Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Once or twice during the preparation of the meal Doris swore in her soft girlish voice, which made the contrast peculiarly shocking; and finally Athalie said bluntly: “If I didn’t know you were straight I wouldn’t think so from the way you behave.”

  Doris turned on her a flushed and angry face: “Will you kindly stop knocking me?”

  “I’m not. I’m only saying that your talk is loose. And so it is.”

  “What’s the difference as long as I’m not on the loose myself?”

  “The difference is that men will think you are; that’s all.”

  “Men mistake any girl who works for a living.”

  “Then see that the mistake is their fault not yours. I don’t understand why a girl can’t keep her self-respect even if she’s a stenographer, as I am, or works in a shop as Catharine does, or in the theatre as you do. And if a girl talks loosely, she’ll think loosely, sooner or later.”

  “Hurry up that supper!” called Catharine. “I’m going to a show with Genevieve, and I want time to dress.”

  Athalie, scrambling the eggs, which same eggs would endure no other mode of preparation, leaned over sideways and kissed Doris on her lovely neck.

  “Darling,” she said, “I’m not trying to be disagreeable; I only want us all to keep up.”

  “I know it, ducky. I guess you’re right. I’ll cut out that rough stuff if you like.”

  Athalie said: “It’s only too easy to let down when you’re thrown with careless and uneducated people as we are. I have to struggle against it all the while. For, somehow I seem to know that a girl who keeps up her grammar keeps up her self-respect, too. If you slouch mentally you slouch physically. And then it’s not so difficult to slouch morally.”

  Doris laughed: “You funny thing! You certainly have educated yourself a lot since school, — you use such dandy English.”

  “I read good English.”

  “I know you do. I can’t. If somebody would only write a rattling story in good English! — but I’ve got to have the story first of all or I can’t read it. All those branch-library books you lug in are too slow for me. If it wasn’t for hearing you talk every day I’d be talking like the rest of the chorus at the Egyptian Garden;— ‘Sa-ay, ain’t you done with my make-up box? Yaas, you did swipe it! I seen you. Who’s a liar? All right, if you want to mix it—’”

  “Don’t!” pleaded Athalie. “Oh, Doris, I don’t see why you can’t find some other business—”

  Doris began to strut about the kitchenette.

  “Please don’t! It makes me actually ill!”

  “When I learn how to use my voice and my legs you’ll see me playing leads. Here, ducky, I’ll take the eggs—”

  Athalie, her arms also full, followed her out to the table which Catharine had set very carelessly.

  They drank Croton water and strong tea, and gravely discussed how, from their several limited wardrobes sufficient finery might be extracted to clothe Catharine suitably for her evening’s entertainment.

  “It’s rotten to be poor,” remarked the latter. “You’re only young once, and this gosh-dinged poverty spoils everything for me.”

  “Quit kicking,” said Doris. “I don’t like these eggs but I’m eating them. If I were wealthy I’d be eating terrapin, wouldn’t I?”

  “Genevieve has a new gown for to-night,” pouted Catharine. “How can I help feeling shabby and unhappy?”

  “Genevieve seems to have a number of unaccountable things,” remarked Doris, partly closing her velvet eyes. “She has a fur coat, too.”

  “Doris! That isn’t square of you!”

  “That isn’t the question. Is Genevieve on the square? That’s what worries me, Kit!”

  “What a perfectly rotten thing to say!” insisted Catharine resentfully. “You know she’s on the level!”

  “Well then, where does she get it? You know what her salary is?”

  Athalie said, coolly: “Every girl ought to believe every other girl on the square until the contrary is proven. It’s shameful not to.”

  “Come over to the Egyptian Garden and try it!” laughed Doris. “If you can believe that bunch of pet cats is on the square you can believe anything, Athalie.”

  Catharine, still very deeply offended, rose and went into the bedroom which she shared with Doris. Presently she called for somebody to assist her in dressing.

