorrows andtemptations of a world which, after all, God made for us to wake in. "

"Athalie! I am a scoundrel if I have--"

"Oh, Clive!" she laughed, mocking the solemn measure of her own words;"adorable boy of impulse and romance, never to outgrow its magicarmour, destined always to be ruled by dreams through the sweetest andmost generous of hearts, you need not fear for me. I am alreadyawake--at least I am sufficiently aroused to understand you--andsomething, too, of my own self which I have never hithertounderstood. "

For a second, lightly, she rested her warm, fresh cheek against his. When it was burning she disengaged her fingers from his and leanedaside against the rain-swept window. 

"You see?" she said calmly but with heightened colour. . . . "I am veryhuman after all. . . . But it is still my mind that rules, not myemotions. "

She turned to him in her old sweetly humorous and mocking manner:

"That is all the romance of which I am capable, Clive--if there be anyreal romance in a very clear mind. For it is my intellect that mustlead me to salvation or to destruction. If I am to come crashing downat your feet, I shall have already planned the fall. If I am to bedestroyed, it will not be by any accident of romantic emotion, ofunconsidered impulse, or sudden blindness of passion; it will bebecause my intelligence coolly courted destruction, and acceptedevery chance, every hazard. "

So spoke Athalie, smiling, in the full confidence and pride of hersuperb youth, certain of the mind's autocracy over matter, lightlydefying within herself the latent tempest, of which she as yet divinedno more than the first exquisitely disturbing breeze;--deriding, too, the as yet unloosened bolts of the old gods themselves, --the whitelightning of desire. 

"Come, " she said, half mockingly, half seriously, passing her armthrough Clive's;--"we are quite safe together in this safe and saneold world--unless _I_ choose--otherwise. "

She turned and touched her lips lightly to his hair:

"So you may safely behave as irrationally, irresponsibly, andromantically as you choose. . . . As long as I now am wide awake. "

And then, for the first time, he realised his utter responsibility tothis girl who so gaily and audaciously relieved him of it. And heunderstood how pitifully unarmed she really stood, and how imminentthe necessity for him to forge for himself the armour of character, and to wear it eternally for his own safety as well as hers. 

"Good night, dear, " he said. 

In her new and magnificent self-confidence she turned and put botharms around his neck, drawing his lips against hers. 

But after he had gone she leaned against the closed door, lessconfident, her heart beating too fast and hard to entirely justifythis new enfranchisement of the body, or her overwhelming faith inits wise and trusted guardian, the mind. 

And he went soberly on his way through the rain to his hotel, troubledbut determined upon his new rôle as his own soul's armourer. All thatwas in him of romance and of chivalry was responding passionately tothe girl's unconscious revelation of her new need. 

For now he realised that her boasted armour was of gauze; he could seeher naked heart beating behind it; he beheld, through the shield shelifted on high to protect them both, the moon shining with its false, reflected light. 

Never did Athalie stand in such dire need of the armour she supposedthat she was wearing. 

And he must put on his own, rapidly, and rivet it fast--the inflexiblemail of character which alone can shield such souls as his--and hers. 

 * * * * *

When he came into his own room, a thick letter from his wife lay onthe table. Before he broke the seal he laid aside his wet garments, being in no haste to read any more of the now incessant reproaches andcomplaints with which Winifred had recently deluged him. 

[Illustration: "Finally . . . He cut the envelope and seated himselfbeside the lamp. "]

Finally, when he was ready, he cut the envelope and seated himselfbeside the lamp. She wrote from the house in Kent:

 "It was a very different matter when you were travelling about and I could say that you were off on another exploring expedition. But your return from South America was mentioned in the London papers; and the fact that you are now not only in New York but that you have also gone into business there is known and is the subject of comment. 

 "I shall be, as usual, perfectly frank with you; I do not care whether you are here or not; in fact I infinitely prefer your absence to your presence. But your engaging in business in New York is a very different matter, and creates a different situation for me. 

 "You like to travel. Why don't you do it? I don't care to be the subject of gossip; and I shall be--am, no doubt, already, --because you are making the situation too plain and too public. 

 "It's well enough for one's friends to surmise the condition of affairs; no unpleasantness for me results. But let it once become newspaper gossip and my situation among people I most earnestly desire to cultivate would become instantly precarious and perhaps impossible. 

 "It is not necessary for me to inform you what is the very insecure status of an American woman here, particularly in view of the Court's well known state of mind concerning marital irregularities. 

 "The King's views coincide with the Queen's. And the Queen's are perfectly well known. 

 "If you continue your exploring expeditions, which you evidently like to engage in, and if you report here at intervals for the sake of appearances, I can get on very well and very comfortably. But if you settle in New York and engage in business there, and continue to remain away from this country where you are popularly supposed to maintain residences in town and country, I shall certainly begin to experience very disagreeably the consequences of your selfish conduct. 

 "Your reply to my last letter has thoroughly incensed me. 

 "You always have been selfish. From the time I had the misfortune to marry you I had to suffer from your selfish, self-centred, demonstrative, and rather common character--until you finally learned that demonstration is offensive to decent breeding, and that, although I happened to be married to you, I intended to keep to my own notions of delicacy, reserve, privacy, and self-respect. 

 "Of course you thought it a sufficient reason for us to have children merely because _you_ once thought you wanted them; and I shall not forget what was your brutal attitude toward me when I told you very plainly that I refused to be saddled with the nasty, grubby little brats. Evidently you are incapable of understanding any woman who is not half animal. 

 "I did not desire children, and that ought to have been sufficient for you. I am not demonstrative toward anybody; I leave that custom to my servants. And is it any crime if the things that interest and appeal to you do not happen to attract me?

 "And I'll tell you now that your subjects of conversation always bored me. I make no pretences; I frankly do not care for what you so smugly designate as 'the things of the mind' and 'things worth while. ' I am no hypocrite: I like well bred, well dressed people; I like what they do and say and think. Their characters may be negative as you say, but their poise and freedom from demonstration are most agreeable to me. 

 "You politely designated them as fools, and what they said you characterised as piffle. You had the exceedingly bad taste to sneer at various members of an ancient and established aristocracy--people who by inheritance from generations of social authority, require no toleration from such a man as you. 

 "These are the people who are my friends; among whom I enjoy an established position. This position you now threaten by coolly going into business in New York. In other and uglier words you advertise to the world that you have abandoned your home and wife. 

 "Of course I cannot help it if you insist on doing this common and disgraceful thing. 

 "And I suppose, considering the reigning family's attitude toward divorce, that you believe me to be at your mercy. 

 "Permit me to inform you that I am not. If, in a certain set, wherein I now have the entrée, divorce is not tolerated, --at any rate where the divorced wife of an American would not be received, --nevertheless there are other sets as desirable, perhaps even more desirable, and which enjoy a prestige as weighty. 

 "And I'll tell you now that in case you persist in affronting me by remaining in business in New York, I shall be forced to procure a separation--possibly a divorce. And I shall not suffer for it socially as no doubt you think I will. 

 "There is only one reason why I have not done so already--disinclination to be disturbed in a social milieu which suits me. It's merely the inconvenience of a transfer to another equally agreeable set. 

 "But if your selfish conduct forces me to make the change, don't doubt for one minute, my friend, that I'm entirely capable and able to accomplish it without any detriment or anything worse than some slight inconvenience to myself. 

 "Whether it be a separation or a divorce I have not yet made up my mind. 

 "There is only one reason why I should hesitate and that is the thought that possibly you might be glad of your freedom. If I were sure of that I'd punish you by asking for a separation. But I do not suppose it really matters to you. I think I know you well enough to know that you have no desire to marry again. And, as for the young woman in whose company you made yourself notorious before we were engaged--well, I think you would hesitate to offer her marriage, or even, perhaps, the not unprecedented privilege of being your _chère amie_. I do you the honour of believing you too fastidious to select a public fortune teller for your mistress, or to parade a cheap trance-medium as a specimen of your personal taste in pulchritude. 

 "Meanwhile your attitude in domestic matters continues to annoy me. Be good enough to let me know, definitely, what you propose to do, so that I may take proper measures to protect myself--because I have always been obliged to protect myself from you and your vulgar notions ever since my mother and yours made a fool of me. "WINIFRED STUART BAILEY. "

With his care-worn eyes still fixed on the written pages he rested hiselbow on the table and dropped his head on his hand, heavily. 

Rain swept the windows; the wind also was rising; his room seemed tobe full of sounds; even the clock which had a subdued tick and a mostdiscreet manner of announcing the passing of time, seemed noisy tohim. 

"God! what a mess I've made of life, " he said aloud. For a moment aswift anger burned fiercely against the woman who had written him;then the flame of it blew against himself, scorching him with thewrath of self-contempt. 

"Hell!" he said between his teeth. "It isn't the fault of that littlegirl across the ocean. It's my fault, mine, and the fault of nobodyelse. "

Indecision, the weakness of a heart easily appealed to, theirresolution of a man who was not man enough to guard and maintain hisown freedom of action and the right to live his own life--these hadencompassed the wrecking of him. 

It seemed that he was at least man enough to admit it, generous enoughto concede it, even if perhaps it was not altogether true. 

But never once had he permitted himself, even for a second, to censurethe part played by his mother in the catastrophe. That he had beenpersuaded, swerved, over-ridden, dominated, was his own fault. 

The boy had been appealed to, subtly, cleverly, on his most vulnerableside; he had been bothered and badgered and beset. Two women, cleverand hard as nails, had made up their minds to the marriage; the thirdremained passive, indifferent, but acquiescent. Wiser, firmer, andmore experienced men than Clive had surrendered earlier. Only thememory of Athalie held him at all;--some vague, indefinite hope mayhave remained that somehow, somewhere, sometime, either the world'sattitude might change or he might develop the courage to ignore it andto seek his happiness where it lay and let the world howl. 

That is probably all that held him at all. And after a while theconstant pressure snapped that thread. This was the result. 

 * * * * *

He lifted his head and stared, heavy-eyed, at his wife's letter. Then, dropping the sheets to the floor he turned and laid both arms upon thetable and buried his face in them. 

Toward morning his servant discovered him there, asleep. 

CHAPTER XXII

The following day Clive replied to his wife by cable: "As it seems tomake no unpleasant difference to you I have concluded to remain in NewYork. Please take whatever steps you may find most convenient andagreeable for yourself. "

And, following this he wrote her:

 "I am inexpressibly sorry to cause you any new annoyance and to arouse once more your just impatience and resentment. But I see no use in a recapitulation of my shortcomings and of your own many disappointments in the man you married. 

 "Please remember that I have always assumed all blame for our marriage; and that I shall always charge myself with it. I have no reply to make to your reproaches, --no defence; I was not in love with you when I married you--which is as serious an offence as any man can perpetrate toward any woman. And I do not now blame you for a very natural refusal to tolerate anything approaching the sympathy and intimacy that ought to exist between husband and wife. 

 "I did entertain a hazy idea that affection and perhaps love might be ultimately possible even under the circumstances of such a marriage as ours; and in a youthful, ignorant, and inexperienced way I attempted to bring it about. My notions of our mutual obligations were very vague and indefinite. 

 "Please believe I did not realise how utterly distasteful any such ideas were to you, and how deep was your personal disinclination for the man you married. 

 "I understand now how many mistakes I made before I finally rid you of myself, and gave you a chance to live your life in your own way unharassed by the interference of a young, ignorant, and probably aggressive man. 

 "Your aversion to motherhood was, after all, your own affair. Man has no right to demand that of woman. I took a very bullying and intolerant attitude toward you--not, as I now realise, from any real conviction on the subject, but because I liked and wanted children, and also because I was influenced by the cant of the hour--the fashion being to demand of woman, on ethical grounds, quantitative reproduction as a marriage offering to the Almighty. As though indiscriminate and wholesale addition to humanity were an admirable and religious duty. Nothing, even in the Old Testament, is more stupid than such a doctrine; no child should ever be born unwelcome to both parents. 

 "I am sorry I could not find your circle of friends interesting. I sometimes think I might have, had you and I been mutually sympathetic. But the situation was impossible; our ideas, interests, convictions, tastes, were radically at variance; we had absolutely nothing in common to build on. What marriage ties could endure the strain of such conditions? The fault was mine, Winifred; I am sorry for you. 

 "I don't know much about anything, but, thinking as clearly and as impersonally as it is in me to think, I begin to believe that divorce, far from deserving the stigma attached to it, is a step forward in civilisation. 

 "Perhaps it may be only a temporary substitute for something better--say for more wholesome and more honest social conditions where the proposition for mating and the selection of a mate may lie as freely with your sex as with mine. 

 "Until then I know of nothing more honest and more sensible than to undo the wrong that ignorance and inexperience has accomplished. No woman's moral or spiritual salvation is dependent upon her wearing the fetters of a marriage abhorred. Such a stupid sacrifice is unthinkable to modesty and decency, and is repulsive to common sense. And any god who is supposed to demand that of humanity is not the true God, but is as grotesque and false as any African idol or any deity ever worshipped by Puritan or Pagan or by any orthodox assassin of free minds since the first murder was perpetrated on account of creed. 

 "You are entitled to divorce. I don't know whether I am or not, having done this thing. Nobody likes to endure unhappy consequences. I don't. But it was my own doing and I have no ground for complaint. 

 "You, however, have. You ought to be free of me. Of course, I'd be very glad to have my freedom; I shall not lie about it; but the difference is that you deserve yours and I don't. But I'll be very grateful if you care to give it to me. 

 "Don't write any more bitterly than you can help. I don't believe it really affords you any satisfaction; and it depresses me more than you could realise. I know only too well what I have been and wherein I have failed so miserably. Let me forget it whenever I can, Winifred. And if, for me, there remains any chance, any outlook, be generous enough to let me try to take it. "Your husband, "C. BAILEY. "

The consequences of this letter did not seem to be very fortunate. There came a letter from her so bitter and menacing that a clevererman might have read in it enough of menace between the lines toforearm him with caution at least. 

But Clive merely read it once and destroyed it and tried to forget it. 

 * * * * *

It was not until some time afterward that, gradually, some instinct inhim awoke suspicion. But for a long while he was not perfectly surethat he was being followed. 

However, when he could no longer doubt it, and when the lurkingfigures and faces of at least two of the men who dogged him everywherehad become sufficiently familiar to him, he wrote a short note to hiswife asking for an explanation. 

But he got none--principally because his wife had already sailed. 

The effect of Winifred's letters on an impressionable, sensitive, andself-distrustful character, was never very quickly effaced. 

Whatever was morbid in the man became apparent after he had receivedsuch letters, and took the form of a quiet withdrawal from the circleswhich he affected, until such time as mortification and shame hadsubsided. 

He had written briefly to Athalie saying that business would take himout of town for a few weeks. Which it did as a matter of fact, landinghim at Spring Pond, Long Island, where he completed the purchase ofthe Greensleeve tavern and took title in his own name. 

Old Ledlie had died; his only heir appeared to be glad enough to sell;the title was free and clear; the possibilities of the placefascinating. 

Clive prowled around the place in two minds whether he might ventureto call in a local builder and have him strip the protuberances fromthe house, which was all that was necessary to restore it to itsoriginal form; or whether he ought to leave that for Athalie tomanage. 

But there remained considerable to be done; May was in full bud andblossom already; and if Athalie was to enjoy the place at all thatsummer it ought to be made livable. 

