Athalie

"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; she found herself, presently, drawn close to his shoulder; her flushed cheek rested there once more, and her lowered eyes were fixed on his strong, 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. Neither could I."

"But if we – "

"Oh, no, no, no!" she protested, "it would utterly ruin you! There was one 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. Those people are different. They'd never forgive you, and it would ruin you 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 so well – your family and your pride in them, your position and your security in it, your wide circle of friends, without which circle you would wander like a lost soul – yes, Clive, lost, forlorn, unhappy, even with me!"

She lifted her head from his shoulder and sat up, gazing intently straight ahead of her. In her eyes was a lovely azure light; her lips were scarcely parted; and so intent and fixed was her gaze that for a moment he thought she had caught sight of some concrete thing which held her fascinated.

But it was only that she "saw clearly" at that moment – something that had come into her field of vision – a passing shape, perhaps, which looked at her with curious, friendly, inquiring eyes, – and went its way between the fire and the young girl who watched it pass with fearless 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 vision cleared.

"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 did you – think – you saw?"

Her eyes looked straight into his. She went to him and put both arms around his neck.

"Dearest," she said " – dearest." And kissed him on the mouth. But he dared not lay one finger on her.

The next moment she had his coat, was holding it for him. He took his hat and stick from her, turned and walked to the door, wheeled in his tracks, shivering.

And saw her crouched on the sofa, her head buried in her arms. And dared not speak.

There was an automobile standing in the street before his own house as he turned out of Fifth Avenue; lighted windows everywhere in the house, 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 in frightened exclamation.

"What is it?" he managed to ask.

A servant stammered: "Mr. Clive – it's all over, sir. Mrs. Bailey is asking 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. But when he got to him Mr. Bailey was gone… The doctor has just arrived, 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 voice echoed: "Dearest – dearest!" And, knowing that hope also lay dead, he lifted his young head, straightened up, and set his foot heavily on the 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 of Clive's world – although it was because of her devotion to him alone that 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 concerned where she remained among the other millions outside the sacred threshold across which her letter and her flowers had gone, across which the girl herself might never go.

After a few days he wrote and thanked her for her letter, not of course 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.