Chapter 20

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_ CHAPTER XX

A May afternoon was drawing to a close; the last appointment had been made for the morrow, and the last client for the day still lingered with Athalie where she sat with her head propped thoughtfully on one slim hand, her gaze concentrated on the depths of the crystal sphere.

After a long silence she said: "You need not be anxious. Her wireless apparatus is out of order. They are repairing it.... It was a bad storm."

"Is there any ice near her?"

After a pause: "I can see none."

"Any ships?"

"One of her own line, hull down. They have been exchanging signals.... There seems to be no necessity for her to stand by. The worst is over.... Yes, the _Empress of Borneo_ proceeds. The _Empress of Formosa_ 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 the crystal and smiled reassuringly at him. He was a stocky, red-faced, trim, middle-aged man; but his sanguine visage bore the haggard imprint of sleepless nights, and the edges of his teeth had bitten his under lip raw.

Athalie glanced carelessly at the crystal, then nodded.

"Yes," she said patiently. "I am sure of it, Mr. Clements. The _Empress of Formosa_ will dock on Monday--about--nine in the morning. She will be reported by wireless from the _Empress of Borneo_ this evening.... They have been relaying it from the Delaware Capes.... There will be an extra edition of the evening papers. You may dismiss all anxiety."

The man rose, stood a moment, his features working with emotion.

"I'm not a praying man," he said. "But if this is so--I'll pray for you.... It can't hurt you anyway--" he checked himself, stammering, and the deep colour stained him from his brow to his thick, powerful neck as he stood fumbling with his portfolio.

But Athalie smilingly put aside the recompense he offered: "It is too much, Mr. Clements."

"It is worth it to the Company--if the news is true--"

"Then wait until your steamer docks."

"But you say you are certain--"

"Yes, I am: but _you_ are not. My refusal of payment will encourage you to confidence in me. You have been ill with anxiety, Mr. Clements. I know what that means. And now your bruised mind cannot realise that the trouble is ended--that there is no reason now for the deadly fear that has racked you. But everything will help you now--what I have told you--and my refusal of payment until your own eyes corroborate everything I have said."

"I believe you now," he said, staring at her. "I wish to offer you in behalf of the Company--"

A swift gesture conjured him to silence. She rose, listening intently. Presently his ears too caught the faint sound, and he turned and walked swiftly and silently to the open window.

"There is your extra," she said pleasantly. "The _Empress of Borneo_ has been reported."

* * * * *

She was still lying on the couch beside the crystal, idly watching what scenes were drifting, mist-like, through its depths--scenes vague, and faded in colour, and of indefinite outline; for, like the monotone of a half-heard conversation which does not concern a listener these passing phantoms concerned not her.

Under her indifferent eyes they moved; pale-tinted scenes grew, waxed, and waned, and a ghostly processional flowed through them without end under her dark blue dreaming eyes.

She had turned and dropped her head back upon the silken pillows when his signal sounded in telegraphic sequence on the tiny concealed bell.

The still air of the room was yet tremulous with the silvery vibration when he entered, looked around, caught sight of her, and came swiftly toward her.

She looked up at him in her sweet, idly humorous way, unstirring.

"This is becoming a habit with you, Clive."

"Didn't you care to see me this afternoon?" he asked so seriously that the girl laughed outright and stretched out one hand to him.

"Clive, you're becoming ponderous! Do you know it? Suppose I didn't care to see you this particular afternoon. Is there any reason why you should take it so seriously?"

"Plenty of reasons," he said, saluting her smooth, cool hand,--"with all these people at your heels every minute--"

"Please don't pretend--"

"I'm _not_ jealous. But all these men--Cecil and Jimmy Allys--they're beginning to be a trifle annoying to me."

She laughed in unfeigned and malicious delight:

"They don't annoy _me_! No girl ever was annoyed by overattention from her suitors--except Penelope--and _I_ don't believe she had such a horrid time of it either, until her husband came home and shot up the whole _the dansant_."