So Clive summoned several people to his aid with the following quickresults: A New York general contractor took over the entire jobguaranteeing quick results or forfeiture. A local nurseryman and anemergency gang started in. They hedged the entire front with privetfor immediate effect, cleared, relocated, and restored the ancientflower garden on its quaint original lines; planted its bordersthickly with old time perennials, peonies, larkspurs, hollyhocks, clove pinks, irises, and lilies; replanted the rose beds withold-fashioned roses, set the wall beds with fruit trees and gayannuals, sodded, trimmed, raked, levelled, cleaned up, and pruned, until the garden was a charming and logical thing. 

Fortunately the newness was not apparent because the old stucco wallsremained laden with wistaria and honeysuckle, and the alley of ancientbox trees required clipping only. 

In the centre of the lawn he built a circular pool and piped the waterfrom Spring Brook. It fell in a slender jet, icy cold, powdering pool, basin and grass with spray. 

Where half-dead locust and cedar trees had to be felled Clive set tallarbor vitæ and soft maples. He was an expensive young man whereAthalie's pleasure was concerned; and as he worked there in the lovelyMay weather his interest and enthusiasm grew with every fresh fragrantspadeful of brown earth turned. 

The local building genius repainted the aged house after bay window andgingerbread had been stripped from its otherwise dignified facade;replaced broken slates on the roof, mended the great fat chimneys, matched the traces of pale bluish-green that remained on the windowshutters, filled in the sashes with small, square panes, institutedmodern plumbing, drainage, sewage, and electric lights--all of which wasemergency work and not too difficult as the city improvements had nowbeen extended as far as the village a mile to the eastward. But it wasexpensive. 

At first Clive had decided to leave the interior to Athalie, but hefinally made up his mind to restore the place on its original lineswith the exception of her mother's room. This room he recognised fromher frequent description of it; and he locked it, pocketed the key, and turned loose his men. 

All that they did was to plaster where it was needed, re-kalsomine allwalls and ceilings, scrape, clean, mend, and re-enamel the ancientwoodwork. Trim, casings, wainscot, and stairs were restored to theiroriginal design and finish; dark hardwood floors replaced the paintedboards which had rotted; wherever a scrap of early wall-paper remainedhe matched it as closely as possible, having an expert from New Yorkto do the business; and the fixtures he chose were simple and gracefuland reflected the period as nearly as electric light fixtures cansimulate an era of candle-sticks and tallow dips. 

He was tremendously tempted to go ahead, so fascinating had the workbecome to him, but he realised that it was not fair to Athalie. Allthat he could reasonably do he had done; the place was clean andfresh, and restored to its original condition outside and in, exceptfor the modern necessities of lighting, heating, plumbing, and runningwater in pantry, laundry, kitchen, and bathrooms. Two of the latterhad replaced two clothes-presses; the ancient cellar had been cementedand whitewashed, and heavily stocked with furnace and kitchen coal andkindling. 

Also there were fire-dogs for the three fine old-fashioned fireplacesin the house which had been disinterred from under bricked-in andplastered surfaces where only the aged mantel shelves and a hole for astove pipe revealed their probable presence. 

The carpets were too ragged and soiled to retain; the furniture tooawful. But he replaced the latter, leaving its disposition and thepleasure of choosing new furniture and new floor coverings to Athalie. 

Hers also was to be the pleasure of re-stocking the house with linen;of selecting upholstery and curtains and the requisites for pantry, kitchen, and dining-room. 

Once she told him what she had meant to do with the bar. And he tookthe liberty of doing it, turning the place into a charmingsun-parlour, where, in a stone basin, gold-fish swam and a forest offeathery and flowering semi-tropical plants spread a fretwork of blueshadows over the cool stone floor. 

But he left the big stove as it had been; and the rather quaint oldchairs with their rush-bottoms renovated and their lustrous woodstained and polished by years of use. 

Every other day he went to Spring Pond from his office in New York towatch the progress of the work. The contractor was under penalty;Clive had not balked at the expense; and the work was put through witha rush. 

In the meanwhile he called on Athalie occasionally, pretending alwayswhenever she spoke of it, that negotiations were still under wayconcerning the property in question, and that such transactionsrequired patience and time. 

One matter, too, was gradually effaced from his mind. The tall man andthe short man who had been following him so persistently had utterlydisappeared. And nobody else seemed to have taken their places. Eventually he forgot it altogether. 

Two months was the period agreed upon for the completion of Athalie'shouse and garden, and the first week in July found the work done. 

It had promised to be a hot week in the city: Athalie, who had beennowhere except for an evening at some suburban restaurant, had begunto feel fagged and listless and in need of a vacation. 

And that morning she had decided to go away for a month to some quietplace in the mountains, and she was already consulting various foldersand advertisements which she had accumulated since early spring, whenthe telephone in her bedroom rang. 

She had never heard Clive's voice so gay over the wire. She told himso; and she could hear his quick and rather excited laugh. 

"Are you very busy to-day?" he asked. 

"No; I'm going to close up shop for a month, Clive. I'm hot and tiredand dying for a glimpse of something green. I was just looking over alot of advertisements--cottages and hotels. Come up and help me. "

"I want you to spend the day with me in the country. Will you?"

"I'd love to. Where?"

"At Spring Pond. "

"Clive! Do you really want to go there?"

"Yes. As your guest. "

"What?"

"If you will invite me. Will you?"

"What do you mean? Have you bought the place for me?"

"I have the deed in my pocket, all ready to be transferred to you. "

"You darling! Clive, I am so excited--"

"So am I. Shall I come for you in my brand new car? I've invested inan inexpensive Stinger runabout. May I drive you down? It won't takemuch longer than by train. And it will cool us off. "

"Come as soon as you can get here!" she cried, delighted. "This isgoing to be the happiest day of my entire life!"

 * * * * *

And so it came about that Athalie in her pretty new gown and hat oflilac lingerie, followed by a maid bearing three suit-cases, hat-box, toilet satchel, and automobile coat, emerged from the main entrance ofthe building where Clive sat waiting in a smart Stinger runabout. Whenhe saw her he sprang out and came forward, hat in hand. 

"You darling, " she said in a low, happy voice. "You've made me happierthan I ever dreamed of being. I don't know what to say to you; Isimply don't know how to thank you for doing this wonderful thing forme. "

He, too, was happier than he had ever been in all his life; and somuch in love that he found nothing to say for a moment save the fewtrite phrases in which a man in love says many commonplaces, all ofwhich only mean, "I love you. "

[Illustration: "When he saw her he sprang out and came forward. "]

Doubtless she understood the complicated code, for she laughed andblushed a trifle and looked around at her maid laden with luggage. 

"Where can we put these, Clive?" she asked. 

"What on earth is all that luggage?" he asked, surprised. 

"I'm going to remain a few days, " she explained, "so I've brought afew things. "

"But do you imagine there is anything to eat or anywhere to lay yourhead in that tumble down old house?" he demanded, secretly enchantedwith her rash enthusiasm. 

"I propose to camp. I can buy milk, crackers, and sardines at SpringPond village; also sufficient bathroom and bed linen. That is all Irequire to be perfectly comfortable. "

There was no rumble on the Stinger, only a baggage rack and boot. Herehe secured, covered, and strapped Athalie's impedimenta; the maidslipped on her travelling coat; she sprang lightly into the seat; andClive went around and climbed in beside her, taking the wheel. 

The journey downtown and across the Queensboro Bridge was the usualuncomfortable and exasperating progress familiar to all who pilot carsto Long Island. Brooklyn was negotiated prayerfully; they swung intothe great turnpike, through the ugliest suburbs this humiliated worldever endured, on through the shabby, filthy, sordid environment of thegigantic Burrough, past ignoble villages, desolate wastes, networksof railway tracks where grade crossings menaced them, and on along thepurlieus of suburban deserts until the flat green Long Island countryspread away on either side dotted with woods and greenhouses andquaint farm-houses and old-time spires. 

"It is pretty when you get here, " he said, "but it's like climbingover a mile of garbage to get out of one's front door. No Europeancity would endure being isolated by such a desert of squalor andabominable desolation. "

But Athalie merely smiled. She had been far too excited to notice thefamiliar ugliness and filth of the dirty city's soiled and raggedoutskirts. 

And now the car sped on amid the flat, endless acres of cultivatedland, and already her dainty nose was sniffing familiar buthalf-forgotten odours--the faintest hint of ocean, the sun-warmedscent of freshly cut salt hay; perfumes from woodlands in heavyfoliage, and the more homely smell from barn-yard and compost-heap;from the sunny, dusty village streets through which they rolled; fromvillage lanes heavy with honeysuckle. 

"I seem to be speeding back toward my childhood, " she said. "Everybreath of this air, every breeze, every odour is making it more realto me. . . . I wonder whatever became of my ragged red hood and cloak. Ican't remember. "

"I'd like to have them, " he said. "I'd fold them and lay them awayfor--"

He checked himself, sobered, suddenly and painfully aware that themagic of the moment had opened for him an unreal vista where, in thefalse dawn, the phantom of Hope stood smiling. Her happy smile hadaltered, too; and her gloved hand stole out and rested on his own fora moment in silence. Neither said anything for a while, and yet thesky was so blue, the wind so soft and aromatic, and the sun'ssplendour was turning the very earth to powdered gold. And maybe thegods would yet be kind. Maybe, one day, others, with Athalie's hairand eyes, might smooth the faded scarlet hood and cloak with softlyinquiring fingers. 

He spoke almost harshly from his brief dream: "There is the Bay!"

But she had turned to look back at the quiet little cemetery alreadybehind them, and a moment or two passed before she lifted her eyes andlooked out across the familiar stretch of water. Azure and silver itglimmered there in the sun. Red-shouldered blackbirds hovered, fluttered, dropped back into the tall reeds; meadow larks whistledsweetly, persistently; a slow mouse-hawk sailed low over the fields, his broad wings tipped up like a Japanese kite, the silver full-moonflashing on his back as he swerved. And then the old tavern came intosight behind its new hedge of privet. 

Athalie caught sight of it, --of the tall hedge, the new posts of stonethrough which a private road now curved into the grounds and around acircle before the porch; saw the new stone wall inclosing it ablazewith nasturtiums, the brilliant loveliness of the old and longneglected garden beyond; saw the ancient house in all its quaint andcharming simplicity bereft of bow-window, spindle, and gingerbreadfretwork, --saw the white front of it, the green shutters, the big, thick chimneys, the sunlight sparkling on small square panes, and onthe glass of the sun parlour. 

The girl was trembling when he stopped the car at the front door, sprang out, and aided her to descend. 

A man in overalls came up, diffidently, and touched his broad strawhat. To him Clive gave a low-voiced order or two, then stepped forwardto where the girl was standing. 

"It is too beautiful--" she began, but her voice failed, and he sawthe sensitive lips tremulous in their silence and the eyes brilliantwith the menace of tears. 

He drew her arm through his and they went in, moving slowly and insilence from room to room. Only the almost convulsive pressure of herarm on his told him of a happiness too deep for expression. 

On the landing above he offered her the key to her mother's room. 

"Nothing is changed there, " he said; and, fitting the key, unlockedthe door, and turned away. 

But the girl caught his hand in hers and drew him with her into thefaded, shabby room where her mother's chair stood in its accustomedplace, and the faded hassock lay beside it. 

"Sit here, " she said. And when he was seated she dropped on thehassock at his feet and laid her cheek on his knees. 

The room was very still and sunny; her lover remained silent andunstirring; and the girl's eyes wandered from carpet to ceiling andfrom wall to wall, resting on familiar objects; then, passingdreamily, remained fixed on space--sweet, brooding eyes, dim with thedeepest emotion she had ever known. 

A new, profound, and thrilling peace possessed her--a heavenly senseof tranquillity and security, as though, somehow, all problems hadbeen solved for her and for him. 

Presently in a low, hushed, happy voice she began to speak about hermother. Little unimportant, unconnected incidents came to hermind--brief moments, episodes as ephemeral as they had beeninsignificant. 

Sitting on the faded hassock at his feet she lifted her head andrested both arms across his knees. 

"It is all so perfect now, " she said, --"you here in mother's room, andI at your feet: and the sunny world waiting for us outside. How mellowis this light! Always in the demi-dusk of this house there seemed tome to linger a golden tint--even on dark days--even at night--asthough somewhere a ray of sun had been lost and had not entirely fadedout. "

"It came from your own heart, Athalie--that wonderful and golden heartof yours where light and warmth can never die. . . . Dear, are youcontented with what I have ventured to do?"

She looked silently into his eyes, then with a little sigh dropped herhead on his knees again. 

Far away somewhere in the depths of the house somebody was moving. Andpresently she asked him who it was. 

"Connor, the man of all work. I sent him to Spring Pond village tobuy bed linen and bath towels. I ventured to install a brass bed ortwo in case you had thought of coming here with your maid. You see, "he added, smiling, "it was fortunate that I did. "

"You are the most wonderful man in the world, Clive, " she murmured, her eyes fixed dreamily on his face. "Always you have been making lifedelightful for me; smoothing my path, helping me where the road isrough. ". . . She sighed: "Clive, you are very wonderful to me. "

 * * * * *

Mrs. Jim Connor had come to help; and now, at high noon, she soughtthem where they were standing in the garden, --Athalie in ecstasybefore the scented thickets of old-fashioned rockets massed in a long, broad border against a background of trees. 

So they went in to luncheon, which was more of a dinner; and Mrs. Connor served them with apology, bustle, and not too garrulously forthe humour they were in. 

High spirits had returned to them when they stepped out of doors; andthey came back to the house for luncheon in the gayest of humour, Athalie chattering away blithe as a linnet in a thorn bush, and Clivenot a whit more reticent. 

"Hafiz is going to adore this!" exclaimed the girl. "My angelpussy!--why was I mean enough to leave you in the city!. . . I'll have adog, too--a soft, roly-poly puppy, who shall grow up with a wholesomerespect for Hafiz. And, Clive! I shall have a nice fat horse, a safeand sane old Dobbin--so I can poke about the countryside at myleisure, through byways and lanes and disused roads. "

"You need a car, too. "

"No, no, I really don't. Anyway, " she said airily, "your car issufficient, isn't it?"

"Of course, " he smiled. 

"I think so, too. I shall not require or desire a car unless you alsoare to be in it. But I'd love to possess a Dobbin and a doublebuckboard. Also I shall, in due time, purchase a sail-boat--" Shechecked herself, laughed at the sudden memory, and said withdelightful malice: "I suppose you have not yet learned to sail a boat, have you?"

He laughed, too: "How you scorned me for my ignorance, didn't you? Oh, but I've learned a great many things since those days, Athalie. "

"To sail a boat, too?"

"Oh, yes. I had to learn. There's a lot of water in the world; andI've been very far afield. "

"I know, " she said. There was a subtle sympathy in her voice, --anexquisite recognition of the lonely years which now seemed to lie far, far behind them both. 

She glanced down at her fresh plate which Mrs. Connor had just placedbefore her. 

"Clive!" she exclaimed, enchanted, "do you see! Peach turnovers!"

"Certainly. Do you suppose this housewarming could be a proper onewithout peach turnovers?" And to Mrs. Connor he said: "That is all, thank you. Miss Greensleeve and I will eat our turnovers by the stovein the sun-parlour. "

And there they ate their peach turnovers, seated on the old-timerush-bottomed chairs beside the stove--just as they had sat so manyyears ago when Athalie was a child of twelve and wore a ragged cloakand hood of red. 

