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-storied
row 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 the
brick front just over the tarnished door-bell. On it was written in
ink: "Furnished Rooms."
Answering in person the first advertisement she had turned to in the
morning paper Athalie had found this place. There was nothing
attractive about it except the price; but that was sufficient in this
emergency. For the girl would not permit herself to remain another
night in the pretty apartment furnished for her by the man whose
engagement had been announced to her through the daily papers.
And nothing of his would she take with her except the old gun-metal
wrist-watch, and Hafiz, and the barred basket in which Hafiz had
arrived. Everything else she left, her toilet silver, desk-set, her
evening gowns and wraps, gloves, negligées, boudoir caps, slippers,
silk stockings, all her bath linen, everything that she herself had
not purchased out of her own salary--even the little silver cupid
holding aloft his torch, which had been her night-light.
[Illustration: "With a basket containing Hafiz, her suit-case, and a
furled umbrella she started for her new lodgings."]
Never again could she illuminate that torch. The other woman must do
that.
* * * * *
She went about quietly from room to room, lowering the shades and
drawing the curtains. There was brilliant colour in her cheeks, an
undimmed beauty in her eyes; pride crowned the golden head held steady
and high on its slender, snowy neck. Only the lips threatened
betrayal; and were bitten as punishment into immobility.
Her small steamer trunk went by a rickety private express for fifty
cents: with the basket containing Hafiz, her suit-case, and a furled
umbrella she started for her new lodgings.
Michael, opening the lower grille for her, stammered: "God knows why
ye do this, Miss! Th' young Masther'll be afther givin' me the sack av
ye 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 huge
but gentle paw on Hafiz's basket whence a gentle plaint arose.
And so Athalie and Hafiz departed into the world together; and
presently bivouacked; their first étape on life's long journey ending
on the top floor of 1006 West Fifty-fifth Street.
The landlady was a thin, anxious, and very common woman with false
hair and teeth; and evidently determined to secure Athalie for a
lodger.
But the terms she offered the girl for the entire top floor were so
absurdly small that Athalie hesitated, astonished and perplexed.
"Oh, there's a jinx in the place," said the landlady; "I ain't aiming
to 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'll
get 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 it
and nobody wants the apartment. That's why you get it cheap--if you'll
take 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 decorated
and cheerful rooms.
The landlady sniffed: "It certainly was one on me when I let that jinx
into 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 what
got 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 and
dandy. Business had went good.... There was a young man to visit her
that evening. I seen him go up the stairs.... But I was that sleepy
I went to bed. So I didn't see him come down. And next day at noon
when I went up to do the room she lay dead onto the floor, and her
rings 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. I
gotta 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 restraint
no longer:
"Oh, he could dope her easy in the dark!" she burst out. "Not that the
house ain't thur'ly respectable as far as I can help it, and all my
lodgers is refined. No, Miss Greensleeve, I won't stand for nothing
that ain't refined and genteel. Only what can a honest woman do when
she's abed and asleep, what with all the latch keys and entertainin',
and things like that? No, Miss Greensleeve, I ain't got myself to
blame, being decent and law-abiding and all like that, what with the
police keeping tabs and the neighbourhood not being Fifth Avenoo
either!--and this jinx wished on me--"
"Please--"
"Oh, I suppose you ain't a-goin' to stay here now that you've learned
all about these goin's on and all like that--"
"_Please_ wait!"--for the voluble landlady was already beginning to
sniffle;--"I am perfectly willing to stay, Mrs. Meehan,--if you will
promise to be a little patient about my rent until I secure a
position--"
"Oh, I will, Miss Greensleeve! I ain't plannin' to press you none! I
know 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, what
with butchers and bakers and rent owed me and all like that. I guess I
can trust you to act fair and square--"
"Yes; I am square--so far."
Mrs. Meehan began to sob, partly with relief, partly with a general
tendency to sentimental hysteria: "I can see that, dearie. And say--if
you're quiet, I ain't peekin' around corners and through key-holes.
No, Miss Greensleeve; that ain't my style! Quiet behaved young ladies
can have their company without me saying nothing to nobody. All I ask
is that no lady will cut up flossy in any shape, form, or manner, but
behave genteel and refined to one and all. I don't want no policeman
in the area. That ain't much to ask, is it?" she gasped, fairly out of
breath 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 linen
for bed and bathroom, pulled out the new bureau drawers and dusted
them, carried away a few anæmic geraniums in pots, and swept the new
hardwood floor with a dry mop, explaining that the entire apartment
had been renovated and redecorated since the tragic episode of last
August, 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 sliding
panel which they didn't find. I found it and I put it on the top shelf
in the closet--"
She dragged a chair thither, mounted it, and presently came trotting
back to the front room, carrying in both arms a bulky box of green
morocco and a large paper parcel bursting with odds and ends of tinsel
and silk. These she dumped on the centre table, saying: "She had a
cabinet-maker fix up a cupboard in the baseboard, and that's where she
kept gimcracks. The police done me damage enough without my showin'
them her hidin' place and the things she kept there. Here--I'll show
it 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 the
room.
