Athalie. Chambers Robert William
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.
"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?"
"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."
"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