Sometimes, leisurely consuming her pastry, she glanced demurely at herlover, sometimes her blue eyes wandered to the sunny picture outsidewhere roses grew and honeysuckle trailed and the blessed green grassenchanted the tired eyes of those who dwelt in the monstrous and aridcity. 

Presently she went away to the room he had prepared for her; and helay back lazily in his chair and lighted a cigarette, and watched thethin spirals of smoke mounting through the sunshine. When she returnedto him she was clad in white from crown to toe, and he told her shewas enchanting, which made her eyes sparkle and the dimples come. 

"Mrs. Connor is going to remain and help me, " she said. "All my thingsare unpacked, and the bed is made very nicely, and it is all going tobe too heavenly for words. Oh, I _wish_ you could stay!"

"To-night?"

"Yes. But I suppose it would ruin us if anybody knew. "

He said nothing as they walked back into the main hallway. 

"What a charming old building it is!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it oddthat I never before appreciated the house from an esthetic angle? Idon't suppose you'd call this architecture, but whatever else it maybe it certainly is dignified. I adore the simplicity of the rooms;don't you? I shall have some pretty silk curtains made; and, in thebedrooms, chintz. And maybe you will help me hunt for furniture andrugs. Will you, dear?"

"We'll find some old mahogany for this floor and white enamel for thebedrooms if you like. What do you say?"

"Enchanting! I adore antique mahogany! You know how crazy I am aboutthe furniture of bygone days. I shall squander every penny on thingsChippendale and Sheraton and Hepplewhite. Oh, it is going to be adarling house and I'm the happiest girl in the world. And you havemade me so!--dearest of men!"

She caught his hand to her lips as he bent to kiss hers, and theirfaces came together in a swift and clinging embrace. Which left herflushed and wordless for the moment, and disposed to hang her head asshe walked slowly beside him to the front door. 

Out in the sunshine, however, her self-possession returned in a prettyexclamation of delight; and she called his attention to a tiny rainbowformed in the spray of the garden hose where Connor was watering thegrass. 

"Symbol of hope for us, " he said under his breath. 

She nodded, and stood inhaling the fragrance of the garden. 

"I know a path--if it still exists--where I used to go as a child. Would you care to follow it with me?"

So they walked down to the causeway bridge spanning the outlet toSpring Pond, turned to the right amid a tangle of milk-weed in heavybloom, and grapevines hanging in festoons from rock and sapling. 

The path had not changed; it wound along the wooded shore of the pond, then sloped upward and came out into a grassy upland, where itfollowed the woods' edge under the cool shadow of the trees. 

And as they walked she told him of her childish journeys along thispath until it reached the wooded and pebbly height of land beyond, which is one of the vertebræ in the backbone of Long Island. 

To reach that ridge was her ultimate ambition in those youthful days;and when on one afternoon of reckless daring she had attained it, andfar to the northward she saw the waters of the great Sound sparklingin the sun, she had felt like Balboa in sight of the Pacific, awed tothe point of prayer by her own miraculous achievement. 

Where the path re-entered the woods, far down the slope, they couldhear the waters of Spring Brook flowing; and presently they could seethe clear glint of the stream; and she told him tales of alder-polesand home-made hooks, and of dusky troutlings that haunted the woodlandpools far in the dusk of leafy and mysterious depths. 

On the brink of the slope, but firmly imbedded, there had been a bigmossy log. She discovered it presently, and drew him down to a seatbeside her, taking possession of one of his arms and drawing itclosely under her own. Then she crossed one knee over the other andlooked out into the magic half-light of a woodland which, to herchildish eyes, had once seemed a vast and depthless forest. A bar ofsunlight fell across her slim shoe and ankle clothed in white, andacross the log, making the moss greener than emeralds. 

From far below came pleasantly the noise of the brook; overhead leavesstirred and whispered in the breezes; shadows moved; sun-spots waxedand waned on tree-trunk and leaf and on the brown ground under foot. Ascarlet-banded butterfly--he they call the Red Admiral--flittedpersistently about an oak tree where the stain of sap darkened thebark. 

From somewhere came the mellow tinkle of cow-bells, which movedAthalie to speech; and she poured out her heart to Clive on thesubject of domestic kine and of chickens and ducks. 

"I'm a country girl; there can be no doubt about it, " she admitted. "Ido not think a day passes in the city but I miss the cock-crow and theplaint of barn-yard fowl, and the lowing of cattle and the whimper andcoo of pigeons. And my country eyes grow weary for a glimpse of green, Clive, --and for wide horizons and the vast flotillas of white cloudsthat sail over pastures and salt meadows and bays and oceans. Neverhave I been as contented as I am at this moment--here--under the skyalone with you. "

"That also is all I ask in life--the open world, and you. "

"Maybe it will happen. "

"Maybe. "

"With everything--desirable--"

She dropped her eyes and remained very still. For the first time inher life she had thought of children as her own--and his. And thethought which had flashed unbidden through her mind left her silent, and a little bewildered by its sweetness. 

He was saying: "You should, by this time, have the means which enableyou to live in the country. "

"Yes. "

Cecil Reeve had advised her in her investments. The girl's financialcircumstances were modest, but adequate and sound. 

"I never told you how much I have, " she said. "May I?"

"If you care to. "

She told him, explaining every detail very carefully; and he listened, fascinated by this charming girl's account of how in four years, shehad won from the world the traditional living to which all aresupposed to be entitled. 

"You see, " she said, "that gives me a modest income. I could live herevery nicely. It has always been my dream. . . . But of course everythingnow depends on where you are. "

Surprised and touched he turned toward her: she flushed and smiled, suddenly realising the naïveté of her avowal. 

"It's true, " she said. "Every day I seem to become more and moreentangled with you. I'm wondering whether I've already crossed thebounds of friendship, and how far I am outside. I can't seem torealise any longer that there is no bond between us stronger thanpreference. . . . I was thinking--very unusual and very curiousthoughts--about us both. " She drew a deep, unsteady, but smiling, breath: "Clive, I wish you could marry me. "

"You _wish_ it, Athalie?" he asked, profoundly moved. 

"Yes. "

After a silence she leaned over and rested her cheek against hisshoulder. 

"Ah, yes, " she said under her breath, --"that is what I begin to wishfor. A home, and _you_. . . . And--children. "

He put his arm around her. 

"Isn't it strange, Clive, that I should think about children--at myage--and with little chance of ever having any. I don't know whatpossesses me to suddenly want them. . . . Wouldn't they be wonderful inthat house? And they'd have that darling garden to play in. . . . Thereought to be a boy--several in fact, and some girls. . . . _I'd_ know whatto do for them. Isn't it odd that I should know exactly how to bringthem up. But I do. I know I do. . . . I can almost see them playing inthe garden--I can see their dear little faces--hear their voices--"

His arm was clasping her slim body very tightly, but she suddenly satupright, resting one slender hand on his shoulder; and her gaze becamesteady and fixed. 

Presently he noticed it and turned his head in the same direction, butsaw nothing except the sunlight sifting through the trees and thegolden half-light of the woods beyond. 

"What is it, Athalie?" he asked. 

She said in a curiously still voice: "Children. "

"Where?"

"Playing in the woods. "

"Where?" he repeated; "I do not see them. "

She did not answer. Presently she closed her eyes and rested her faceagainst his shoulder again, pressing close to him as though lonely. 

"They went away, " she said in answer to his question. . . . "I feel alittle tired, Clive. . . . Do you care for me a great deal?"

"Can you ask?"

"Yes. . . . Because of the years ahead of us. I think there are to bemany--for us both. The future is so bewildering--like a tangled andendless forest, and very dim to see in. . . . But sometimes there comes arift in the foliage--and there is a glimpse of far skies shining. Andfor a moment one--'sees clearly'--into the depths--a little way. . . . And surmises something of what remains unseen. And imagines more, perhaps. . . . I wonder if you love me--enough. "

"Dearest--dearest--"

"Let it remain unsaid, Clive. A girl must learn one day. But neverfrom the asking. And the same sun shall continue to rise and set, whatever her answer is to be; and the moon, too; and the stars shallremain unchanged--whatever changes us. How still the woods are--asstill as dreams. "

[Illustration: "She suddenly sat upright, resting one slender hand onhis shoulder. "]

She lifted her head, looked at him, smiled, then, freeing herself, sprang to her feet and stood a moment drawing her slim hand across hereyes. 

"I shall have a tennis court, Clive. And a canoe on Spring Pond. . . . What kind of puppy was that I said I wanted?"

"One which would grow up with proper fear and respect for Hafiz, " hesaid, smilingly, perplexed by the rapid sequence of her moods. 

"A collie?"

"If you like. "

"I wonder, " she murmured, "whether they are safe for children--" Shelooked up laughing: "_Isn't_ it odd! I simply cannot seem to free mymind of children whenever I think about that house. "

As they moved along the path toward the new home he said: "What was ityou saw in the woods?"

"Children. "

"Were they--real?"

"No. "

"Had they died?"

"They have not yet been born, " she said in a low voice. 

"I did not know you could see such things. "

"I am not sure that I can. It is very difficult for me, sometimes, todistinguish between vividly imaginative visualisation and--otherthings. "

Walking back through the soft afternoon light the girl tried to tellhim all that she knew about herself and her clairvoyance--strove toexplain, to make him understand, and, perhaps, to understand herself. 

But after a while silence intervened between them; and when they spokeagain they spoke of other things. For the isolation of souls is asolitude inviolable; there can be no intimacy there, only the longingfor it--the craving, endless, unsatisfied. 

CHAPTER XXIII

Over the garden a waning moon silvered the water in the pool andpicked out from banked masses of bloom a tall lily here and there. 

All the blossom-spangled vines were misty with the hovering wings ofnight-moths. Through alternate bands of moonlight and dusk the jetfrom the pool split into a thin shower of palely flashing jewels, sometimes raining back on the water, sometimes drifting with the windacross the grass. And through the dim enchantment moved Athalie, leaning on Clive's arm, like some slim sorceress in a secret maze, silent, absent-eyed, brooding magic. 

Already into her garden had come the little fantastic creatures of thenight as though drawn thither by a spell to do her bidding. Like a fatsprite a speckled toad hopped and hobbled and scrambled from theirpath; a tiny snake, green as the grass blades that it stirred, slippedfrom a pool of moonlight into a lake of shadow. Somewhere a small owl, tremulously melodious, called and called: and from the salt meadows, distantly, the elfin whistle of plover answered. 

Like some lost wanderer from the moon itself a great moth withnile-green wings fell flopping on the grass at the girl's feet. AndClive, wondering, lifted it gingerly for her inspection. 

Together they examined the twin moons shining on its translucentwings, the furry, snow-white body and the six downy feet of palestrose. Then, at Athalie's request, Clive tossed the angelic creatureinto the air; and there came a sudden blur of black wings in themoonlight, and a bat took it. 

But neither he nor she had seen in allegory the darting thing withdevil's wings that dashed the little spirit of the moon into eternalnight. And out of the black void above, one by one, flakes from thefrail wings came floating. 

To and fro they moved. She with both hands clasped and resting on hisarm, peering through darkness down at the flowers, as one perfume, mounting, overpowered another--clove-pink, rocket, lily, and petunia, each in its turn dominant, triumphant. 

Puffs of fragrance from the distant sea stirred the garden's tranquilair from time to time: somewhere honeyed bunches hung high from locusttrees; and the salt meadow's aromatic tang lent savour to the night. 

"I must go back to town, " he said irresolutely. 

He heard her sigh, felt her soft clasp tighten slightly over his arm. But she turned back in silence with him toward the house, passed inthe open door before him, her fair head lowered, and stood so, leaningagainst the newel-post. 

"Good night, " he said in a low voice, still irresolute. 

"Must you go?"

"I ought to. "

"There is that other bedroom. And Mrs. Connor has gone home for thenight. "

"I told her to remain, " he said sharply. 

"I told her to go. "

"Why?"

"Because I wanted you to stay--this first night here--with me--in thehome of my youth which you have given to me again. "

He came to her and looked into her eyes, framing her face between hishands:

"Dear, it would be unwise for me to remain. "

"Because you love me?"

"No. " He added with a forced smile: "I have put on armour in ourbehalf. No, that is not the reason. "

"Then--may you not stay?"

"Suppose it became known? What would you do, Athalie?"

"Hold my head high . . . Guilty or not. "

"You don't know what you are saying. "

"Not exactly, perhaps. . . . But I know that I have been changing. Thisday alone with you is finishing the transformation. I'm not sure justwhen it began. I realise, now, that it has been in process for a long, long while. " She drew away from him, leaned back on the banisters. 

"I may not have much time;--I want to be candid--I want to thinkhonestly. I don't desire to deny even to myself that I am now becomewhat I am--a stranger to myself. "

He said, still with his forced smile; "What pretty and unknownstranger have you so suddenly discovered in yourself, Athalie?"

She looked up at him, unsmiling: "A stranger to celibacy. . . . Why doyou not take me, Clive?"

"Do you understand what you are saying!"

"Yes. And now I can understand anything _you_ may say or do . . . Icouldn't, yesterday. " She turned her face away from him and folded herhands over the newel-post. And, not looking at him, she said: "Sincewe have been here alone together I have known a confidence andsecurity I never dreamed of. Nothing now matters, nothing causesapprehension, nothing of fear remains--not even that ignorance of fearwhich the world calls innocence. 

"I am what I am; I am not afraid to be and live what I have become. . . . I am capable of love. Yesterday I was not. I have been fashioned tolove, I think. . . . But there is only one man who can make mecertain. . . . My trust and confidence are wholly his--as fearlessly asthough he had become this day my husband. . . . 

"And if he will stay, here under this roof which is not mine unless itis his also--here in this house where, within the law or without it, nevertheless everything is his--then he enters into possession of whatis his own. And I at last receive my birthright, --which is to servewhere I am served, love where love is mine--with gratitude, andunafraid--"

Her voice trembled, broke; she covered her face with her hands; andwhen he took her in his arms she leaned her forehead against hisbreast:

--"Oh, Clive--I can't deny them!--How can I deny them?--The littleflower-like faces, pleading to me for life!--And their tenderarms--around my neck--there in the garden, Clive!--The winsome lipson mine, warm and heavenly sweet; and the voices calling, calling fromthe golden woodland, calling from meadow and upland, height andhollow!--And sometimes like far echoes of wind-blown laughter theycall me--gay little voices, confident and sweet; and sometimes, winning and shy, they whisper close to my cheek--mother!--mother--"

His arms fell from her and he stepped back, trembling. 

She lifted her pale tear-stained face. And, save for the paintedVirgins of an ancient day he never before had seen such spiritualpassion in any face--features where nothing sensuous had ever left animprint; where the sensitive, tremulous mouth curved with theloveliness of a desire as innocent as a child's. 

And he read there no taint of lesser passion, nothing of less nobleemotion; only a fearless and overwhelming acknowledgment of hercraving to employ the gifts with which her womanhood endowed her--loveand life, and service never ending. 

 * * * * *

In her mother's room they sat long talking, her hands resting on his, her fresh and delicate face a pale white blur in the dusk. 

It was very late before he went to the room allotted him, knowing thathe could not hope for sleep. Seated there by his open window he heardthe owl's tremolo rise, quaver, and die away in the moonlight; heheard the murmuring plaint of marsh-fowl, and the sea-breeze stirringthe reeds. 

Now, in this supreme crisis of his life, looking out into darkness hesaw a star fall, leaving an incandescent curve against the heavenswhich faded slowly as he looked. 