"You can't see nothing there, can you?" she demanded, pointing at the
high 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-worn
forefinger rested on a polished knot in the richly grained wood. Then
she pushed; and the entire square of panels swung outward, lowering
like 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 elaborate
electric switchboard set with keys from which innumerable insulated
wires 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 a
meejum."
"A--what?"
"A meejum."
"What is that?"
"Why don't you know, dearie? She threw trances for twenty per. She
seen things. She done stunts with tables and tambourines and
accordions. Why this here place is all wired and fixed up between the
walls and the ceiling and roof and the flooring, too. There is chimes
and bells and harmonicas and mechanical banjos under the flooring and
in the walls and ceiling. There's a whispering phonograph, too, and
something that sighs and sobs. Also a machine that is full of singing
birds 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 to
fool with them myself, being nervous with a weak back and my vittles
not setting right and all like that--" Again she ran down from sheer
lack of breath.
Athalie gazed curiously at the secret cupboard. After a few moments
she bent over, lifted and replaced the panelling and passed her slim
hand 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 on
the side; you know--all about a blond gentleman that wants to meet you
and a dark lady comin' over the water to do something mean to you. She
charged high, but she had customers enough--swell ladies, too, in
their automobiles, and old gentlemen and young and all like that....
Here's part of her outfit"--leading Athalie to the centre table and
opening 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 upon
it, 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 that
glass ball, and I've looked, too. You can have it if you want it. It's
kind 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 a
pertinacity 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 and
home-made Chinese finery.
But Athalie declined the dead woman's robes of office and Mrs. Meehan
rolled them up in the wrapping paper and took them and herself off,
very profuse in her gratitude to Athalie for consenting to occupy the
apartment and thereby remove the "jinx" that had inhabited it since
the tragedy of the month before.
A very soft and melancholy mew from the basket informed the girl that
Hafiz desired his liberty. So she let him out and he trotted at her
heels as she walked about inspecting the apartment. Also he did
considerable inspecting on his own account, sniffing at every
door-sill and crack, jumping up on chairs to look out of windows,
prowling in and out of closets, his plumy tail jerking with
dubiousness and indecision.
The apartment was certainly clean. Evidently the house had been a good
one in its day, for the trim was dark old mahogany, rich and beautiful
in colour; and the fireplace was rather pretty with its acanthus
leaves and roses deeply carved in marble which time had toned to an
ivory tint.
The darkly stained floor of hardwood was, of course, modern. So were
the new and very hideous oriental rugs made in Hoboken, and the
aniline pink wall-paper, and the brand new furniture still smelling of
department store varnish. Hideous, too, were the electric fixtures,
the gas-log in the old-time fireplace, and the bargain counter
bric-a-brac geometrically spaced upon the handsome old mantel.
But there were possibilities in the big, square room facing south and
in the two smaller bed chambers fronting the north. A modern bathroom
connected these.
To find an entire top floor in New York at such a price was as
amazing as it was comfortable to the girl who had not expected to be
able to afford more than a small bedroom.
* * * * *
She had a little money left, enough to purchase food and a few pots
and 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-trail
stretching away before her. After which she sat for a while by the
window in a stiff arm-chair, thinking of Clive and of his silence, and
of the young girl he was one day to marry.
Southward, the lights of the city began to break out and sparkle
through the autumn haze; tall towers, hitherto invisible, suddenly
glimmered against the sky-line. A double vista of lighted street lamps
stretched east and west below her.
The dusty-violet light of evening softened the shabby street below,
veiling ugliness and squalor and subtly transmuting meanness and
poverty to picturesqueness--as artists, using only the flattering
simplicity of essentials, show us in etching and aquarelle the romance
of the commonplace. And so the rusty iron balconies of a chop suey
across the street became quaint and curious: dragon and swinging
gilded sign, banner and garish fretwork grew mellow and mysterious
under the ruddy Hunter's Moon sailing aloft out of the city's haze
like a great Chinese lantern.
From an unseen steeple or two chimes sounded the hour. Farther away in
the city a bell answered. It is not a city of belfries and chimes;
only locally and by hazard are bell notes distinguishable above the
interminable 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 and
the bay.
