It was about five months later that Cecil Reeve wrote his long reply
to a dozen letters from Clive Bailey which heretofore had remained
unanswered 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boobs in this out-of-date old town.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."