Into an obscurity as depthless, his soul was peering, now, naked, unarmoured, clasping hands with hers. And every imperious and furioustide that sweeps the souls and bodies of men now mountedoverwhelmingly and set toward her. It seemed at moments as thoughtheir dragging was actually moving his limbs from where he sat; and heclosed his eyes and his strong hand fell on the sill, grasping it asthough for anchorage. 

Now, --if there were in him anything higher than the mere clay thatclotted his bones--now was the moment to show it. And if there were adiviner armour within reach of his unsteady hand, he must don it nowand rivet it fast in the name of God. 

Darkness is a treacherous councillor; he rose heavily, and turned theswitch, flooding the room with light, then flung himself across thebed, his clenched fists over his face. 

In his ears he seemed to hear the dull roar of the current which, sofar through life, had borne him on its crest, tossing, hurling himwhither it had listed. 

It should never again have its will of him. This night he must set hiscourse forever. 

"Clive!"

But the faint, clear call was no more real, and no less, than thevoice which was ringing always in his ears, now, --no softer, no lesswinning. 

"Clive!"

After a moment he raised himself to his elbows and gazed, half-blinded, toward the door. Then he got clumsily to his feet, stumbled across the floor, and opened it. 

She stood there in her frail chamber robe of silk and swansdown, smiling, forlornly humorous, and displaying a book as symbol of herown insomnia. 

"Can't you sleep?" she asked. "We'll both be dead in the morning. Ithought I'd better tell you to go to sleep when I saw your light breakout. . . . So I've come to tell you. "

"How could you see that my window was lighted?"

"I was leaning out of my window listening to the little owl, andsuddenly I saw the light from yours fall criss-cross across thegrass. . . . Can't you sleep?"

"Yes. I'll turn out the light. Will _you_ promise to go to sleep?"

"If I can. The night is so beautiful--"

With a gay little smile and gesture she turned away; but halfway downthe corridor she hesitated and looked back at him. 

"If you are sleepless, " she called softly, "you may wake me and I'lltalk to you. "

There was a window at the end of the corridor. He saw her continue onpast her door and stand there looking out into the garden. She wasstill standing there when he closed his door and went back to hischair. 

The night seemed interminable; its moonlit fragrance unendurable. Withsleepless eyes he gazed into the darkness, appalled at thefuture--fearing such nights to come--nights like this, alone withher; and the grim battle to be renewed, inexorably renewed until thatday should come--if ever it was to come--when he dared take in thename of God what Destiny had already made his own, and was nowclamouring for him to take. 

After a long while he rose from the window, went to his door again, opened it and looked out. And saw her still leaning against the windowat the corridor's dim end. 

She looked around, laughing softly as he came up: "All this--thenight, the fragrance, and you, have hopelessly bewitched me. I can'tsleep; I don't wish to. . . . But you, poor boy--you haven't evenundressed. You look very tired and white, Clive. Why is it you can'tsleep?"

He did not answer. 

"Shall I get my book and read aloud to you? It's silly stuff--love, and such things. Shall I?"

"No--I'm going back, " he answered curtly. 

She glanced around at him curiously. For, that day, a newcomprehension of men and their various humours had come to enlightenher; she had begun to understand even where she could not feel. 

And so, tenderly, gently, in shy sympathy with the powerful currentsthat swept this man beside her, --but still herself ignorant of theirpower, she laid her cool cheek against his, drawing his head closer. 

"Dearest--dearest--" she murmured vaguely. 

His head turned, and hers turned instinctively to meet it; and herarms crept up around his neck. 

Then of a sudden she had freed herself, stepped back, one nervous armoutflung as if in self-defence. But her hand fell, caught on thewindow-sill and clung there for support; and she rested against itbreathing rapidly and unevenly. 

"Athalie--dear. "

"Let me go now--"

Her lips burned for an instant under his; were wrenched away:

"Let me go, Clive--"

"You must not tremble so--"

"I can't help it. . . . I am afraid. I want to go, now. I--I want togo--"

There was a chair by the window; she sank down on it and dropped herhead back against the wall behind. 

And, as he stood there beside her, over her shoulder through the openwindow he saw two men in the garden below, watching them. 

Presently she lifted her head. His eyes remained fixed on the menbelow who never moved. 

She said with an effort; "Are you displeased, Clive?"

"No, my darling. "

"It was not because I do not love you. Only--I--"

"I know, " he whispered, his eyes fixed steadily on the men. 

After a silence she said under her breath: "I understand better nowwhy I ought to wait for you--if there is any hope for us, --as long asthere is any chance. And after that--if there is no chance forus--then nothing can matter. "

"I know. "

"To-night, earlier, I did not understand why I should deny myself tomyself, to you, to _them_. . . . I did not understand that what I wishedfor so treacherously masked a--a lesser impulse--"

He said, quietly: "Nothing is surer than that you and I, one day, shall face our destiny together. I really care nothing for custom, law, or folk-way, or dogma, excepting only for your sake. Outside ofthat, man's folk-ways, man's notions of God, mean nothing to me: onlymy own intelligence and belief appeal to me. I must guide myself. "

"Guide me, too, " she said. "For I have come into a wisdom whichdismays me. "

He nodded and looked down, calmly, at the two men who had not stirredfrom the shadow of the foliage. 

She rose to her feet, hesitated, slowly stretched out her hand, then, on impulse, pressed it lightly against his lips. 

"That demonstration, " she said with a troubled laugh, "is to be ourlimit. Good night. You will try to sleep, won't you?. . . And if I amnow suddenly learning to be a little shy with you--you will notmistake me; will you?. . . Because it may seem silly at this latedate. . . . But, somehow, everything comes late to me--even love, and itslesser lore and its wisdom and its cunning. So, if I ever seemindifferent--don't doubt me, Clive. . . . Good night. "

 * * * * *

When she had entered her room and closed the door he went downstairs, swiftly, let himself out of the house, and moved straight toward thegarden. 

Neither of the men seemed very greatly surprised; both retreated withdocile alacrity across the lawn to the driveway gate. 

"Anyway, " said the taller man, good-humouredly, "you've got to hand itto us, Mr. Bailey. I guess we pinch the goods on you all right thistime. What about it?"

But Clive silently locked the outer gates, then turned and stared atthe shadowy house as though it had suddenly crumbled into ruins thereunder the July moon. 

CHAPTER XXIV

A fine lace-work of mist lay over the salt meadows; the fairy trillingof the little owl had ceased. Marsh-fowl were sleepily astir; the lastfirefly floated low into the shrouded bushes and its lamp glimmered amoment and went out. 

Where the east was growing grey long lines of wild-ducks wentstringing out to sea; a few birds sang loudly in meadows stillobscure; cattle in foggy upland pastures were awake. 

When the first cock-crow rang, cow-bells had been clanking for an houror more; the rising sun turned land and sea to palest gold; everyhedge and thicket became noisy with birds; bay-men stepped spars andhoisted sail, and their long sweeps dripped liquid fire as they pulledaway into the blinding glory of the east. 

And Clive rose wearily from his window chair, care-worn and haggard, with nothing determined, nothing solved of this new and imminent perilwhich was already menacing Athalie with disgrace and threatening himwith that unwholesome notoriety which men usually survive but underwhich a woman droops and perishes. 

He bathed, dressed again, dully uneasy in the garments of yesterday, uncomfortable for lack of fresh linen and toilet requisites; littlethings indeed to add such undue weight to his depression. And onlyyesterday he had laughed at inconvenience and had still found charm tothrill him in the happy unconventionality of that day and night. 

Connor was already weeding in the garden when he went out; and thedull surprise in the Irishman's sunburnt visage sent a swift andpainful colour into his own pallid face. 

"Miss Greensleeve was kind enough to put me up last night, " he saidbriefly. 

Connor stood silent, slowly combing the soil from the claw of hisweeder with work-worn fingers. 

Clive said: "Since I have been coming down here to watch the progresson Miss Greensleeve's house have you happened to notice any strangershanging about the grounds?"

Connor's grey eyes narrowed and became fixed on nothing. 

Presently he nodded to himself:

"There was inquiries made, sorr, I'm minded now that ye mention it. "

"About me?"

"Yes, sorr. There was strangers askin' f'r to know was it you that ownsthe house or what. "

"What was said?"

"I axed them would they chase themselves, --it being none o' theirbusiness. 'Twas no satisfaction they had of me, Misther Bailey, sorr. "

"Who were they, Connor?"

"I just disremember now. Maybe there was a big wan and a littlewan. . . . Yes, sorr; there was two of them hangin' about on and offthese six weeks past, like they was minded to take a job and thenagain not minded. Sure there was the two o' thim, now I think of it. Wan was big and thin and wan was a little scutt wid a big nose. "

Clive nodded: "Keep them off the place, Connor. Keep all strangersoutside. Miss Greensleeve will be here for several days alone and shemust not be annoyed. "

"Divil a bit, sorr. "

"I want you and Mrs. Connor to sleep in the house for the present. AndI do not wish you to answer any questions from anybody concerningeither Miss Greensleeve or myself. Can I depend on you?"

"You can, sorr. "

"I'm sure of it. Now, I'd like to have you go to the village and buyme something to shave with and to comb my hair with. I had notintended to remain here over night, but I did not care to leave MissGreensleeve entirely alone in the house. "

"Sure, sorr, Jenny was fixed f'r to stay--"

"I know. Miss Greensleeve told her she might go home. It was amisunderstanding. But I want her to remain hereafter until MissGreensleeve's servants come from New York. "

So Connor went away to the village and Clive seated himself on agarden bench to wait. 

Nothing stirred inside the house; the shades in Athalie's roomremained lowered. 

He watched the chimney swifts soaring and darting above the house. Afaint dun-coloured haze crowned the kitchen chimney. Mrs. Connor wasalready busy over their breakfast. 

[Illustration: "Clive nodded: 'Keep them off the place, Connor. '"]

When the gardener returned with the purchases Clive went to his roomagain and remained there busy until a knock on the door and Mrs. Connor's hearty voice announced breakfast. 

As he stepped out into the passage-way he met Athalie coming from herroom in a soft morning negligée, and still yawning. 

She bade him good morning in a sweet, sleepy voice, linked her white, lace-clouded arm in his, glanced sideways at him, humorously ashamed:

"I'm a disgrace, " she said; "I could have slain Mrs. Connor when shewoke me. Oh, Clive, I _am_ so sleepy!"

"Why did you get up?"

"My dear, I'm also hungry; that is why. I could scent the coffee fromafar. And you know, Clive, if you ever wish to hopelessly alienate myaffections, you have only to deprive me of my breakfast. Tell me, didyou get _any_ sleep?"

He forced a smile: "I had sufficient. "

"I wonder, " she mused, looking at his somewhat haggard features. 

They found the table prepared for them in the sun-parlour; Athaliepresided at the coffee urn, but became a trifle flushed and shy whenMrs. Connor came in bearing a smoking cereal. 

"I made a mistake in allowing you to go home, " said the girl, "so Ithought it best for Mr. Bailey to remain. "

"Sure I was that worritted, " burst out Mrs. Connor, "I was minded tocome back--what with all the thramps and Dagoes hereabout, and no dogon the place, and you alone; so I sez to my man Cornelius, --'Neil, 'sez I, 'it's not right, ' sez I, 'f'r to be lavin' th' young lady--'"

"Certainly, " interrupted Clive quietly, "and you and Neil are to sleepin the house hereafter until Miss Greensleeve's servants arrive. "

"I'm not afraid, " murmured Athalie, looking at him with lazy amusementover the big, juicy peach she was preparing. But when Mrs. Connorretired her expression changed. 

"You dear fellow, " she said, "You need not ever be worried about me. "

"I'm not, Athalie--"

"Oh, Clive! Aren't you always going to be honest with me?"

"Why do you think I am anxious concerning you when Connor and hiswife--"

"Dearest!"

"What?" He looked across at her where she was serenely preparing hiscoffee; and when she had handed the cup to him she shook her head, gravely, as though in gentle disapproval of some inward thought ofhis. 

"What is it?" he asked uneasily. 

"You know already. "

"What _is_ it?" he repeated, reddening. 

"Must _I_ tell _you_, Clive?"

"I think you had better. "

"_You_ should have told _me_, dear. . . . Don't ever fear to tell mewhat concerns us both. Don't think that leaving me in ignorance ofunpleasant facts is any kindness to me. If anything happens to causeyou anxiety, I should feel humiliated if you were left to endure itall alone. "

[Illustration: "'Sure I was that worritted, ' burst out Mrs. Connor. "]

He remained silent, troubled, uncertain as yet, how much she knew ofwhat had happened in the garden the night before. 

"Clive, dear, don't let this thing spoil anything for us. I know aboutit. Don't let any shadow fall upon this house of ours. "

"You saw me last night in the garden. "

Between diffidence and the candour that characterised her, shehesitated; then:

"Dear, a very strange thing has happened. Until last night never inall my life, try as I might, could I ever 'see clearly' anything thatconcerned you. Never have I been able to 'find' you anywhere--evenwhen my need was desperate--when my heart seemed breaking--"

She checked herself, smiled at him; then her eyes grew dark andthoughtful, and a deeper colour burned in her cheeks. 

"I'll try to tell you, " she said. "Last night, after I left you, I laythinking about--love. And the--the new knowledge of myselfdisconcerted me. . . . There remained a vague sense of dismayand--humiliation--" She bent her head over her folded hands, silentuntil the deepening colour subsided. 

Still with lowered eyes she went on, steadily enough: "My instinct wasto escape--I don't know exactly how to tell this to you, dear, --butthe impulse to escape possessed me--and I felt that I must rise fromthe lower planes and free myself from a--a lesser passion--slip fromthe menace of its control--become clean again of everything that isnot of the spirit. . . . Do you understand?"

"Yes. "

"So I rose and knelt down and said my prayers. . . . And asked to beinstructed because of my inexperience with--with these new anddeep--emotions. And then I lay down, very tranquil again, leaving theburden with God. . . . All concern left me, --and the restless sense ofshame. I turned my head on the pillow and looked out into themoonlight. . . . And, gently, naturally, without any sense of effort, Ileft my body where it lay in the moonlight, and--and found myself inthe garden. Mother was there. You, also, were there; and two men withyou. "

His eyes never left her face; and now she looked up at him with aghost of a smile:

"Mother spoke of the loveliness of the flowers. I heard her, but I waslistening to you. Then I followed you where you were driving the twomen from the grounds. I understood what had happened. After you wentinto the house again my mother and I saw you watching by your window. I was sorry that you were so deeply disturbed. 

"Because what had occurred did not cause me any anxiety whatever. "

"Do you mean, " he said hoarsely, "that the probability of your namebeing coupled with mine and dragged through the public mire does notdisconcert you?"

"No. "

"Why not? Is it because your clairvoyance reassures you as to theoutcome of all this?"