He was still standing beside her couch without offering to seat himself; and she let him remain standing a few minutes longer before she condescended to move aside on her pillows and nod a tardy invitation.

"Has it been an interesting day, Clive?"

"Rather."

"And you have really gone back into business again?"

"Yes."

"And will the real estate market rally at the news of your august reappearance?" she inquired mischievously.

"I haven't a doubt of it," he said with gravity.

[Illustration: "'There is your extra,' she said pleasantly."]

"Wonderful, Clive! And I think I'd better get in on the ground floor before values go sky-rocketing. Do you want a commission from me?"

"Of course."

"Very well. Buy me the old Hotel Greensleeve."

He smiled; but she said with pretty seriousness: "I really have been thinking about it. Do you suppose it could be bought reasonably? It's really a pretty place. And there's a hundred acres--or there was.... I would like to have a modest house somewhere in the country."

"Are you in earnest, Athalie?"

"Really I am.... Couldn't that old house be fixed over inexpensively? You know it's nearly two hundred years old, and the lines are good if the gingerbread verandas and modern bay windows are done away with."

He nodded; and she went on with shy enthusiasm: "I don't really know anything about gardens, except I know that I should adore them.... I thought of a garden--just a simple one.... And some cows and chickens. And one nice old horse.... It is really very pretty there in spring and summer. And the bay is so blue, and the salt meadows are so sweet.... And the cemetery is near.... I should not wish to alter mother's room very much.... I'd turn the bar into a sun parlour.... But I'd keep the stove ... where you and I sat that evening and ate peach turnovers.... About how much do you suppose the place could be bought for?"

"I haven't the least idea, Athalie. But I'll see what can be done to-morrow.... It ought to be a good purchase. You can scarcely go wrong on Long Island property if you buy it right."

"Will you see about it, Clive?"

"Of course I will, you dear girl!" he said, dropping his hand over hers where it lay between them.

She smiled up at him. Then, distrait, turned her blue eyes toward the window, and remained gazing out at the late afternoon sky where a few white clouds were sailing.

"'Clouds and ships on sky, and sea,'" she murmured to herself.... "'And God always at the helm.' Why do men worry? All sail into the same port at last."

He bent over her: "What are you murmuring all to yourself down there?" he asked, smilingly.

"Nothing much,--I'm just watching the driftsam and flotsam borne on the currents flowing through my mind--flowing through it and out again--away, somewhere--back to the source of thought, perhaps."

He was still bending above her, and she looked up dreamily into his eyes.

"Do you think I shall ever have my garden?" she asked.

"All things good must come to you, Athalie."

She laughed, looking up into his eyes: "You meant that, didn't you? 'All things good'--yes--and other things, too.... They come to all I suppose.... Tell me, do you think my profession disreputable?"

"You have made it otherwise, haven't you?"

"I don't know. I'm eternally tempted. My intelligence bothers me. And where to draw the line between what I really see and what I divine by deduction--or by intuition--I scarcely know sometimes.... I try to be honest.... When you came in just now, were they calling an extra?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear what they were calling?"

"Something about the _Empress of Borneo_ being reported safe."

She nodded. Then: "That is the hopeless part of it. I can sometimes help others; never myself.... I suppose you have no idea how many, many hours I have spent looking for you.... I never could find you. I have never found you in my crystal, or in my clearer vision, or in my dreams; ... never heard your voice, never had news of you except by common report in everyday life.... Why is it, I wonder?"

His expression was inscrutable. She said, her eyes still lingering on his: "You know it makes me indignant to see so much that neither concerns nor interests me--so much that passes--in this!--" laying one hand on the crystal beside the couch ... "and never, never in the dull monotony of the drifting multitude to catch a glimpse of you.... I wonder, were I lost somewhere in the world, if you could find me, Clive?"

"I'd die, trying," he said unsmilingly.

"Oh! How romantic! I wasn't fishing for a pretty speech, dear. I meant, could you find me in the crystal. Look into it, Clive."

He turned and went over to the clear, transparent sphere, and she, resting her chin on both arms, lay gazing into it, too.