  Doris, being due at the theatre by seven o’clock, put on her rusty coat and hat, and, nodding to Athalie, walked out; and the latter went away to aid Catharine.

  “You do look pretty,” she insisted after Catharine had powdered her face and neck and had wiped off her silky skin with the chamois rag.

  The girl gazed at her comely, regular features in the mirror, patted her hair, moistened her red lips, then turned her profile and gazed at it with the aid of a hand-glass.

  “Who else is going?” inquired Athalie.

  “Some friends of Genevieve’s.”

  “Men?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Two, I suppose.”

  Catharine nodded.

  “Don’t you know their names?”

  “No. Genevieve says that one of them is crazy to meet me.”

  “Where did he see you?”

  “At Winton’s. I put on some evening gowns for his sister.”

  Athalie watched her pin on her hat, then held her coat for her. “They’ll all bear watching,” she remarked quietly. “If it’s merely society they want you know as well as I that they seek it in their own circles, not in ours.”

  Catharine made no audible response. She began to re-pin her hat, then, pettishly: “I wish I had a taxi to call for me so I needn’t wear a hat!”

  “Why not wish for an automobile?” suggested Athalie, laughing. “Women who have them don’t wear hats to the theatre.”

  “It is tough to be poor!” insisted Catharine fiercely. “It drives me almost frantic to see what I see in all those limousines, — and then walk home, or take a car if I’m flush.”

  “How are you going to help it, dear?” inquired Athalie in that gently humorous voice which usually subdued and shamed her sisters.

  But Catharine only mumbled something rebellious, turned, stared at herself in the glass, and walked quickly toward the door.

  “As for me,” she muttered. “I don’t blame any girl—”

  “What?”

  But Catharine marched out with a twitch of her narrow skirts, still muttering incoherencies.

  Athalie, thoughtful, but not really disturbed, went into the empty sitting-room, picked up the evening paper, glanced absently at the head-lines, dropped it, and stood motionless in the centre of the room, one narrow hand bracketed on her hip, the other pinching her under lip.

  For a few minutes she mused, then sighing, she walked into the kitchenette, unhooked a blue-checked apron, rolled up her sleeves as far as her white, rounded arms permitted, and started in on the dishes.

  Occasionally she whistled at her task — the clear, soft, melodious whistle of a bullfinch — carolling some light, ephemeral air from the “Review” at the Egyptian Garden.

  When the crockery was done, dried and replaced, she retired to her bedroom and turned her attention to her hands and nails, minutely solicitous, always in dread of the effects of housework.

  There was an array of bottles, vials, jars, lotions, creams, scents on her bureau. She seated herself there and started her nightly grooming, interrupting it only to exchange her street gown and shoes for a dainty negligée and slippers.

  Her face, now, as she bent over her slender, white fingers, took on a seriousness and gravity more mature; and there was in its pure, fresh beauty something almost austere.

  The care of her hands took her a long time; and they were not finished then, for she had yet her bath to take and her hair to do before the cream-of-something-or-other was applied to hands and feet so that they should remain snowy and satin smooth.

  Bathed, and once more in negligée, she let down t
he dull gold mass of hair which fell heavily curling to her shoulders. Then she started to comb it out as earnestly, seriously, and thoroughly as a beautiful, silky Persian cat applies itself to its toilet.

  But there was now an absent expression in her dark blue eyes as she sat plaiting the shining gold into two thick and lustrous braids.

  Perhaps she wondered, vaguely, why the spring-tide and freshness of a girl’s youth should exhale amid the sere and sordid circumstances which made up, for her, the sum-total of existence; why it happened that whatever was bright and gay and attractive in the world should be so utterly outside the circle in which her life was passing.

  Yet in her sober young face there was no hint of discontent, nothing of meanness or envy to narrow the blue eyes, nothing of bitterness to touch the sensitive lips, nothing, even, of sadness; only a gravity — like the seriousness of a youthful goddess musing alone on mysteries unexplained even on Olympus.