"Dear, " she said, gently, "I know no more of the outcome than you do. I know nothing more concerning our future than do you--excepting, only, that we shall journey toward it together, and through it to theend, accomplishing the destiny which links us each to the other. . . . Iknow no more than that. "

"Then why are you so serene under the menace of this miserable affair?For myself I care nothing; I'd thank God for a divorce on any terms. But you--dearest--dearest!--I cannot endure the thought of youentangled in such a shameful--"

"Where is the shame, Clive? The real shame, I mean. In me there aretwo selves; neither have, as yet, been disgraced by any disobedienceof any law framed by men for women. Nor shall I break men'slaws--under which women are governed without their own consent--unlessno other road to our common destiny presents itself for me tofollow. ". . . She smiled, watching his intent and sombre face:

"Don't fear for me, dear. I have come to understand what life is, andI mean to live it, wholesomely, gloriously, uncrippled in body andmind, unmaimed by folk-ways and by laws as ephemeral--" she turnedtoward the open windows--"as those frail-winged things that float inthe sunshine above Spring Pond, yonder, born at sunrise, and atsundown dead. "

She laughed, leaning there on her dimpled elbows, stripping a peach ofits velvet skin:

"The judges of the earth, --and the power of them!--What is it, dear, compared to the authority of love! To-day men have their human will ofmen, judging, condemning, imprisoning, slaying, as the moral fashionof the hour dictates. To-morrow folk-ways change; judge and victimvanish along with fashions obsolete--both alike, their brief reignended. 

"For judge and victim are awake at last; and in the twinkling of aneye, the old world has become a memory or a shrine for those tranquilpilgrims who return to worship for a while where love liessleeping. . . . And then return no more. "

She rose, signed him to remain seated, came around to where he sat, and perched herself on the arm of his chair. 

"If you don't mind, " she said, "I shall smooth out that troubledcrease between your eyebrows. " And she encircled his head with botharms, and laid her smooth hands across his forehead. Then she touchedhis hair lightly, with her lips. 

"We are great sinners, " she murmured, "are we not, my darling?"

And drew his head against her breast. 

"Of what am I robbing _her_, Clive? Of the power to humiliate you, make you unhappy. It is an honest theft. 

"What else am I stealing from her? Not love, not gratitude, not duty, nothing of tenderness, nor of pride nor sympathy. I take nothing, then, from her. She has nothing for me to steal--unless it be theplain gold ring she never wears. . . . And I prefer a new one--if, indeed, I am to wear one. "

He said, deeply troubled, "How do you know she never wears a ring?"And he turned and looked up at her over his shoulder. The clear azureof her eyes was like a wintry sky. 

"Clive, I know more than that. I know that your wife is in New York. "

"What!" he exclaimed, astonished. 

"I have been aware of it for weeks, " she said tranquilly. 

He remained silent; she continued to caress his hair:

"Your wife, " she went on thoughtfully, "will learn much when she dies. There is a compulsory university course which awaits us all, --a schoolwith many forms and many grades and many, many pupils. But we must diebefore we can be admitted. . . . I have never before spoken to you as Ihave spoken to-day. . . . Perhaps I never shall again. . . . The world is ablind place--lovely but blind. 

"As for the woman who wears your name but wears no ring of yours shehas been moving through my crystal for many days;--I would have madeno effort to intrude on her had she not persisted in the crystal, haunted it, --I cannot tell you why--only that she is always there, now. . . . And last night I knew that she was in New York, and why shehad come here. . . . Shall you see her to-day?"

"Where is she?"

"At the Regina. "

"Are you sure?"

The girl calmly closed her eyes for a moment. After a brief silenceshe opened them: "She is still there. . . . She will awake in a littlewhile and ring for her breakfast. The two men you drove out of thegarden last night are waiting to see her. There is another man there. I think he is your wife's attorney. . . . Have you decided to see her?"

"Yes. "

"You won't let what she may say about me trouble you, will you?"

"What will she say?" he asked with the naïve confidence of absoluteand childish faith. 

Athalie laughed: "Darling! I don't know. I'm not a witch or asorceress. Did you think I was?--just because I can see a little moreclearly than you?"

"I didn't know what your limit might be, " he answered, smilingslightly, in spite of his deep anxiety. 

"Then let me inform you at once. My eyes are better than manypeople's. Also my _other_ self can see. And with so clear a vision, and with intelligence--and with a very true love and reverence forGod--somehow I seem to visualise what clairvoyance, logic, and reasoncombine to depict for me. 

"I used to be afraid that a picturesque and vivid imagination coupledwith a certain amount of clairvoyance might seduce me to trickery andcharlatanism. 

"But if it be charlatanism for a paleontologist to construct a fishout of a single fossil scale, then there may be something of thatability in me. For truly, Clive, I am often at a loss where to drawthe line between what I see and what I reason out--between myclairvoyance and my deductions. And if I made mistakes I certainlyshould be deeply alarmed. But--I don't, " she added, laughing. "And so, in regard to those two men last night, and in regard to what _she_ andthey may be about, I feel not the least concern. And you must not. Promise me, dear. "

But he rose, anxious and depressed, and stood silent for a fewmoments, her hands clasped tightly in his. 

For he could see no way out of it, now. His wife, once merelyindifferent, was beginning to evince malice. And what further formthat malice might take he could not imagine; for hitherto, she had notdesired divorce, and had not concerned herself with him or hisbehaviour. 

As for Athalie, it was now too late for him to step out of her life. He might have been capable of the sacrifice if the pain andunhappiness were to be borne by him alone--or even if he could bringhimself to believe or even hope that it might be merely a temporarysorrow to Athalie. 

But he could not mistake her, now; their cords of love and life wereirrevocably braided together; and to cut one was to sever both. Therecould be no recovery from such a measure for either, now. 

What was he to do? The woman he had married had rejected his loyaltyfrom the very first, suffered none of his ideas of duty to move herfrom her aloofness. She cared nothing for him, and she let him knowit; his notions of marriage, its duties and obligations merely arousedin her contempt. And when he finally understood that the onlykindness he could do her was to keep his distance, he had kept it. Andwhat was he to do now? Granted that he had brought it all uponhimself, how was he to combat what was threatening Athalie?

His wife had so far desired nothing of him, not even divorce. He couldnot leave Athalie and he could not marry her. And now, on her younghead he had, somehow, loosened this avalanche, whatever it was--a suitfor separation, probably--which, if granted, would leave him withouthis liberty, and Athalie disgraced. And even suppose his wife desireddivorce for some new and unknown reason. The sinister advent of thosemen meant that Athalie would be shamefully named in any suchproceedings. 

What was he to do? An ugly, hunted look came into his face and heswung around and faced the girl beside him:

"Athalie, " he said, "will you go away with me and let them howl?"

"Dearest, how silly. I'll stay _here_ with you and let them howl. "

"I don't want you to face it--"

"I shall not turn my back on it. Oh, Clive, there are so many moreimportant things than what people may say about us!"

"You can't defy the world!"

"I'm not going to, darling. But I may possibly shock a few of the moreorthodox parasites that infest it. "

"No girl can maintain that attitude. "

"A girl can try. . . . And, if law and malice force me to become yourmistress, malice and law may answer for it; not I!"

"_I_ shall have to answer for it. "

"Dearest, " she said with smiling tenderness, "you are still very, veryorthodox in your faith in folk-ways. That need not cause _me_ anyconcern, however. But, Clive, of the two pictures which seemsreasonable--your wife who is no wife; your mistress who is more and isconsidered less?

"Don't think that I am speaking lightly of wifehood. . . . I desire it asI desire motherhood. I was made for both. If the world will let me Ishall be both wife and mother. But if the world interferes to stultifyme, then, nevertheless I shall still be both, and the law can keep thetitle it refuses me. I deny the right of man to cripple, mar, rendersterile my youth and womanhood. I deny the right of the world toforbid me love, and its expression, as long as I harm no one byloving. Clive, it would take a diviner law than man's notions ofdivinity, to kill in me the right to live and love and bring theliving into life. And if I am forbidden to do it in the name of thelaw, then I dare do it in the name of One who never turned his back onlittle children--"

She ceased abruptly; and he saw her eyes suddenly blinded by tears:

"Oh, Clive--if you only could have seen them--the little flower-likefaces and pleading arms around--my--neck--warm--Oh, sweet!--sweetagainst my breast--"

CHAPTER XXV

Winifred had grown stout, which, on a slim, small-boned woman isquickly apparent; and, to Clive, her sleepy, uncertain grey eyesseemed even nearer together than he remembered them. 

She was seated in the yellow and white living-room of her apartment atthe Regina, still holding the card he had sent up; and she made nomovement to rise when her maid announced him and ushered him in, or togreet him at all except with a slight nod and a slighter gestureindicating a chair across the room. 

He said: "I did not know until this morning that you were in thiscountry. "

"Was it necessary to inform you?"

"No, not necessary, " he said, "unless you have come to some definitedecision concerning our future relations. "

Her eyes seemed to grow sleepier and nearer together than ever. 

"Why, " he asked, wearily, "have you employed an agency to have mefollowed?"

She lifted her drooping lids and finely pencilled brows. "Have youbeen followed?"

"At intervals, as you know. Would you mind saying why? Because youhave always been welcome to divorce. "

She sat silent, slowly tearing into tiny squares the card he had sentup. Presently, as at an afterthought, she collected all the fragmentsand placed them in a heap on the table beside her. 

"Well?" she inquired, glancing up at him. "Is that all you have tosay?"

"I don't know what to say until you tell me why you have had mefollowed and why you yourself are here. "

Her gaze remained fixed on the heap of little pasteboard squares whichshe shifted across the polished table-top from one position toanother. She said:

"The case against you was complete enough before last night. I fancyeven you will admit that. "

"You are wrong, " he replied wearily. "Somehow or other I believe youknow that you are wrong. But I suppose a jury might not think so. "

"Would you care to tell a jury that this trance-medium is not yourmistress?"

"I should not care to defend her on such a charge before a jury orbefore anybody. There are various ways of damning a woman; and todefend her from that accusation is one of them. "

"And another way?"

"To admit the charge. Either ruin her in the eyes of the trulyvirtuous. "

"What do you expect to do about it then? Keep silent?"

"That is still a third way of destroying a woman. "

"Really? Then what are you going to do?"

"Whatever you wish, " he said in a low voice, "as long as you do notbring such a charge against Athalie Greensleeve. "

"Would you set your signature to a paper?"

"I have given you my word. I have never lied to you. "

She looked up at him out of narrowing eyes:

"You might this time. I prefer your signature. "

He reddened and sat twirling the silver crook of his walking-stickbetween restless hands. 

"Very well, " he said quietly; "I will sign what you wish, with theunderstanding that Miss Greensleeve is to remain immune from any lyingaccusation. . . . And I'll tell you now that any accusation questioningher chastity is a falsehood. "

His wife smiled: "You see, " she said, "your signature _will_ benecessary. "

"Do you think I am lying?"

"What do I care whether you are or not? Do you suppose the allegedchastity of a common fortune-teller interests me? All I know is thatyou have found your level, and that I need protection. If you chooseto concede it to me without a public scandal, I shall permit you to doso. If not, I shall begin an action against you and name the womanwith whom you spent last night!"

There was, in the thin, flute-like, and mincingly fastidious voicesomething so subtly vicious that her words left him silent. 

Still leisurely arranging and re-arranging her little heap ofpasteboard, her near-set eyes intent on its symmetry, she spokeagain:

"I could marry Innisbrae or any one of several others! But I do notcare to; I am comfortable. And that is where you have made yourmistake. I do not desire a divorce! But, "--she lifted her narroweyes--"if you force me to a separation I shall not shrink from it. AndI shall name that woman. "

"Then--what is it you want?" he asked with a sinking heart. 

"Not a divorce; not even a separation; merely respectability. I wishyou to give up business in New York and present yourself in England atdecent intervals of--say once every year. What you do in theinterludes is of no interest to me. As long as you do not establish abusiness and a residence anywhere I don't care what you do. You maycome back and live with this woman if you choose. "

After a silence he said: "Is that what you propose?"

"It is. "

"And you came over here to collect sufficient evidence to force me?"

"I had no other choice. "

He nodded: "By your own confession, then, you believe either in herchastity and my sense of honour, or that, even guilty, I care so muchfor her that any threat against her happiness can effectually coerceme. "

"Your language is becoming a trifle involved. "

"No; _I_ am involved. I realise it. And if I am not absolutelyhonourable and unselfish in this matter I shall involve the woman Ihad hoped to marry. "

"I thought so, " she said, reverting to her heap of pasteboard. 

"If you think so, " he continued, "could you not be a little generous?"

"How?"

"Divorce me--not by naming her--and give me a chance in life. "

"No, " she said coolly, "I don't care for a divorce. I am comfortableenough. Why should I inconvenience myself because you wish to marryyour mistress?"

"In decency and in--charity--to me. It will cost you little. Youyourself admit that it is a matter of personal indifference to youwhether or not you are entirely and legally free of me. "

"Did you ever do anything to deserve my generosity?" she inquiredcoldly. 

"I don't know. I have tried. "

"I have never noticed it, " she retorted with a slight sneer. 

He said: "Since my first offence against you--and againstmyself--which was marrying you--I have attempted in every way I knewto repair the offence, and to render the mistake endurable to you. Andwhen I finally learned that there was only one way acceptable to you, I followed that way and kept myself out of your sight. 

"My behaviour, perhaps, entitles me to no claim upon your generosity, yet I did my best, Winifred, as unselfishly as I knew how. Could younot; in your turn, be a little unselfish now?. . . Because I have achance for happiness--if you would let me take it. "

She glanced at him out of her close-set, sleepy eyes:

"I would not lift a finger to oblige you, " she said. "You haveinconvenienced me, annoyed me, disarranged my tranquil, orderly, andblameless mode of living, causing me social annoyance and personalirritation by coming here and engaging in business, and living openlywith a common and notorious woman who practises a fraudulent andvulgar business. 

"Why should I show you any consideration? And if you really havefallen so low that you are ready to marry her, do you suppose it wouldbe very flattering for me to have it known that your second wife, mysuccessor, was such a woman?"

He sat thinking for a while, his white, care-worn face framed betweenhis gloved hands. 

"Your friends, " he said in a low voice, "know you as a devout woman. You adhere very strictly to your creed. Is there nothing in it thatteaches forbearance?"

"There is nothing in it that teaches me to compromise with evil, " sheretorted; and her small cupid-bow mouth, grew pinched. 

"If you honestly believe that this young girl is really my mistress, "he said, "would it not be decent of you, if it lies within your power, to permit me to regularise my position--and hers?"

"Is it any longer my affair if you and she have publicly damnedyourselves?"

"Yet if you do believe me guilty, you can scarcely deny me the chanceof atonement, if it is within your power. "

She lifted her eyes and coolly inspected him: "And suppose I do _not_believe you guilty of breaking your marriage vows?" she inquired. 

He was silent. 

"Am I to understand, " she continued, "that you consider it my duty tosuffer the inconvenience of divorcing you in order that you mayfurther advertise this woman by marrying her?"

He looked into her close-set eyes; and hope died. She said: "If youcare to affix your signature to the agreement which my attorneys havealready drawn up, then matters may remain as they are, provided youcarry out your part of the contract. If you don't, I shall beginaction immediately and I shall name the woman on whose account youseem to entertain such touching anxiety. "

"Is that your threat?"

"It is my purpose, dictated by every precept of decency, morality, religion, and the inviolable sanctity of marriage. "

He laughed and gathered up his hat and stick:

"Your moral suasion, I am afraid, slightly resembles a sort ofsanctimonious blackmail, Winifred. The combination of morality, religion, and yourself is too powerful for me to combat. . . . So if mychoice must be between permitting morality to publicly besmirch thisyoung girl's reputation, and affixing my signature to the agreementyou suggest, I have no choice but to sign my name. "

"Is that your decision?"

He nodded. 

"Very well. My attorneys and a notary are in the next room with thepapers necessary. If you would be good enough to step in a moment--"

He looked at her and laughed again: "Is there, " he said, "anythinglower than a woman?--or anything higher?"

