CHAPTER XII

Athalie ventured to send some Madonna lilies with no card attached; but even the thought of her white flowers crossing the threshold of Clive's world--although it was because of her devotion to him alone that she dared salute his dead--left her sensitively concerned, wondering whether it had been a proper thing for her to do.

However, the day following she wrote him.

"CLIVE DEAR,

"I do not mean to intrude on your grief at such a time. This is merely a line to say that you are never absent from my mind.

"And Clive, nothing really dies. This is quite true. I am not speaking of what faith teaches us. Faith is faith. But those who 'see clearly' _know_. Nothing dies, Clive. _Nothing._ That is even more than faith teaches us. Yet it, also, is true.

"Dear little boy of my childhood, dear lad of my girlhood, and, of my womanhood, dearest of men, I pray that G.o.d will comfort you and yours.

"I was twelve years old the only time I ever saw your father.

He spoke so sweetly to me--put his arm around my shoulders--asked me if I were Red Riding Hood or the Princess Far Away.

"And, to obey him, I went to find _my_ father. And found him dead. Or what the world calls dead.

"Later, as I stood there outside the door, stunned by what had happened, back through the doorway came running a boy.

Clive, if you have forgotten what you said to that child there by the darkened doorway of life, the girl who writes this has never forgotten.

"And now, since sorrow has come to you, in my turn I seek you where you stand by a darkened door alone, and I send to you my very soul in this poor, inky letter,--all I can offer--Clive--all that I believe--all that I am.

"ATHALIE."

So much for tribute and condolence as far as she could be concerned where she remained among the other millions outside the sacred threshold across which her letter and her flowers had gone, across which the girl herself might never go.

After a few days he wrote and thanked her for her letter, not of course knowing about the lilies:

"It is the first time death has ever come very near me. I had been told and had always thought that we were a long-lived race.

"I am still dazed by it. I suppose the sharper grief will come when this dull, unreal sense of stupefaction wears away.

"We were very close together, my father and I. Oh, but we might have been closer, Athalie!--I might have been with him oftener, seen more of him, spent less time away from him.

"I _did_ try to be a good son. I could have been far better.

It's a bitter thing to realise at such a time.

"And I had so much to say to him. I cannot understand that I can never say it now.... Athalie dear, my mother wishes me to take her abroad. I made arrangements yesterday at the Cunard office. We sail Sat.u.r.day. Could I see you for a moment before I go?

"CLIVE."

To which she replied:

"I shall be here every evening."

He came Friday night looking very sallow and thin in his black clothes. Catharine, who was sewing by the centre table, rose to shake hands with him in sympathetic silence, then went away to her bedroom, where, once or twice she caught herself whistling some gay refrain of the moment, and was obliged to check herself.

He had taken Athalie's slender hands and was standing by the sofa, looking intently at her.

"That night," he said with an effort, "you sent me home--saying that I was needed."

"Yes, Clive."

"How did you know?"

"I knew."

"Did you see--anything?"

"Yes, dear," she said under her breath.

"Did you see _him_?"

"Yes."

"Tell me," he said, but his lips scarcely moved to form the words he uttered.

"I recognised him at once. I had never forgotten him.... It is difficult to explain how I knew that he was not--what we call living."

"But you knew?"

"Yes," she said gently.

"He--did he speak?" The young fellow turned away with a brusque, hopeless gesture.

"G.o.d," he muttered--"and I couldn't either see or hear him!"

"He did not speak, Clive." The boy looked up at her, his haggard features working.

She said: "When I first noticed him he was looking at you. Then he caught my eye. Clive--it was this time as it had been before--when I was twelve years old--his expression became so sweet and winning--like yours when I amuse you--and you laugh at me but--like me--"

"Oh, Athalie--I can't seem to endure it! I--I can't be reconciled--"

His head fell forward; she put her arms around him and drew his face against her breast.

"I know," she whispered. "I also have pa.s.sed that way."

After a few moments he lifted his head, looked around, almost fearfully.

"Where was it that he stood, Athalie?"

She hesitated, then took one of his hands in hers and he followed her until she stopped between the sofa and the fireplace.

"Here?"