Leaning both elbows on the sill of the opened window Athalie gazed
wearily into the street where noisy children shrilled at one another
and dodged vehicles like those quick tiny creatures whirling on ponds.
Here and there, the flare of petroleum torches lighted push-carts
piled with fruit or laden with bowls of lemonade and hokey-pokey.
Sidewalks were crowded with shabby people gossiping in groups or
passing east and west--about what squalid business only they could
know.
On the stoops of all the dwellings, brick or brownstone, people sat;
the men in shirt-sleeves, the young girls bare-headed, and in light
summer gowns. Pianos sounded through open parlour windows; there was
dancing going on somewhere in the block.
Eastward where the street intersected the glare of the dingy avenue, a
policeman stood on fixed post, the electric lights guttering on his
metal-work when he turned. Athalie had laid her cheek on her arms and
closed her eyes, from fatigue, perhaps; perhaps to force back the
tears which, nevertheless, glimmered on her lashes where they lay
close to the curved white cheeks.
Little by little the girl was taking degree after degree in her
post-graduate course, the study of which was man.
And for the first time in her life a new reaction in the laboratory of
experience had revealed to her a new element in her analysis;
bitterness.
Which is akin to resentment. And to these it is easy to ally
recklessness.
* * * * *
There came to her a moment, as she sat huddled there at the window,
when endurance suddenly flashed into a white anger; and she found
herself on her feet, pacing the room as caged things pace, with a sort
of blindly fixed purpose, seeing everything yet looking at nothing
that she passed.
But after this had lasted long enough she halted, gazing about her as
though for something that might aid her. But there was only the room
and the furniture, and Hafiz asleep on a chair; only these and the
crystal sphere on its slim bronze tripod. And suddenly she found
herself on her knees beside it, staring into its dusky transparent
depths, fixing her mind, concentrating every thought, straining every
faculty, every nerve in the one desperate and imperative desire.
But through the crystal's depths there is no aid for those who "see
clearly," no comfort, no answer. She could not find there the man she
searched 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, her
eyes wide open in the dark, she finally understood that her clear
vision was of no avail where she herself was concerned; that they who
see clearly can never use that vision to help themselves.
Fiercely she resented it,--the more bitterly because for the first
time in her life she had condescended to any voluntary effort toward
clairvoyance.
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 understand
it. 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 was
learning resentment.
All men should be the same to her hereafter. All men should stand
already condemned. Never again should one among them betray her mind
to reveal itself, persuade her heart to response, her lips to
sacrifice their sweetness and their pride, her soul to stir in its
sleep, awake, and answer. And for what the minds and hearts of men
might bring upon themselves, let men be responsible. Their
inclinations, offers, protests, promises as far as they regarded
herself could never again affect her. Let man look to himself; his
desires no longer concerned her. Let him keep his distance--or take
his chances. And there were no chances.
Athalie was learning resentment.
* * * * *
Somebody was knocking. Athalie rose from the floor, turned on the
lights, dried her eyes, went slowly to the door, and opened it.
A large, fat, pallid woman stood in the hallway. Her eyes were as
washed out as her faded, yellowish hair; and her kimono needed
washing.
"Good evening," she said cordially, coming in without any
encouragement from Athalie and settling her uncorseted bulk in the
arm-chair. "My name is Grace Bellmore,--Mrs. Grace Bellmore. I have
the rear rooms under yours. If you're ever lonely come down and talk
it over. Neighbours are not what they might be in this house. Look out
for the Meehan, too. I'd call her a cat only I like cats. Say, that's
a fine one on your bed there. Persian? Oh, Angora--" here she fished
out a cigarette from the pocket of her wrapper, found a match,
scratched it on the sole of her ample slipper, and lighted her
cigarette.
"Have one?" she inquired. "No? Don't like them? Oh, well, you'll come
to 'em. Everything comes easy when you're lonely. _I_ know. You don't
have to tell me. God! I get so sick of my own company sometimes--"
She turned her head to gaze about her, twisting her heavy, creased
neck as far as the folds of fat permitted: "You had your nerve with
you 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 their
names before they ask me to dinner and start in calling me Grace. It's
Grace _after_ meat with _me_!" And she laughed and laughed, slapping
her fat knee with a pudgy, ring-laden hand.
Athalie, secretly dismayed, forced a polite smile. Mrs. Bellmore blew
a 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 was
before. 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 of
this very large and faded woman who wore a pink kimono and a dozen
rings on her nicotine-stained fingers, and who smoked incessantly.
The woman seemed to be a trifle surprised: "Haven't you ever heard of
Grace Bellmore?" she asked.
"I don't think so," said Athalie with increasing diffidence.