CHAPTER XXVI

Athalie was having a wonderful summer. House and garden continued toenchant her. She brought down Hafiz, who, being a city cat, instantlyfled indoors with every symptom of astonishment and terror the firsttime Athalie placed him on the lawn. 

But within a week the dainty Angora had undergone a change of heart. Boldly, now he marched into the garden all by himself; fearlessly hepounced upon such dangerous game as crickets and grasshoppers and thelittle night moths which drifted among the flowers at twilight, --thefavourite prowling hour of Hafiz, the Beautiful. 

Also, early in July, Athalie had acquired a fat bay horse and a doublebuckboard; and, in the seventh heaven now, she jogged about thecountry through leafy lanes and thistle-bordered by-roads longfamiliar to her childhood, sometimes with basket, trowel, and gardengloves, intent on the digging and transplanting of ferns, sometimeswith field-glasses and books, on ornithological information bent. Moreoften she started out with only a bag of feed for Henry the horse andsome luncheon for herself, to picnic all alone in a familiar woodland, haunted by childish memories, and lie there listening to the bees andto the midsummer wind in softly modulated conversation with the littletree-top leaves. 

She had brought her maid from the city; Mrs. Connor continued to rulelaundry and kitchen. Connor himself decorated the landscape with hisstraw hat and overalls, weeding, spraying, rolling, driving thelawn-mower, raking bed and path, cutting and training vines, clippinghedges, --a sober, bucolic, agreeable figure to the youthful chatelaineof the house of Greensleeve. 

Clive had come once more from town to say that he was sailing forEngland the following day; that he would be away a month all told, andthat he would return by the middle of August. 

They had spent the morning driving together in her buckboard--thehappiest morning perhaps in their lives. 

It promised to be a perfect day; and she was so carefree, socontented, so certain of the world's kindness, so shyly tender withhim, so engagingly humorous at his expense, that the prospect of amonth's separation ceased for the time to appal him. 

Concerning his interview with his wife she had asked him nothing; noreven why he was going abroad. Whether she guessed the truth; whethershe had come to understand the situation through other and occultagencies, he could not surmise. But one thing was plain enough;nothing that had happened or that threatened to happen was nowdisturbing her. And her gaiety and high spirits were reassuring himand tranquillising his mind to a degree for which, on reflection, hecould scarcely account, knowing the ultimate hopelessness of theirsituation. 

Yet her sheer good spirits carried him with her, heart and mind, thatmorning. And when it was time for him to go she said good-bye to himwith a smile as tenderly gay and as happy and confident as though hewere to return on the morrow. And went back to her magic house ofdreams and her fairy garden, knowing that, except for him, theirrainbow magic must vanish and the tinted spell fade, and the softenchantment dissolve forever leaving at her feet only a sunlit ruinamid the stillness of desolation. 

But the magic held. Every day she wrote him. Wireless messages came toher from him for a while; ceased; then re-commenced, followedpresently by cablegrams and finally by letters. 

So the magic held through the long sunny summer days. And Athalieworked in her garden and strayed far afield, both driving and afoot. And she studied and practised piano, and made curtains, and purchasedfurniture. 

Also she wrote letters to her sisters, long since wedded to husbands, babies, and homes in the West. Her brother Jack, she learned, hadjoined the Navy at Puget Sound, and had now become a petty officeraboard the new battle-cruiser _Bon Homme Richard_ in Asiatic waters. She wrote to him, also, and sent him a money order, gaily suggestingthat he use it to educate himself as a good sailor should, and that hesave his pay for a future wife and baby--the latter, as she wrote, "being doubtless the most desirable attainment this side of Heaven. "

In her bedroom were photographs of Catharine's children and of thelittle boy which Doris had brought into the world; and sometimes, inthe hot midsummer afternoons, she would lie on her pillow and look atthese photographs until the little faces faded to a glimmer as slumberdulled her eyes. 

Captain Dane came once or twice to spend the day with her; and it waspleasant, afterward, for her to remember this big, blond, sunburnt manas part of all that she most cared for. Together they drove and walkedand idled through house and garden: and when he went away, to sail thefollowing day for those eternal forests which conceal the hearthstoneof the Western World, he knew from her own lips about her love forClive. He was the only person she ever told. 

A few of her friends she asked to the house for quiet week-ends; theimpression their visits made upon her was pleasant but colourless. 

And it seemed singular, as she thought it over, how subordinate, howunaccented had always been all these people who came into her life, lingered, and faded out of it, leaving only the impressions ofbackgrounds and accessories against which only one figure stood clearand distinct--her lover's. 

Yes, of all men she had ever known, only Clive seemed real; and hedominated every scene of her girlhood and her womanhood as her motherhad been the only really living centre of her childhood. 

All else seemed to her like a moving and subdued background, --anendless series of grey scenes vaguely painted through which figurescame and went, some shadowy and colourless as phantoms, some soberlyoutlined, some delicately tinted--but all more or less subordinate, more or less monochromatic, unimportant except for balance andcomposition, as painters use indefinite shapes and shades so that theeyes may more perfectly concentrate on the centre of theirinspiration. 

And the centre of all, for her, was Clive. Since her mother's deaththere had been no other point of view for her, no other focus for theforces of her mind, no other real desire, no other content. He hadentered her child's life and had become, instantly, all that thechild-world held for her. And it was so through the years of hergirlhood. Absent, or during his brief reappearances, the central focusof her heart and mind was Clive. And, in womanhood, all forces in hermind and spirit and, now, of body, centred in this man who stood outagainst the faded tapestry of the world all alone for her, the onlyliving thing on earth with which her heart had mated as a child, andin which now her mind and spirit had found Nirvana. 

All men, all women, seemed to have their shadowy being only to makethis man more real to her. 

Friends came, remained, and went, --Cecil Reeve, gay, charmed witheverything, and, as always, mischievously ready to pay court to her;Francis Hargrave, politely surprised but full of courteous admirationfor her good taste; John Lyndhurst, Grismer, Harry Ferris, YoungWelter, Arthur Ensart, and James Allys, --all were bidden for the day;all came, marvelled in the several manners characteristic of them, and finally went their various ways, serving only, as always, to makeclearer to her the fadeless memory of an absent man. For, to her, themerest thought of him was more real, more warm and vivid, than all ofthese, even while their eager eyes sought hers and their voices weresounding in her ears. 

Nina Grey came with Anne Randolph for a week-end; and then came JeanneDelauny, and Adele Millis. The memory of their visits lingered withAthalie as long, perhaps, as the scent of roses hangs in a dim, stillroom before the windows are open in the morning to the outer air. 

The first of August a cicada droned from the hill-top woods and allher garden became saturated with the homely and bewitching odour ofold-fashioned rockets. 

On the grey wall nasturtiums blazed; long stretches of brilliantportulaca edged the herbaceous borders; clusters of auratum lilieshung in the transparent shadow of Cydonia and Spirea; and the firstgreat dahlias faced her in maroon splendour from the spiked thicketsalong the wall. 

Once or twice she went to town on shopping bent, and on one of theseoccasions impulse took her to the apartment furnished for her so longago by Clive. 

She had not meant to go in, merely intended to pass the house, speakto Michael, perhaps, if indeed, he still presided over door andelevator. 

And there he was, outside the door on a chair, smoking his clay pipeand surveying the hot and silent street, where not even a sparrowstirred. 

"Michael, " she said, smiling. 

For a moment he did not know her, then: "God's glory!" he saidhuskily, getting to his feet--"is it the sweet face o' MissGreensleeve or the angel in her come back f'r to bless us all?"

She gave him her hand, and he held it and looked at her, earnestly, wistfully; then, with the flashing change of his race, the grin brokeout:

"I'm that proud to be remembered by the likes o' you, Miss Athalie!Are ye well, now?--an' happy? I thank God for that! I amsubstantial--with my respects, ma'am, f'r the kind inquiry. And Hafiz?Glory be, was there ever such a cat now? D'ye mind the day we tuk himin a bashket?--an' the sufferin' yowls of the poor, dear creature. Sure I'm that glad to hear he's well;--and manny mice to him, MissAthalie!"

Athalie laughed: "I suppose all your tenants are away in the country, "she ventured. 

"Barrin' wan or two, Miss. Ye know the young Master will suffer no onein your own apartment. "

"Is it still unoccupied, Michael?"

"Deed it is, Miss. Would ye care f'r to look around. There is nothingchanged there. I dust it meself. "

"Yes, " said the girl in a low voice, "I will look at it. "

So Michael took her up in the lift, unlocked the door for her, andthen with the fine instinct of his race, forbore to follow her. 

The shades in the square living-room were lowered; she raised one. Andthe dim, golden past took shadowy shape again before her eyes. 

[Illustration: "'Michael, ' she said, smiling. "]

She moved slowly from one object to another, touching caressinglywhere memory was tenderest. She looked at the furniture, thepictures, --at the fireplace where in her mind's eye she could see_him_ bending to light the first fire that had ever blazed there. 

For a little while she sat on the big lounge, her dreamy eyes fixed onthe spot where Clive's father had stood and she remembered JacquesRenouf, too, and the lost city of Yhdunez. . . . And, somehow hermemories receded still further toward earlier years; and she thoughtof the sunny office where Mr. Wahlbaum used to sit; and she seemed tosee the curtains stirring in the wind. 

After a while she rose and walked slowly along the hall to her ownroom. 

Everything was there as she had left it; the toilet silver, evidentlykept clean and bright by Michael, the little Dresden cupids on themantel, the dainty clock, still running--further confirmation ofMichael's ministrations--the fresh linen on the bed. Nothing had beenchanged through all these changing years. She softly opened theclothes-press door; there hung her gowns--silent witnesses of heryouth, strangely and daintily grotesque in fashion. One by one sheexamined them, a smile edging her lips, and, in her eyes, tears. 

All revery is tinged with melancholy; and it was so with her when shestood among the forgotten gowns of years ago. 

It was so, too, when, one by one she unlocked and opened the drawersof dresser and bureau. From soft, ordered heaps of silk and lace andsheerest linen a faint perfume mounted; and it was as though shesubtly renewed an exquisite and secret intimacy with a youth andinnocence half-forgotten in the sadder wisdom of later days. 

 * * * * *

From the still and scented twilight of a vanished year, to her ownapartment perched high above the sun-smitten city she went, merely tofind herself again, and look around upon what fortune had brought toher through her own endeavour. 

But, somehow, the old prejudices had gone; the old instincts of prideand independence had been obliterated, merged in a serene and tranquilunity of mind and will and spirit with the man in whom every atom ofher belief and faith was now centred. 

It mattered no longer to her what material portion of her possessionsand environment was due to her own efforts, or to his. Nothing thatmight be called hers could remain conceivable as hers unless he sharedit. Their rights in each other included everything temporal andspiritual; everything of mind and matter alike. Of what consequence, then, might be the origin of possessions that could not exist for herunless possession were mutual?

Nothing would be real to her, nothing of value, unless so marked byhis interest and his approval. And now she knew that even the worlditself must become but a shadow, were he not living to make it real. 

 * * * * *

It was a fearfully hot day in town, and she waited until evening to goback to Spring Pond. 

When she arrived, Mrs. Connor had a cablegram for her from Clivesaying that he was sailing and would see her before the month ended. 

Late into the night she looked for him in her crystal but could seenothing save a blue and tranquil sea and gulls flying, and always onthe curved world's edge a far stain of smoke against the sky. 

Her mother was in her room that night, seated near the window asthough to keep the vigil that her daughter kept, brooding above thecrystal. 

It was Friday, the twenty-first, and a new moon. The starlight wasmagnificent in the August skies: once or twice meteors fell. But inthe depths of her crystal she saw always a sunlit sea and a gull'swings flashing. 

Toward morning when the world had grown its darkest and stillest, shewent over to where her mother was sitting beside the window, and kneltdown beside her chair. 

And so in voiceless and tender communion she nestled close, her goldenhead resting against her mother's knees. 

Dawn found her there asleep beside an empty chair. 

CHAPTER XXVII

One day toward the end of August, Athalie, standing at the pier's end, saw the huge incoming liner slowly warping to her berth; waited amidthe throngs in the vast sheds by the gangway, caught a glimpse ofClive, lost him to view, then saw him again, very near, making his waytoward her. And then her hands were in his and she was looking intohis beloved eyes once more. 

There were a few quick words of greeting spoken, tender, low-voiced;the swift light of happiness made her blue eyes brilliant:

"You tall, sun-bronzed, lazy thing, " she said; "I never told you whata distinguished looking man you are, did I? Well I'll spoil you bytelling you now. No wonder everything feminine glances at you, " sheadded as he lifted his hat to fellow passengers who were passing. 

And during the customs' examination she stood beside him, amused, interested, gently bantering him when he declared everything; for evenin Athalie were apparently the ineradicable seeds of that originalsin--which is in all femininity--the paramount necessity forsmuggling. 

Once or twice he spoke aside to the customs' officer; and Athalieinstantly and gaily accused him of attempted bribery. 

But when they were on their way to Spring Pond in a hired touring carwith his steamer trunk and suit-cases strapped behind, he drew fromhis pockets the articles he had declared and paid for; and Athaliegrew silent in delight as she looked down at the single and lovelystrand of pearls. 

All the way to Spring Pond she held them so, and her enchanted eyesreverted to them whenever she could bring herself to look anywhereexcept at him. 

"I wondered, " she said, "whether you would come to the country orwhether you might think it better to remain in town. "

"I shall go back to town only when you go. "

"Dear, does that mean that you will stay with me at our own house?"

"If you want me. "

"Oh, Clive! I was wondering--only it seemed too heavenly to hope for. "

His face grew sombre for a moment. He said: "There is no other futurefor us. And even our comradeship will be misunderstood. But--if youare willing--"

"Is there any question in your mind as to the limit of mywillingness?"

He said: "You know it will mark us for life. And if we remainguiltless, and our lives blameless, nevertheless this comradeship ofours will mark us for life. "

"Do you mean, brand us?"

"Yes, dear. "

"Does that cause you any real apprehension?" she laughed. 

"I am thinking of you. "

"Think of me, then, " she said gaily, "and know that I am happy andcontent. The world is turning into such a wonderful friend to me; fateis becoming so gentle and so kind. Happiness may brand me; nothingelse can leave a mark. So be at ease concerning me. All shall go wellwith me, only when with you, my darling, all goes well. "

He smiled in sympathy with her gaiety of heart, but the slight shadowreturned to his face again. Watching it she said:

"All things shall come to us, Clive. "

"All things, " he said, gravely, --"except fulfilment. "

"That, too, " she murmured. 

"No, Athalie. "

"Yes, " she said under her breath. 

He only lifted her ringless hand to his lips in hopeless silence; butshe looked up at the cloudless sky and out over sunlit harvest fieldsand where grain and fruit were ripening, and she smiled, closing herwhite hand and pressing it gently against his lips. 

Connor met them at the door and shouldered Clive's trunk and otherluggage; then Athalie slipped her arm through his and took him intothe autumn glow of her garden. 

"Miracle after miracle, Clive--from the enchantment of July roses tothe splendour of dahlia, calendula, and gladioluses. Such awonder-house no man ever before gave to any woman. . . . There is not onestalk or leaf or blossom or blade of grass that is not my intimateand tender friend, my confidant, my dear preceptor, my companionbeloved and adored. 

[Illustration: "And then her hands were in his and she was lookinginto his beloved eyes once more. "]

"Do you notice that the grapes on the trellis are turning dark? Andthe peaches are becoming so big and heavy and rosy. They will be ripebefore very long. "

"You must have a greenhouse, " he said. 