  Seven years’ experience in earning her own living had made her wiser but had not really disenchanted her. And for seven years now, she had held the first position she secured in New York — stenographer and typist for Wahlbaum, Grossman & Co.

  It had been perplexing and difficult at first; so many men connected with the great department store had evinced a desire to take her to luncheon and elsewhere. But when at length by chance she took personal dictation from Wahlbaum himself in his private office — his own stenographer having triumphantly secured a supporting husband, and a general alarm having been sent out for another to replace her — Athalie suddenly found herself in a permanent position. And, automatically, all annoyances ceased.

  Wahlbaum was a Jew, big, hearty, honest, and keen as a razor. Never was he in a hurry, never flustered or impatient, never irritable. And she had never seen him angry, or rude to anybody. He laughed a great deal in a tremendously resonant voice, smoked innumerable big, fat, light-coloured cigars, never neglected to joke with Athalie when she came in the morning and when she left at night, and never as much as by the flutter of an eyelid conveyed to her anything that any girl might not hear without offence.

  Grossman’s reputation was different, but except for a smirk or two he had never bothered her. Nor did anybody else connected with the firm. They all were too much afraid of Wahlbaum.

  So, except for the petty, contemptible annoyances to which all young girls are more or less subjected in any cosmopolitan metropolis, Athalie had found business agreeable enough except for the confinement.

  That was hard on a country-bred girl; and she could scarcely endure the imprisonment when the warm sun of April looked in through the windows of Mr. Wahlbaum’s private office, and when soft breezes stirred the curtains and fluttered the papers on her desk.

  Always in the spring the voice of brook and surf, of woodland and meadow called to her. In her ears was ever the happy tumult of the barn-yard, the lowing of cattle at the bars, the bleat of sheep. And her heart beat passionate response.

  Athalie was never ill. The nearest she came to it was a dull feeling of languor in early spring. But it did not even verge on either resentment or despondency.

  In winter it was better. She had learned to accept with philosophy the noises of the noisiest of cities. Even, perhaps, she rather liked them, or at least, on her two weeks’ vacation in the country, she found, to her surprise, that she missed the accustomed and incessant noises of New York.

  Her real hardships were two; poverty and loneliness.

  The combined earnings of herself and her sisters did not allow them a better ventilated, or more comfortable apartment than the grimy one they lived in. Nor did their earnings permit them more or better clothing and food.

  As for loneliness, she had, of course, her sisters. But healthy, imaginative, ardent youth requires more than sisters, — more even than feminine friends, of which Athalie had a few. What she needed, as all girls need, were acquaintances and friends among men of her own age.

  And she had none — that is, no friends. Which is the usual fate of any business girl who keeps up such education and cultivation as she possesses, and attempts to add to it and to improve her quality.

  Because the men of her social and business level are vastly inferior to the women, — inferior in manners, cultivation, intelligence, quality — which seems almost to make their usually excellent morals peculiarly offensive.

  That was why Athalie knew loneliness. Doris, recently, had met a few idle men of cultivated and fashionable antecedents. Catharine, that very evening, was evidently going to meet a man of that sort for the first time in her career.

  As for Athalie, she had had no opportunity to meet any man she cared to cultivate since she had last talked with C. Bailey, Jr., on the platform of the Sixth Avenue Elevated; — and that was now nearly four years ago.

  Braiding up her hair she sat gazing at herself in the mirror while her detached thoughts drifted almost anywhere — back to Spring Pond and the Hotel Greensleeve, back to her mother, to the child cross-legged on the floor, — back to her father, and how he sat there dead in his leather chair; — back to the bar, and the red gleam of the stove, and a boy and girl in earnest conversation there in the semi-darkness, eating peach turnovers —

  She turned her head, leisurely: the electric bell had sounded twice before she realised that she ought to pull the wire which opened the street door below.