After a silence he shook his head: "I see nothing, Athalie."

"Can you not see that great yellow river, Clive? And the snow peaks on the horizon?... Palms, tall reeds, endless forests--everything so still--except birds flying--and a broad river rolling between forests.... And a mud-bar, swarming with crocodiles.... And a dead tree stranded there, on which large birds are sitting.... There is a big cat-shaped animal on the bank; but the forest is dark and sunless,--too dusky to see into.... I think the animal is a jaguar.... He's drinking now.... Yes, he's a jaguar--a heavy, squarely built, spotted creature with a broad, blunt head.... He's been eating a pheasant; there are feathers everywhere--bright feathers, brilliant as jewels.... Hark! You didn't hear that, did you, Clive? Somebody has shot the jaguar. They've shot him again. He's whirling 'round and 'round--and now he's down, biting at sticks and leaves.... There goes another shot. The jaguar lies very still. His jaws are partly open. He has big, yellow cat-teeth.... I can't seem to see who shot him.... There are some black men coming. One has a small American flag furled around the shaft of his spear. He's waving it over the dead jaguar. They're all dancing now.... But I can't see the man who shot him."

"I shot him," said Clive.

"I thought so." She turned and dropped back among her pillows.

"You see," she said, listlessly, "I can never seem to find you, Clive. Sometimes I suspect your presence. But I am never certain.... Why is it that a girl can't find the man she cares for most in the whole world?"

"Do you care for me as much as that?"

"Why, yes," she said, a trifle surprised.

"And do you think I return your--regard--in measure?"

She looked at him curiously, then, with her engaging and fearless smile: "_Quantum suff_," she said. "You know you oughtn't to care _too_ much for me, Clive."

"How much is too much?"

"You know," she said, watching his face, the smile still lingering on her lips.

"No, I don't. Tell me."

"I'll inform you when it's necessary."

"It's necessary now."

"No, it isn't."

"I'm afraid it is."

There was a silence. She lay watching him for a moment longer while the smile in her eyes slowly died out. Then, all in a moment, a swift change altered her expression; and she sat up on the couch, supporting herself on both hands.

"What is happening to you, Clive!" she said almost breathlessly.

"Nothing new."

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you?"

"Of course."

"Then,"--but he could not say it. He had no business to, and he knew it. It was the one thing he could refrain from saying, for her sake; the one service he could now render her.

He sat staring into space, the iron grimness of self-control locking every fetter that he wore--must always wear now.

She waited, her eyes intent on his face, her colour high, heart rapid.

"What had you to say to me?" she asked, breaking the silence.

He forced a laugh: "Nothing--except that sometimes being with you again makes me--very contented--"

"Is that what you had to say?"

"Yes. I told you it was nothing new."

She lowered her gaze and remained silent for a moment, apparently considering what he had said. Then the uplifted candour of her eyes questioned him again:

"You don't imagine yourself in love with me again, do you, Clive?"

"No."

"Nothing like that could happen to you again, could it?... Because it has not yet happened to me. It couldn't.... And it would be too--too ghastly if you--if anything--"

"Don't talk about it that way!" he said sharply. "If 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 too much for each other, don't we, Athalie?"

"Yes.... It would be terrible.... I don't know why I put such ideas into your head--or into my own. But you--there was something in your expression.... Oh, Clive, dear, it _couldn't_ happen to you, could it?"

She leaned forward impulsively and put both hands on his shoulders, gazing into his eyes, searching them fearfully for any trace of what she thought for a moment she had seen in them.

He said gaily enough: "No fear, dear. I'm exactly what I always have been. I'll always be what you want me to be, Athalie."

"I know.... But if ever--"

"No, no! Nothing can ever happen to worry you--"

"But if--"

"Nothing shall happen!"

"I know. But if ever it does--"

"It won't."

"Oh, Clive, listen! If 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 have to say to you if--"

"You could say that you loved me--if you did."

"To what purpose?" he demanded, red and astonished.