"Well, maybe you wouldn't, not being in the profession. The managers
all 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 to
prima donna. That's how I get mine," she concluded with a jolly laugh.
Athalie, feeling a little more confidence in her visitor, smiled at
her.
"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 at
stenography."
Mrs. Bellmore said: "I certainly hate to admit it, and knock my own
profession, but any good stenographer in a year makes more than many a
star 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. Bellmore
regretfully. And, after a rather intent interval of silent scrutiny:
"You're a _good_ girl, too.... Say, you _do_ get pretty lonely
sometimes, don't you, dear?"
Athalie flushed and shook her head. Mrs. Bellmore lighted another
cigarette from the smouldering remnant of the previous one, and flung
the gilt-tipped remains through the window.
"Ten to one it hits a crook if it hits anybody," she remarked. "This
is a fierce neighbourhood,--all sorts of joints, and then some. But I
like my rooms. I don't guess you'll be bothered. A girl is more likely
to get spoken to in the swell part of town. Well,--" she struggled to
her fat feet--"I'll be going. If you're lonely, drop in during the
evening. 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 into
the 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? I
don't mean to be profane; hell is the word. It's hell either way for a
girl alone."
Athalie nodded silently. Mrs. Bellmore looked at her, then glanced
around 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 on
every word she uttered:--"Say, I _thought_ there was something else
to you--something I couldn't quite get next to. Now I know what's been
bothering me about you. You're clairvoyant!"
Athalie's cheeks grew warm: "I am not a medium," she said. "That
crystal 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 very
little. Oh, I could go into the business and fake it of course,--like
all the others--or most of them. But you are the real thing. Why," she
exclaimed in vexation, "didn't I know it as soon as I laid eyes on
you? I certainly was subconscious of something. Why you could do
anything you pleased with the power you have if you'd care to learn
the business. There's money in it--take it from me!"
Athalie said, after a few moments of silence: "I don't think I
understand. 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 crystal
and--and tried to find--somebody."
"Did you find--that person?"
"No."
Mrs. Bellmore shook her fat head: "You needn't tell me any more. You
can'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 and
play square you can sometimes help others. But I guess the crystal is
mostly fake. Mrs. Del Garmo had one like yours. She admitted to me
that she never saw anything in it until she hypnotised herself. And
she 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 whiff
toward the crystal: "No: at best the game is a crooked one, even for
the 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 elaborate
from a basis of truth;--it's more than a temptation to intelligence to
complete a story desired and already paid for by a client. Because
almost invariably the client is as stupid as the medium is
intelligent. And, take it from me, it's impossible not to use your
intelligence 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 we
others can't see, Miss Greensleeve?"
"I have seen--some things."
"Plenty, too, I'll bet! Oh, it's in your pretty face, in your
eyes!--it's in you, all about you. I'm not much in that line but I can
feel it in the air. Why I felt it as soon as I came into your room, but
I was that stupid--thinking of Mrs. Del Garmo--and never associating it
with 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 one
now and then, and here and there. The others are pure frauds--almost
every one of them. But--" she looked searchingly at the girl,--"you're
no fraud! Why you're full of it!--full--saturated--alive with--with
vitality--psychical and physical!--You're a glorious thing--half
spiritual, half human--a superb combination of vitality, sacred and
profane!"--She checked herself and turned on the girl almost savagely:
"Who was the fool of a man you were looking for in the crystal?... Very
well; don't tell then. I didn't suppose you would. Only--God help him
for the fool he is--and forgive him for what he has done to you!... And
may I never enter this room again and find you with the tears freshly
scrubbed out of the most honest eyes God ever gave a woman!... Good
night, Miss Greensleeve!"
"Good night," said Athalie.
After she had closed the door and locked it she turned back into the
empty room, moving uncertainly as though scarcely knowing what she was
about. And then, suddenly, the terror of utter desolation seized her,
and for the first time she realised what Clive had been to her, _and
what he had not been_--understood for the first time in her life the
complex miracle called love, its synthesis, its every element, every
molecule, every atom, and flung herself across the bed, half
strangled, sobbing out her passion and her grief.
Dawn found her lying there; but the ravage of that night had stripped
her of much that she had been, and never again would be. And what had
been taken from her was slowly being replaced by what she had never
yet been. Night stripped her; the red dawn clothed her.
She sat up, dry-eyed, unbound her hair, flung from her the crumpled
negligée. Presently the first golden-pink ray of the rising sun fell
across her snowy body, and she flung out her lovely arms to it as
though to draw it into her empty heart.
Hafiz, blinking his jewelled eyes, watched her lazily from his
pillow.