Before February had ended C. Bailey, Jr., and Athalie Greensleeve had
been to more than one play, had dined and supped together more than
once at the Regina.
The magnificence of the most fashionable restaurant in town had
thrilled and enchanted Athalie. At close range for the first time she
had an opportunity to inspect the rich, the fashionable, and the
great. As for celebrities, they seemed to be merely a by-product of
the gay, animated, beautifully gowned throngs: people she had heard
of, people more important still of whom she had never heard, people
important only to themselves of whom nobody had ever heard thronged
the great rococo rooms. The best hotel orchestra in America played
there; the loveliest flowers, the most magnificent jewels, the most
celebrated cuisine in the entire Republic--all were there for Athalie
Greensleeve to wonder at and to enjoy. There were other things for her
to wonder at, too,--the seemingly exhaustless list of C. Bailey,
Jr.'s, acquaintances; for he was always nodding to somebody or
returning salutes wherever they were, in the theatre, or the street,
in his little limousine car, at restaurants. Men sometimes came up and
spoke 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 was
absolutely necessary if she were to continue her maiden's progress
with this enchanting young man. Clothing of a very different species
than any she had ever permitted herself was now becoming a necessity.
She made the inroad. It was worth while if only to see his surprise
and his naïve pride in her.
And truly the girl was very lovely in the few luxuries she ventured to
acquire--so lovely, indeed, that many heads turned and many eyes
followed her calm and graceful progress in theatre aisle, amid
thronged tables, on the Avenue, anywhere and everywhere she moved
along the path of life now already in flowery bloom for her.
And beside her, eager, happy, flattered, walked C. Bailey, Jr., very
conscious that he was being envied; very proud of the beautiful young
girl with whom he was so constantly identifying himself, and who, very
obviously, 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 to
her beyond reason and even beyond propriety perhaps,--invariably
courteous and considerate, she was vividly aware. And it made her
intensely happy to know that she gave him pleasure and to accept it
from him.
It _was_ pleasure to Clive; but not entirely unmitigated. His father
asked him once or twice who the girl was of whom "people" were
talking; 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 supped
together more than once at the Regina."]
"But what's the use, Clive?" he asked with a sort of sad humour. "Is
it 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 cloak
down 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. Did
you think I was?"
"I don't think any more. Your mother does that for me.... Don't make
anybody unhappy, my son."
* * * * *
His mother, also, had made very frank representations to him on
several occasions, the burden of them being that common people beget
common ideas, common associations corrupt good manners, and that
"nice" girls would continue to view with disdain and might ultimately
ostracise any misguided young man of their own caste who played about
with a woman for whose existence nobody who was anybody could account.
"The daughter of a Long Island road-house keeper! Why, Clive! where is
your 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 her
beautiful and well-bred."
"Clive! Will you please awake from that silly dream?"
"That's the truth, mother. And if she spoke it would merely confirm
the impression. You won't believe it but it's true."
"That's absurd, Clive! She may not be uneducated but she certainly
cannot be either cultivated or well-bred."
"She is cultivating herself."
"Then for goodness' sake let her do it! It's praiseworthy and
commendable for a working girl to try to better herself. But it
doesn't concern you."
"Why not? If a business girl does better herself and fit herself for a
better social environment, it seems to me her labour is in vain if
people within the desired environment snub her."
"What kind of argument is that? Socialistic? I merely know it is
unbaked. 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 that
Greensleeve woman?"
"I told you that I am not in love with her; nor is she with me. It's
an 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 the
friends of your parents?"
"Oh, mother, I like them of course.... But there's something about a
business girl--a girl in the making--that is more amusing, more
companionable, more interesting. A business girl seems to wear better.
She's better worth talking to, listening to,--it's better fun to go
about with her, see things with her, discuss things--"
"What on earth are you talking about! It's perfect babble; it's
nonsense! If you really believe you have a penchant for sturdy and
rather grubby worthiness unadorned you are mistaken. The inclination
you have is merely for a pretty face and figure. I know you. If I
don'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't
talk to me about your disinterested admiration for a working girl. You
haven't anything in common with her, and you never could have. And
you'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 a
smart, selfish, and unscrupulous girl, the result may be more
deplorable still, as far as we all are concerned. What is the need of
my saying this? You are grown; you know it already. Up to the present
time you've kept fastidiously clear of such entanglements. You say you
have, and your father and I believe you. So what is the use of
beginning 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. I
am not in love with Athalie Greensleeve. But there is no girl I like
better, none perhaps I like quite as well. Let me alone. There's no
sentiment between her and me so far. There won't be any--unless you
and other people begin to drive us toward each other. I don't want you
to do that. Don't interfere. Let us alone. We're having a good
time,--a perfectly natural, wholesome, happy time together."
[Illustration: "'I _like_ her,' repeated Clive, Jr., a trifle
annoyed."]
"What is it leading to?" demanded his mother impatiently.
"To nothing except more good times. That's absolutely all. That's all
that good times lead to where any of the girls you approve of are
concerned--not to sentiment, not to love, merely to more good times.
Why on earth can't people understand that even if the girl happens to
be 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 you
ought 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 your
mistress 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 think
so."
"You would?"
"Certainly."
"That's rotten," he said, slowly.
"Oh, Clive, don't be a fool. You can't do what you're doing without
arousing suspicion everywhere--from a village sewing-circle to the
smartest 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's
so. 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 coat
from the maid who brought it and slipped it over the handsome
afternoon gown that his handsome mother wore.
For a moment he stood, looking at her almost curiously--at the
brilliant black eyes, the clear smooth olive skin still youthful
enough to be attractive, at the red lips, mostly nature's hue, at the
cheeks where the delicate carmine flush was still mostly nature's.
He said: "You have so much, mother.... It seems strange you should not
be more generous to a girl you have never seen."
His handsome, capable, and experienced mother gazed at him out of
friendly and amused eyes from which delusion had long since fled. And
that is where she fell short, for delusion is the offspring of
imagination; and without imagination no intelligence is complete. She
said: "I can be generous with any woman except where my son concerns
himself with her. Where anybody else's son is involved I could be
generous to any girl, even--" she smiled her brilliant smile--"even
perhaps not too maliciously generous. But the situation in your case
doesn't appeal to me as humorous. Keep away from her, Clive; it's
easier than ultimately to run away from her."