"_We_ must, " she admitted demurely. 

He turned toward her with much of his old gaiety, laughing: "Do youknow, " he said, "I believe you are pretending to be in love with me!"

"That's all it is, Clive, just pretence, and the natural depravity ofa flirt. When I go back to town I'll forget you ever existed--unlessyou go with me. "

"I'm wondering, " he said, "what we had better do in town. "

"I'm not wondering; I know. "

He looked at her questioningly. Then she told him about her visit toMichael and the apartment. 

"There is no other place in the world that I care to livein--excepting this, " she said. "Couldn't we live there, Clive, when wego to town?"

After a moment he said: "Yes. "

"Would you care to?" she asked wistfully. Then smiled as she met hiseyes. 

"So I shall give up business, " she said, "and that tower apartment. There's a letter here now asking if I desire to sublet it; and as Ihad to renew my lease last June, that is what I shall do--if you'lllet me live in the place you made for me so long ago. "

He answered, smilingly, that he might be induced to permit it. 

Hafiz appeared, inquisitive, urbane, waving his snowy tail; but he wasshy of further demonstrations toward the man who was seated beside hisbeloved mistress, and he pretended that he saw something in theobscurity of the flowering thickets, and stalked it with every symptomof sincerity. 

"That cat must be about six years old, " said Clive, watching him. 

"He plays like a kitten, still. "

"Do you remember how he used to pat your thread with his paws when youwere sewing. "

"I remember, " she said, smiling. 

A little later Hafiz regained confidence in Clive and came up to rubagainst his legs and permit caresses. 

"Such a united family, " remarked Athalie, amused by the mutualdemonstrations. 

"How is Henry?" he asked. 

"Fatter and slower than ever, dear. He suits my unenterprisingdisposition to perfection. Now and then he condescends to be harnessedand to carry me about the landscape. But mostly he drags the cruelburden of Connor's lawn-mower. Do you think the place looks wellkept?"

"I knew you wanted to be flattered, " he laughed. 

"I do. Flatter me please. "

"It's one of the best things I do, Athalie! For example--the lawn, thecat, and the girl are all beautifully groomed; the credit is yours;and you're a celestial dream too exquisite to be real. "

"I am becoming real--as real as you are, " she said with a faint smile. 

"Yes, " he admitted, "you and I are the only real things in the worldafter all. The rest--woven scenes that come and go moving across aloom. "

She quoted:

 "Sun and Moon illume the Room Where the ceiling is the sky: Night and day the Weavers ply Colour, shadow, hue, and dye, Where the rushing shuttles fly, Weaving dreams across the Loom, Picturing a common doom!

 "How, Beloved, can _we_ die-- We Immortals, Thou and I?"

He smiled: "Death seems very far away, " he said. 

"Nothing dies. . . . If only this world could understand. . . . Did I tellyou that mother has been with me often while you were away?"

"No. "

"It was wonderfully sweet to see her in the room. One night I fellasleep across her knees. "

"Does she ever speak to you, Athalie?"

"Yes, sometimes we talk. "

"At night?"

"By day, too. . . . I was sitting in the living-room the other morning, and she came up behind me and took both my hands. We talked, I lyingback in the rocking chair and looking up at her. . . . Mrs. Connor camein. I am quite sure she was frightened when she heard my voice inthere conversing with nobody she could see. "

Athalie smiled to herself as at some amusing memory evoked. 

"If Mrs. Connor ever knew how she is followed about by so many purringpussies and little wagging dogs--I mean dogs and pussies who are nolonger what we call 'alive, '--I don't know what she'd think. Sometimesthe place is full of them, Clive--such darling little creatures. Hafizsees them; and watches and watches, but never moves. "

Clive was staring a trifle hard; Athalie, lazily stretching her arms, glanced at him with that humorous expression which hinted of gentlestmockery. 

"Don't worry; nothing follows you, Clive, except an idle girl whofinds no time for anything else, so busy are her thoughts with you. "

He bent forward and kissed her; and she clasped both hands behind hishead, drawing it nearer. 

"Have you missed me, Athalie?"

"You could never understand how much. "

"Did you find me in your crystal?"

"No; I saw only the sea and on the horizon a stain of smoke, and agull flying. "

He drew her closely into his arms: "God, " he breathed, "if anythingever should happen to you!--and I--alone on earth--and blind--"

"Yes. That is the only anxiety I ever knew . . . Because you are blind. "

"If you came to me I could not see you. If you spoke to me I couldnot hear. Could anything more awful happen?"

"Do you care for me so much?"

In his eyes she read her answer, and thrilled to it, closer in hisarms; and rested so, her cheek against his, gazing at the sunset outof dreamy eyes. 

 * * * * *

They had been slowly pacing the garden paths, arm within arm, whenMrs. Connor came to summon them to dinner. The small dining-room wasflooded with sunset light; rosy bars of it lay across cloth and fruitand flowers, and striped the wall and ceiling. 

And when dinner was ended the pale fire still burned on the thin silkcurtains and struck across the garden, gilding the coping of the wallwhere clustering peaches hung all turned to gold like fabled fruitthat ripens in Hesperides. 

Hafiz followed them out under the evening sky and seated himself uponthe grass. And he seemed mildly to enjoy the robins' eveningcarolling, blinking benevolently up at the little vesper choristers, high singing in the sunset's lingering glow. 

Whenever light puffs of wind set blossoms swaying, the jet from thefountain basin swerved, and a mellow raining sound of drops swept thestill pool. The lilac twilight deepened to mauve; upon the surface ofthe pool a primrose tint grew duller. Then the first bat zig-zaggedacross the sky; and every clove-pink border became misty with thewings of dusk-moths. 

On Athalie's frail white gown one alighted, --a little grey thingwearing a pair of peacock-tinted diamonds on its forewings; and as itsat there, quivering, the iridescent incrustations changed fromburnished gold to green. 

"Wonders, wonders, under the moon, " murmured the girl--"throngingmiracles that fill the day and night, always, everywhere. And so fewto see them. . . . Sometimes, to me the blindness of the world to all theloveliness that I 'see clearly' is like my own blindness to the hiddenwonders of the night--where uncounted myriads of little rainbowspirits fly. And nobody sees and knows the living splendour of themexcept when some grey-winged phantom strays indoors from the outershadows. And it astonishes us to see, under the drab forewings, ablaze of scarlet, gold, or orange. "

"I suppose, " he said, "that the unseen night world all around us is nomore wonderful than what, in the day-world, the vast majority of usnever see, never suspect. "

"I think it must be so, Clive. Being accustomed to a more denselypopulated world than are many people, I believe that if I could seeonly what they see, --merely that small portion of activity and lifewhich the world calls 'living things, ' I should find the sunlit worldrather empty, and the night but a silent desolation under the stars. "

After a few minutes' thought he asked in a low voice whether at thatmoment there was anybody in the garden except themselves. 

"Some people were here a little while ago, looking at the flowers. Ithink they must have lived here many, many years ago; perhaps whenthis old house was new. "

"Could you not ask them who they were?"

"No, dear. "

"Why?"

"If they were what you would call 'alive' I could not intrude uponthem, could I? The laws of reticence, the respect for privacy, remainthe same. I am conscious of no more impertinent curiosity concerningthem than I am concerning any passer in the city streets. "

"Have they gone?"

"Yes. But all the evening I have been hearing children at play justbeyond the garden wall. . . . And, when I was a child, somebody killed alittle dog down by the causeway. He is here in the garden, now, trotting gaily about the lawn--such a happy little dog!--and Hafiz hasfolded his forepaws under his ruff and has settled down to watch him. Don't you see how Hafiz watches, how his head turns following everymovement of the little visitor?"

He nodded; then: "Do you still hear the children outside the wall?"

She sat listening, the smile brooding in her eyes. 

"Can you still hear them?" he repeated, wistfully. 

"Yes, dear. "

"What are they saying?"

"I can't make out. They are having a happy time somewhere on the outerlawns. "

"How many are there?"

"Oh, I don't know. Their voices make a sweet, confused sound like birdmusic before dawn. I couldn't even guess how many children are playingthere. "

"Are any among them those children you once saw here?--the childrenwho pleaded with you--"

She did not answer. He tightened his arm around her waist, drawing hernearer; and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. 

"Yes, " she said, "they are there. "

"You know their voices?"

"Yes, dearest. "

"Will they come again into the garden?"

Her face flushed deeply:

"Not unless we call them. "

"Call them, " he said. And, after a silence: "Dearest, will you notcall them to us?"

"Oh, Clive! I have been calling. Now it remains with you. "

"I did not hear you call them. "

"_They_ heard. "

"Will they come?"

"I--think so. "

"When?"

"Very soon--if you truly desire them, " she whispered against hisshoulder. 

 * * * * *

Somewhere within the house the hour struck. After a long while theyrose, moving slowly, her head still lying on his shoulder. Hafizwatched them until the door closed, then settled down again to gaze onthings invisible to men. 

 * * * * *

Hours of the night in dim processional passed the old house unlightedsave by the stars. Toward dawn a sea-wind stirred the trees; thefountain jet rained on the surface of the pool or, caught by a suddenbreeze, drifted in whispering spray across the grass. Everywhere thedarkness grew murmurous with sounds, vague as wind-blown voices; sweetas the call of children from some hill-top where the stars are verynear, and the new moon's sickle flashes through the grass. 

Athalie stirred where she lay, turned her head sideways with infiniteprecaution, and lay listening. 

Through the open window beside her she saw a dark sky set with stars;heard the sea-wind in the leaves and the falling water of thefountain. And very far away a sweet confused murmuring grew upon herears. 

Silently her soul answered the far hail; her heart, responding, echoeda voiceless welcome till she became fearful lest it beat too loudly. 

Then, with infinite precaution, noiselessly, and scarcely stirring, she turned and laid her lips again where they had rested all nightlong and, lying so, dreamed of miracles ineffable. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

Clive's enforced idleness had secretly humiliated him and made himrestless. Athalie in her tender wisdom understood how it was with himbefore he did himself, and she was already deftly guiding his balkedenergy into a brand new channel, the same being a bucolic one. 

At first he had demurred, alleging total ignorance of husbandry; and, seated on the sill of an open window and looking down at him in thegarden, she tormented him to her heart's content:

"Ignorant of husbandry!" she mimicked, --"when any husband I ever heardof could go to school to you and learn what a real husband ought tobe! Why _will_ you pretend to be so painfully modest, Clive, when youare really secretly pleased with yourself and entirely convinced that, in you, the world might discover a living pattern of modeldomesticity!"

"I'm glad you think so--"

"_Think!_ If I were only as certain of anything else! Never had Idreamed that any man could become so cowed, so spiritless, soperfectly house and yard broken--"

"If I come upstairs, " he said, "I'll settle _you_!"

Leaning from the window overlooking the garden she lazily defied him;turned up her dainty nose at him; mocked at him until he flung asidethe morning paper and rose, bent on her punishment. 

"Oh, Clive, don't!" she pleaded, leaning low from the sill. "I won'ttease you any more, --and this gown is fresh--"

"I'll come up and freshen it!" he threatened. 

"Please don't rumple me. I'll come down if you like. Shall I?"

"All right, darling, " he said, resuming his newspaper and cigarette. 

She came, seated herself demurely beside him, twitched his newspaperuntil he cast an ominous glance at his tormentor. 

"Dear, " she said, "I simply can't let you alone; you are so bland andself-satisfied--"

"Athalie--if you persist in tormenting me--"

"I torment you? _I?_ An humble accessory in the scenery set for you?I?--a stage property fashioned merely for the hero of the drama to situpon--"

"All right! I'll do that now!--"

But she nestled close to him, warding off wrath with both armsclasping his, and looking up at him out of winning eyes in which but atormenting glint remained. 

"You wouldn't rumple this very beautiful and brand new gown, wouldyou, darling? It was so frightfully expensive--"

"I don't care--"

"Oh, but you must care. You must _become_ thrifty and shrewd anddevious and close, or you'll never make a successful farmer--"

"Dearest, that's nonsense. What do I know about farming?"

"Nothing yet. But you know what a wonderful man you are. Never forgetthat, Clive--"

"If you don't stop laughing at me, you little wretch--"

"Don't you want me to remain young?" she asked reproachfully, whiletwo tiny demons of gaiety danced in her eyes. "If I can't laugh I'llgrow old. And there's nothing very funny here except you andHafiz--Oh, Clive! You _have_ rumpled me! Please don't do it again!Yes--yes--_yes!_ I do surrender! I _am_ sorry--that you are sofunny--Clive! You'll ruin this gown!. . . I promise not to say anotherdisrespectful word. . . . I don't know whether I'll kiss you ornot--_Yes!_ Yes I will, dear. Yes, I'll do it tenderly--you heartlesswretch!--I tell you I'll do it tenderly. . . . Oh wait, Clive! Is Mrs. Connor looking out of any window? Where's Connor? Are you sure he'snot in sight?. . . And I shouldn't care to have Hafiz see us. He's amoral kitty--"

She pretended to look fearfully around, then, with adorabletenderness, she paid her forfeit and sat silent for a while with herslim white fingers linked in his, in that breathless little reverywhich always stilled her under the magic of his embrace. 

He said at last: "Do you really suppose I could make this farm-landpay?"

And that was really the beginning of it all. 

 * * * * *

Once decided he seemed to go rather mad about it, buying agriculturalparaphernalia recklessly and indiscriminately for a meditated assaultupon fields long fallow. 

Connor already had as much as he could attend to in the garden; but, like all Irishmen, he had a cousin, and the cousin possessedagricultural lore and a pair of plough-horses. 

So early fall ploughing developed into a mania with Clive and Athalie;and they formed a habit of sitting side by side like a pair of birdson fences in the early October sunshine, their fascinated eyesfollowing the brown furrows turning where one T. Phelan was breakingup pasture and meadow too long sod-bound. 

In intervals between tenderer and more intimate exchange of sentimentsthey discussed such subjects as lime, nitrogen, phosphoric acid, andthe rotation of crops. 

Also Athalie had accumulated much literature concerning incubators, brooders, and the several breeds of domestic fowl; and on paper theyhad figured out overwhelming profits. 

The insidious land-hunger which attacks all who contemplate making twodozen blades of grass grow where none grew before, now seized uponClive and gnawed him. And he extended the acreage, taking in woods anduplands as far as the headwaters of Spring Pond Brook, vastly toAthalie's delight. 

So the October days burned like a procession of golden flames passingin magic sequence amid yellowing woods and over the brown and spongygold of salt meadows which had been sheared for stable bedding. Andeverywhere over their land lay the dun-coloured velvet squares offreshly ploughed fields awaiting unfragrant fertilizer and the autumnrains. 

The rains came heavily toward the end of October; and November wasgrey and wet and rather warm. But open fires became necessary in thehouse, and now they regularly reddened the twilight in library andliving-room when the early November dusk brought Athalie and Cliveindoors. 

Hither they came, the fire-lit hearth their trysting place after theyhad exchanged their rain-drenched clothes for something dry; and therethey curled up on the wide sofas and watched the swift darkness fall, and the walls and ceiling redden. 

It was an hour which Athalie had once read of as the "Children's Hour"and now she understood better its charming significance. And she keptit religiously, permitting herself to do nothing, and making Clivedefer anything he had to do, until after dinner. Then he might readhis paper or book, and she could take up her sewing if she chose, orstudy, or play, or write the few letters that she cared to write. 