"To whatever purpose you followed.... Why shouldn't you tell me? If it ever happened that you fell in love with me again I had rather you told me than that you kept silent. I had rather know it than have it happen and never know it. Is there anything wrong in a man if he happens to fall in love with a girl?"

"He can remain silent, anyway."

"Why? Because he cannot marry her?"

"Yes."

"If you ever fell in love with me--would you wish to marry me?"

"If I ever did," he said, "I'd go through hell to marry you."

She considered him, curiously, as though trying to realise something inconceivable.

"I do not think of you that way," she said. "I do not think of you sentimentally at all.... Only that I care for you--deeply. I don't believe it's in me to love. I mean--as the world defines love.... So don't fall in love with me, Clive.... But, if you ever do, tell me."

"Why?" he asked unsteadily.

"Because you ought to tell me. I should not wish to die and never know it."

"Would you care?"

"Care? Do you ask a girl whether she could remain unmoved, uninterested, indifferent, if the man she cares for most falls in love with her?"

"Could you--respond?"

"Respond? With love? I don't know. How can I tell? I believe that I have never been in love in all my life. I don't know what it feels like. You might as well ask somebody born blind to read an ordinary book.... But one thing is certain: if that ever happens to you, you ought to tell me. Will you?"

"What good would it do?"

"What harm would it do?" she asked frankly.

"Suppose, knowing we could not marry, I made love to you, Athalie?"

Suddenly the smile flashed in her eyes: "Do you think I'm a baby, Clive? Suppose, knowing what we know, you did make love to me? Is that very dreadful?"

"My responsibility would be."

"The responsibility is mine. I'm my own mistress. If I chose to be yours the responsibility is mine--"

"Don't say such things, Athalie!"

"Why not? Such things happen--or they don't happen. I have no idea they're likely to happen to us.... I'm not a bit alarmed, Clive.... Perhaps it's the courage of ignorance--" She glanced at him again with the same curious, questioning look in her eyes,--"Perhaps because I cannot comprehend any such temptation.... And never could.... Nevertheless if you fall in love with me, tell me. I would not wish you to remain dumb. You have a right to speak. Love isn't a question of conditions or of convenience. You ought to have your chance."

"Chance!"

"Certainly."

"What chance?"

"To win me."

"Win you!--when I can't marry you--"

"I didn't say marry; I said, win.... If you ever fell in love with me you would wish to win my love, wouldn't you? And if you did, and I gave it to you, you would have won me for yourself, wouldn't you? Then why should you worry concerning _how_ I might love you? That would be my affair, my personal responsibility. And I admit to you that I know no more than a kitten what I might do about it."

She looked at him a moment, her hands still resting on his shoulders, and suddenly threw back her head, laughing deliciously: "Did you ever before take part in such a ridiculous conversation?" she demanded. "Oh, but I have always adored theoretical conversations. Only give me an interesting subject and take one end of it and I'll gratefully grasp the other, Clive. What an odd man you are; and I suppose I'm odd, too. And we may yet live to inhabit an odd little house together.... Wouldn't the world tear me to tatters!... I wonder if I'd dare--even knowing I was all right!"... The laughter died in her eyes; a swift tenderness melted them: "I do care for you so truly, Clive! I can't bear to think of ever again living without you.... You know it isn't silliness or love or anything except what I've always felt for you--loyalty and devotion, endless, eternal. And that is all there is or ever will be in my heart and mind."

So clear and sweet and confident in his understanding were her eyes that the quick emotion that leaped responsive left only a ruddy trace on his face and a slight quiver on his lips.

He said: "Nothing shall ever threaten your trust in me. No man can ask for more than you give, Athalie."

"I give you all I am. What more is there?"

"I ask no more."

"Is there more to wish for? Are you really satisfied, Clive?"

"Perfectly;"--but he looked away from her.

"And you don't imagine that you love me, do you?"

"No,"--still looking away from her.

"Meet my eyes, and say it."

"I--"

"Clive!"

"There is no--"

"Clive, obey me!"