  So she got up, pulled the wire, and then sauntered out into the sitting-room and set the door ajar, not worrying about her somewhat intimate costume because it was too late for tradesmen, and there was nobody else to call on her or on her sisters excepting other girls known to them all.

  The sitting-room seemed chilly. Half listening for the ascending footsteps and the knocking, partly absorbed in other thoughts, she seated herself and lay back in the dingy arm-chair, before the radiator, elevating her dainty feet to the top of it and crossing them.

  A gale was now blowing outside; invisible rain, or more probably sleet, pelted and swished across the curtained panes. Far away in the city, somewhere, a fire-engine rushed clanging through cañons, storm-swept, luminously obscure. Her nickel alarm clock ticked loudly in the room; the radiator clicked and fizzed and snapped.

  Presently she heard a step on the stair, then in the corridor outside her door. Then came the knocking on the door but unexpectedly loud, vigorous and impatient.

  And Athalie, surprised, twisted around in her chair, looking over her shoulder at the door.

  “Please come in,” she said in her calm young voice.

  CHAPTER VI

  A RATHER tall man stepped in. He wore a snow-dusted, fur-lined overcoat and carried in his white-gloved hands a top hat and a silver-hooked walking stick.

  He had made a mistake, of course; and Athalie hastily lowered her feet and turned half around in her chair again to meet his expected apologies; and then continued in that attitude, rigid and silent.

  “Miss Greensleeve?” he asked.

  She rose, mechanically, the heavy lustrous braids framing a face as white as a flower.

  “Is that you, Athalie!” he asked, hesitating.

  “C. Bailey, Junior,” she said under her breath.

  There was a moment’s pause, then he stepped toward her and, very slowly, she offered a hand still faintly fragrant with “cream of lilacs.”

  A damp, chilly wind came from the corridor; she went over and closed the door, stood for a few seconds with her back against it looking at him.

  Now under the mask of manhood she could see the boy she had once known, — under the short dark moustache the clean-cut mouth unchanged. Only his cheeks seemed firmer and leaner, and the eyes were now the baffling eyes of a man.

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked, quite unconscious of her own somewhat intimate attire, so entirely had the shock of surprise possessed her.

  “Athalie, you have not changed a bit — only you are so much prettier than I realised,” he said illogically.... “How did I know you lived here? I didn’t until we bo
ught this row of flats last week — my father’s company — I’m in it now.... And glancing over the list of tenants I saw your name.”

  She said nothing.

  “Do you mind my coming? I was going to write and ask you. But walking in this way rather appealed to me. Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  “May I stay and chat for a moment? I’m on my way to the opera. May I stay a few minutes?”

  She nodded, not yet sufficiently composed to talk very much.

  He glanced about him for a place to lay coat and hat; then slipping out of the soft fur, disclosed himself in evening dress.

  She had dropped into the arm-chair by the radiator; and, as he came forward, stripping off his white gloves, suddenly she became conscious of her bare, slippered feet and drew them under the edges of her negligée.

  “I was not expecting anybody,—” she began, and checked herself. Certainly she did not care to rise, now, and pass before him in search of more suitable clothing. Therefore the less said the better.

  He had found a rather shaky chair, and had drawn it up in front of the radiator.

  “This is very jolly,” he said. “Do you realise that this is our third encounter?”

  “Yes.”

  “It really begins to look inevitable, doesn’t it?”

  She smiled.

  “Three times, you know, is usually considered significant,” he added laughingly. “It doesn’t dismay you, does it?”

  She laughed, resting her cheek against the upholstered wing of her chair and looked at him with shy but undisguised pleasure.

  “You haven’t changed a single bit, Athalie,” he declared.

  “No, I haven’t changed.”

  “Do you remember our last meeting — on the Elevated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lord!” he said; “that was four years ago. Do you realise it?”

  “Yes.”

  A slight colour grew on his cheeks.

  “I was a piker, wasn’t I?”