Clive wrote no more, now. In this first year together they desiredeach other only, indifferent to all else outside. 

It was to her the magic year of fulfilment; to him an enchantedinterlude wherein only the girl beside him mattered. 

Athalie sewed a great deal on odd, delicate, sheer materials wherenarrowness and length ruled proportions, and where there seemed to berequired much lace and many little ribbons. Also she hummed toherself as she sewed, singing under her breath endless airs which hadslipped into her head she scarce knew when or how. 

An odd and fragrant freshness seemed to cling to her making her almostabsurdly youthful, as though she had suddenly dropped back to hergirlhood. Clive noticed it. 

"You look about sixteen, " he said. 

"My heart is younger, dear. "

"How young?"

"You know when it was born, don't you? Very well, it is as many daysold as I have been in love with you. Before that it was a musclecapable merely of sturdy friendship. "

One day a packet came from New York for her. It contained two rings, one magnificent, the other a plain circlet. She kissed him rathershyly, wore both that evening, but not again. 

"I am not ashamed, " she explained serenely. "Folkways are now a matterof indifference to me. Civilisation must offer me a better argumentthan it has offered hitherto before I resign to it my right in you, ordeny your right to me. "

He knew that civilisation would lock them out and remain unconcernedas to what became of them. Doubtless she knew it too, as she sat theresewing on the frail garment which lay across her knee and singingblithely under her breath some air with cadence like a berceuse. 

 * * * * *

During the "Children's Hour" she sat beside him, always quiet; or ifstirred from her revery to a brief exchange of low-voiced words, shesoon relapsed once more into that happy, brooding silence by thefirelight. 

Then came dinner, and the awakened gaiety of unquenched spirits; thenthe blessed evening hours with him. 

But the last hour of these she called _her_ hour; and always laidaside her book or sewing, and slipped from the couch to the floor athis feet, laying her head against his knees. 

 * * * * *

Snow came in December; and Christmas followed. They kept the mysticfestival alone together; and Athalie had a tiny tree lighted in theroom between hers and Clive's, and hung it with toys and picturebooks. 

It was very pretty in its tinsel and tinted globes; and its faintlight glimmered on the walls and dainty furniture of the dim pinkroom. 

Afterward Athalie laid away tinsel and toy, wrapping all safely intissue, as though to be kept secure and fresh for anotherChristmas--the most wonderful that any girl could dream of. Andperhaps it was to be even more wonderful than Athalie had dreamed. 

 * * * * *

December turned very cold. The ice thickened; and she skated withClive on Spring Pond. The ice also remained through January andFebruary that winter; but after December had ended Athalie skated nomore. 

Clive, unknown to her, had sent for a Shaker cloak and hood ofscarlet; and when it arrived Athalie threw back her lovely head andlaughed till the tears dimmed her eyes. 

"All the same, " he said, "you don't look much older in it than youlooked in your red hood and cloak the first day I ever set eyes onyou. "

"You poor darling!--as though even you could push back the hands ofTime! It's the funniest and sweetest thing you ever did--to send forthis red, hooded cloak. "

However she wore it whenever she ventured out with him on foot or inthe sleigh which he had bought. Once, coming home, she was stillwearing it when Mrs. Connor brought to them two peach turnovers. 

A fire had been lighted in the ancient stove; and they went out to thesun-parlour, --once the bar--and sat in the same old arm-chairs exactlyas they had been seated that night so long ago; and there they atetheir peach turnovers, their enchanted eyes meeting, striving torealise it all, and the intricate ways of Destiny and Chance and Fate. 

 * * * * *

February was a month of heavy snows that year; great drifts buried thefences and remained until well into March. April was April, --and verymuch so; but they saw the blue waters of the bay sometimes; anddogwood and willow stems were already aglow with colour; and apremature blue-bird sang near Athalie's garden. Crocuses appearedeverywhere with grape hyacinths and snow-drops. Then jonquil andnarcissus opened in all their loveliness, and soft winds stirred thewaters of the fountain. 

May found the garden uncovered, with tender amber-tinted shoots andexquisite fronds of green wherever the lifted mulch disclosed theearth. Also peonies were up and larkspur, and the ambitious promise ofthe hollyhocks delighted Athalie. 

Pink peach buds bloomed; cherry, pear, and apple covered the treeswith rosy snow; birds sang everywhere; and the waters of the poolmirrored a sky of purest blue. But Athalie now walked no further thanthe garden seat, --and walked slowly, leaning always on Clive's arm. 

In those days throughout May her mother was with her in her roomalmost every night. But Athalie did not speak of this to Clive. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Spring ploughing had been proceeding for some time now, but Athaliedid not feel equal to walking cross-lots over ploughed ground, so shelet Clive go alone on tours of inspection. 

But these absences were brief; he did not care to remain away fromAthalie for more than an hour at a time. So, T. Phelan ploughed on, practically unmolested and untormented by questions, suggestions, andadvice. Which liberty was to his liking. And he loafed much. 

In these latter days of May Athalie spent a great deal of her timeamong her cushions and wraps on the garden seat near the fountain. Onhis return from prowling about the farm Clive was sure to find herthere, reading or sewing, or curled up among her cushions in the sunwith Hafiz purring on her lap. 

And she would look up at Clive out of sleepy, humorous eyes in whichglimmered a smile of greeting, or she would pretend surprise anddisapproval at his long absence of half an hour with: "Well, C. Bailey, Junior! Where do _you_ come from now?"

The phases of awakening spring in the garden seemed to be an endlesssource of pleasure to the girl; she would sit for hours looking at thepale lilac-tinted wistaria clusters hanging over the naked wall andwatching plundering bumble-bees scrambling from blossom to blossom. 

And when at the base of the wall, the spiked buds of silvery-grey irisunfolded, and their delicate fragrance filled the air, the exquisitemingling of the two odours and the two shades of mauve thrilled her asno perfume, no colour had ever affected her. 

The little colonies of lily-of-the-valley came into delicate bloomunder the fringing shrubbery; golden bell flower, pink and vermilioncydonia, roses, all bloomed and had their day; lilac bushes wereweighted with their heavy, dewy clusters; the sweet-brier's greentracery grew into tender leaf and its matchless perfume becameapparent when the sun fell hot. 

In the warm air there seemed to brood the exquisite hesitation ofhappy suspense, --a delicious and breathless sense of waiting forsomething still more wonderful to come. 

And when Athalie felt it stealing over her she looked at Clive andknew that he also felt it. Then her slim hand would steal into his andnestle there, content, fearless, blissfully confident of what was tobe. 

But it was subtly otherwise with Clive. Once or twice she felt hishand tremble slightly as though a slight shiver had passed over him;and when again she noticed it she asked him why. 

"Nothing, " he said in a strained voice; "I am very, very happy. "

"I know it. . . . There is no fear mingling with your happiness; isthere, Clive?"

But before he replied she knew that it was so. 

"Dearest, " she murmured, "dearest! You must not be afraid for me. "

And suddenly the long pent fears strangled him; he could not speak;and she felt his lips, hot and tremulous against her hand. 

"My heart!" she whispered, "all will go well. There is absolutely noreason for you to be afraid. "

"Do you _know_ it?"

"Yes, I _know_ it. I am certain of it, darling. Everything will turnout as it should. . . . I can't bear to have the most beautiful momentsof our lives made sad for you by apprehension. Won't you believe methat all will go well?"

"Yes. "

"Then smile at me, Clive. "

His under lip was still unsteady as he drew nearer and took her intohis arms. 

"God wouldn't do such harm, " he said. "He _couldn't_! All must gowell. "

She smiled gaily and framed his head with her hands:

"You're just a boy, aren't you, C. Bailey, Junior?--just a big boy, yet. As though the God we understand--you and I--could deal otherwisethan tenderly with us. _He_ knows how rare love really is. He will notdisturb it. The world needs it for seed. "

The smile gradually faded from Clive's face; he shook his head, slightly:

"If I had known--if I had understood--"

"What, darling?"

"The hazard--the chances you are to take--"

But she laughed deliciously, and sealed his mouth with her fragranthand, bidding him hunt for other sources of worry if he really wasbent on scaring himself. 

Later she asked him for a calendar, and he brought it, and togetherthey looked over it where several of the last days of May had beenmarked with a pencil. 

As she sat beside him, studying the printed sequence of the days, asmile hovering on her lips, he thought he had never seen her sobeautiful. 

A soft wind blew the bright tendrils of her hair across her cheeks;her skin was like a little girl's, rose and snow, smooth as a child's;her eyes clearly, darkly blue--the hue and tint called azure--like thecolour of the zenith on some still June day. 

And through the glow of her superb and youthful symmetry, ever, itseemed to him, some inward radiance pulsated, burning in her goldenburnished hair, in scarlet on her lips, making lovely the softsplendour of her eyes. Hers was the fresh, sweet beauty of ardentyouth and spring incarnate, --neither frail and colourlessly spiritual, nor tainted with the stain of clay. 

 * * * * *

Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden with him, Hafiz, seatedon the bench beside them, politely observant, condescending to receivea morsel now and then. 

It was on such a day, at noon-tide, that Athalie bent over toward him, touched his hair with her lips, then whispered something very low. 

[Illustration: "Sometimes Athalie lunched there in the garden withhim. "]

His face went white, but he smiled and rose, --came back swiftly tokiss her hands--then entered the house and telephoned to New York. 

When he came back to her she was ready to rise, lean on his arm, andwalk leisurely to the house. 

On the way she called his attention to a pale blue sheet offorget-me-nots spreading under the shrubbery. She noticed other newblossoms in the garden, lingered before the bed of white pansies. "Like little faces, " she said with a faint smile. 

One silvery-grey iris he broke from its sheathed stem and gave her;she moved slowly on with the scented blossom lifted to her lips. 

In the hall a starched and immaculate nurse met her with a significantnod of understanding. And so, between Clive and the trained nurse shemounted the stairs to her room. 

Later Clive came in to sit beside her where she lay on her dainty bed. She turned her flushed face on the pillow, smiled at him, and liftedher neck a little; and he slipped one arm under it. 

"Such a wonderful pillow your shoulder makes, " she murmured. . . . "I amthinking of the first time I ever knew it. . . . So quiet I lay, --suchinfinite caution I used whenever I moved. . . . That night the air wasmusical with children's voices--everywhere under the stars--softlygarrulous, laughing, lisping, calling from the hills and meadows. . . . That night of miracles and of stars--my dear--my dearest!--"

 * * * * *

Close to her cheek he breathed: "Are you in pain?"

"Oh, Clive! I am so happy. I love you so--I love you so. "

Then nurse and physician came in and the latter took him by the armand walked out of the room with him. For a long while they paced thepassage-way together in whispered conversation before the nurse cameto the door and nodded. 

Both went in: Athalie laughed and put up her arms as Clive bent overher. 

"All will be well, " she whispered, kissed him, then turned her headsharply to the right. 

When he found himself in the garden, walking at random, the sun hung ahand's breadth over the woods. Later it seemed to become entangledamid new leaves and half-naked branches, hanging there motionless, blinding, glittering through an eternity of time. 

And yet he did not notice when twilight came, nor when the dusk'spurple turned to night until he saw lights turned up on both floors. 

Nobody summoned him to dinner but he did not notice that. Connor cameto him there in the darkness and said that two other physicians hadarrived with another nurse. He went into the library where they werejust leaving to mount the stairs. They looked at him as they passedbut merely bowed and said nothing. 

A steady, persistent clangour vibrated in his brain, dulling it, sothat senses like sight and hearing seemed slow as though drugged. 

Suddenly like a sword the most terrible fear he ever knew passedthrough him. . . . And after a while the dull, ringing clangour cameback, dinning, stupefying, interminable. Yet he was conscious of everysound, every movement on the floor above. 

 * * * * *

One of the physicians came halfway down the stairs, looked at him; andhe rose mechanically and went up. 

He saw nothing clearly in the room until he bent over Athalie. 

Her eyes unclosed. She whispered: "It is all right, beloved. "

Somebody led him out. He kept on, conscious of the grasp on his arm, but seeing nothing. 

 * * * * *

He had been walking for a long while, somewhere between light anddarkness, --perhaps for hours, perhaps minutes. Then somebody came wholaid an arm about his shoulder and spoke of courage. 

Other people were in the room, now. One said:

"Don't go up yet. ". . . Once he noticed a woman, Mrs. Connor, crying. Connor led her away. 

Others moved about or stood silent; and some one was always drawingnear him, speaking of courage. It was odd that so much darkness shouldinvade a lighted room. 

Then somebody came down the stairs, noiselessly. The house was verystill. 

And at last they let him go upstairs. 

CHAPTER XXX

Lights yet burned on the lower floors and behind the drawn blinds ofAthalie's room. The night was quiet and soft and lovely; the moonstill young in its first quarter. 

There was no wind to blow the fountain jet, so that every drop fellstraight back where the slim column of water broke against a strip ofstars above the garden wall. Somewhere in distant darkness the littleowl trilled. 

 * * * * *

If he were walking or motionless he no longer knew it; nor did he seemto be aware of anything around. 

Hafiz came up to him through the dusk with a little mew of recognitionor of loneliness. Afterward the cat followed him for a while and thensettled down upon the grass intent on the invisible stirringstealthily in obscurity. 

The fragrance of the iris grew sweeter, fresher. Many new buds hadunfolded since high noon. One stalk had fallen across the path andClive's dragging feet passed over it where he moved blindly, athazard, with stumbling steps along the path--errant, senseless, andalways blind. 

For on the garden bench a young girl sat, slender, exquisite, smilingas he approached. But he could not see her, nor could he see in herarms the little flower-like face, and the tiny hands against herbreast. 

"Clive!" she said. But he could not hear her. 

"Clive, " she whispered; "my beloved!"

But he could neither see nor hear. His knees, too, were failing; heput out one hand, blindly, and sank down upon the garden bench. 

All night long she sat beside him, her head against his shoulder, sometimes touching his drawn face with warm, sweet lips, sometimeslooking down at the little face pressed to her quiet breast. 

And all night long the light burned behind the closed blinds of herroom; and the little silvery dusk-moths floated in and out of therays. And Hafiz, sitting on the grass, watched them sometimes;sometimes he gazed at his young mistress out of wide, unblinking eyes. 

"Hafiz, " she murmured lazily in her sweetly humorous way. 

The cat uttered a soft little mew but did not move. And when she laidher cheek close to Clive's whispering, --"I love you--I love youso!"--he never stirred. 

Her blue eyes, brooding, grew patient, calm, and tender; she lookeddown silently into the little face close cradled in her arms. 

Then the child's eyes opened like two blue stars; and she bent over ina swift ecstasy of bliss, covering the flower-like face with kisses. 

 THE END

 Novels by Robert W. Chambers

 Athalie Who Goes There! Anne's Bridge Between Friends The Hidden Children Quick Action Blue-Bird Weather Japonette The Adventures of a Modest Man The Danger Mark Special Messenger The Firing Line The Younger Set The Fighting Chance Some Ladies in Haste The Tree of Heaven The Tracer of Lost Persons A Young Man in a Hurry Lorraine Maids of Paradise The Business of Life The Gay Rebellion The Streets of Ascalon The Common Law Ailsa Paige The Green Mouse Iole The Reckoning The Maid-at-Arms Cardigan The Haunts of Men The Mystery of Choice The Cambric Mask The Maker of Moons The King in Yellow In Search of the Unknown The Conspirators A King and a Few Dukes In the Quarter Ashes of Empire The Red Republic Outsiders