So he turned and looked her in the eyes. And after a moment's silence she laughed, uncertainly, almost nervously.

"You--you _do_ imagine it!" she said. "Don't you?"

He made no reply.

Presently she began to laugh again, a gay, tormenting, excited little laugh. Something in his face seemed to exhilarate her, sending the blood like wine to her cheeks.

"You _do_ imagine it! Oh, Clive! _You!_ You think yourself in love with your old comrade!... I _knew_ it! There was something about you--I can't explain exactly what--but there was _something_ that told me."

She was laughing, now, almost wickedly and with all the naive and innocently malicious delight of a child delighting in its fellow's torment.

"Oh, Clive!" she said, "what are you going to do about it? And why do you gaze at me so oddly?--as though I were angry or disconcerted. I'm not. I'm happy. I'm crazy about this new relation of ours. It makes you more interesting than I ever dreamed even you could be--"

"You know," he said almost grimly, "if you are going to take it like this--"

"Take what?"

"The knowledge that--"

"That you are in love with me? Then you _are_! Oh, Clive, Clive! You dear, sweet, funny boy! And you've told me so, haven't you? Or it amounts to that; doesn't it?"

"Yes; I love you."

She leaned swiftly toward him, sparkling, flushed, radiant, tender:

"You dear boy! I'm not really laughing at you. I'm laughing--I don't know why: happiness--excitement--pride--I don't know.... Do you suppose it actually is love? It won't make you unhappy, will it? Besides you can be very busy trying to win me. That will be exciting enough for both of us, won't it?"

"Yes--if I try."

"But you will try, won't you?" she demanded mockingly.

He said, forcing a smile: "You seem to think it impossible that I could win you."

"Oh," she said airily, "I don't say that. You see I don't know the method of procedure. I don't know what you're going to do about your falling in love with me."

He leaned over and took her by the waist; and she drew back instinctively, surprised and disconcerted.

"That is silly," she said. "Are you going to be silly with me, Clive?"

"No," he said, "I won't be that."

He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments. And slowly the belief entered his heart like a slim steel blade that she had never loved, and that there was in her nothing except what she had said there was, loyalty and devotion, unsullied and spiritual, clean of all else lower and less noble, guiltless of passion, ignorant of desire.

As he looked at her he remembered the past--remembered that once he might have taught her love in all its attributes--that once he might have married her. For in a school so gentle and secure as wedlock such a girl might learn to love.

He had had his chance. What did he want of her now, then?--more than he had of her already. Love? Her devotion amounted to that--all of it that could concern a man already married--hopelessly married to a woman who would never submit to divorce. What did he want of her then?

He turned and walked to the open window and stood looking out over the city. Sunset blazed crimson at the western end of every cross-street. Far away on the Jersey shore electric lights began to sparkle.

He did not know she was behind him until one arm fell lightly on his shoulder.

It remained there after her imprisoned waist yielded a little to his arm.

"You are not unhappy, are you, Clive?"

"No."

"I didn't mean to take it lightly. I don't comprehend; that's all. It seems to me that I can't care for you more than I do already. Do you understand?"

"Yes, dear."

She raised one cool hand and drew his cheek gently against her own, and rested so a moment, looking out across the misty city.

He remembered that night of his departure when she had put both arms around his neck and kissed him. It had been like the serene touch of a crucifix to his lips. It was like that now,--the smooth, passionless touch of her cool, young face against his, and her slim hand framing his cheek.

"To think," she murmured to herself, "that you should ever care for me in that way, too.... It is wonderful, wonderful--and very sweet--if it does not make you unhappy. Does it?"

"No."

"It's so dear of you to love me that way, Clive. Could--could _I_ do anything--about it?"

"How?"

"Would you care to kiss me?" she asked with a faint smile. And turned her face.

Chaste, cool and fresh as a flower her young mouth met his, lingered; then, still smiling, and a trifle flushed and shy, she laid her cheek against his shoulder, and her hands in his, calm in her security.

"You see," she said, "you need not worry over me. I am glad you are in love with me." _

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