Chapter 7

________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER VII

Shotwell Senior and his wife were dining out that evening.

Shotwell Junior had no plans--or admitted none, even to himself. He got into a bath and later into a dinner jacket, in an absent-minded way, and finally sauntered into the library wearing a vague scowl.

The weather had turned colder, and there was an open fire there, and a convenient armchair and the evening papers.

Perhaps the young gentleman had read them down town, for he shoved them aside. Then he dropped an elbow on the table, rested his chin against his knuckles, and gazed fiercely at the inoffensive _Evening Post_.

Before any open fire any young man ought to be able to make up whatever mind he chances to possess. Yet, what to do with a winter evening all his own seemed to him a problem unfathomable.

Perhaps his difficulty lay only in selection--there are so many agreeable things for a young man to do in Gotham Town on a winter's evening.

But, oddly enough, young Shotwell was trying to persuade himself that he had no choice of occupation for the evening; that he really didn't care. Yet, always two intrusive alternatives continually presented themselves. The one was to change his coat for a spike-tail, his black tie for a white one, and go to the Metropolitan Opera. The other and more attractive alternative was _not_ to go.

Elorn Sharrow would be at the opera. To appear, now and then, in the Sharrow family's box was expected of him. He hadn't done it recently.

* * * * *

He dropped one lean leg over the other and gazed gravely at the fire. He was still trying to convince himself that he had no particular plan for the evening--that it was quite likely he might go to the opera or to the club--or, in fact, almost anywhere his fancy suggested.

In his effort to believe himself the scowl came back, denting his eyebrows. Presently he forced a yawn, unsuccessfully.

Yes, he thought he'd better go to the opera, after all. He ought to go.... It seemed to be rather expected of him.

Besides, he had nothing else to do--that is, nothing in particular--unless, of course----

But _that_ would scarcely do. He'd been _there_ so often recently.... No, _that_ wouldn't do.... Besides it was becoming almost a habit with him. He'd been drifting there so frequently of late!... In fact, he'd scarcely been anywhere at all, recently, except--except where he certainly was not going that evening. And that settled it!... So he might as well go to the opera.

* * * * *

His mother, in scarf and evening wrap, passing the library door on her way down, paused in the hall and looked intently at her only son.

Recently she had been observing him rather closely and with a vague uneasiness born of that inexplicable sixth sense inherent in mothers.

Perhaps what her son had faced in France accounted for the change in him;--for it was being said that no man could come back from such scenes unchanged;--none could ever again be the same. And it was being said, too, that old beliefs and ideals had altered; that everything familiar was ending;--and that the former things had already passed away under the glimmering dawn of a new heaven and a new earth.

Perhaps all this was so--though she doubted it. Perhaps this son she had borne in agony might become to her somebody less familiar than the baby she had nursed at her own breast.

But so far, to her, he continued to remain the same familiar baby she had always known--the same and utterly vital part of her soul and body. No sudden fulfilment of an apocalypse had yet wrought any occult metamorphosis in this boy of hers.

And if he now seemed changed it was from that simple and familiar cause instinctively understood by mothers,--trouble!--the most ancient plague of all and the only malady which none escapes.

She was a rather startlingly pretty woman, with the delicate features and colour and the snow-white hair of an 18th century belle. She stood, now, drawing on her gloves and watching her son out of dark-fringed deep blue eyes, until he glanced around uneasily. Then he rose at once, looking at her with fire-dazzled eyes.

"Don't rise, dear," she said; "the car is here and your father is fussing and fuming in the drawing-room, and I've got to run.... Have you any plans for the evening?"

"None, mother."

"You're dining at home?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you go to the opera to-night? It's the Sharrows' night."

He came toward her irresolutely. "Perhaps I shall," he said. And instantly she knew he did not intend to go.

"I had tea at the Sharrows'," she said, carelessly, still buttoning her gloves. "Elorn told me that she hadn't laid eyes on you for ages."

"It's happened so.... I've had a lot of things to do----"

"You and she still agree, don't you, Jim?"

"Why, yes--as usual. We always get on together."

Helen Shotwell's ermine wrap slipped; he caught it and fastened it for her, and she took hold of both his hands and drew his arms tightly around her pretty shoulders.

"What troubles you, darling?" she asked smilingly.

"Why, nothing, mother----"

"Tell me!"

"Really, there is nothing, dear----"

"Tell me when you are ready, then," she laughed and released him.

"But there isn't anything," he insisted.

"Yes, Jim, there is. Do you suppose I don't know you after all these years?"

She considered him with clear, amused eyes: "Don't forget," she added, "that I was only seventeen when you arrived, my son; and I have grown up with you ever since----"

"For heaven's sake, Helen!--" protested Sharrow Senior plaintively from the front hall below. "Can't you gossip with Jim some other time?"

"I'm on my way, James," she announced calmly. "Put your overcoat on." And, to her son: "Go to the opera. Elorn will cheer you up. Isn't that a good idea?"

"That's--certainly--an idea.... I'll think it over.... And, mother, if I seem solemn at times, please try to remember how rotten every fellow feels about being out of the service----"

Her gay, derisive laughter checked him, warning him that he was not imposing on her credulity. She said smilingly:

"You have neglected Elorn Sharrow, and you know it, and it's on your conscience--whatever else may be on it, too. And that's partly why you feel blue. So keep out of mischief, darling, and stop neglecting Elorn--that is, if you ever really expect to marry her----"

"I've told you that I have never asked her; and I never intend to ask her until I am making a decent living," he said impatiently.

"Isn't there an understanding between you?"

"Why--I don't think so. There couldn't be. We've never spoken of that sort of thing in our lives!"

"I think she expects you to ask her some day. Everybody else does, anyway."

"Well, that is the one thing I _won't_ do," he said, "--go about with the seat out of my pants and ask an heiress to sew on the patch for me----"

"Darling! You _can_ be so common when you try!"

"Well, it amounts to that--doesn't it, mother? I don't care what busy gossips say or idle people expect me to do! There's no engagement, no understanding between Elorn and me. And I don't care a hang what anybody----"

His mother framed his slightly flushed face between her gloved hands and inspected him humorously.

"Very well, dear," she said; "but you need not be so emphatically excited about it----"

"I'm not excited--but it irritates me to be expected to do anything because it's expected of me--" He shrugged his shoulders:

"After all," he added, "if I ever should fall in love with anybody it's my own business. And whatever I choose to do about it will be my own affair. And I shall keep my own counsel in any event."

His mother stepped forward, letting both her hands fall into his.

"Wouldn't you tell me about it, Jim?"

"I'd tell you before I'd tell anybody else--if it ever became serious."

"If _what_ became serious?"

"Well--anything of that sort," he replied. But a bright colour stained his features and made him wince under her intent scrutiny.

She was worried, now, though her pretty, humorous smile still challenged him with its raillery.

But it was becoming very evident to her that if this boy of hers were growing sentimental over any woman the woman was not Elorn Sharrow.

So far she had held her son's confidence. She must do nothing to disturb it. Yet, as she looked at him with the amused smile still edging her lips, she began for the first time in her life to be afraid.

They kissed each other in silence.

* * * * *

In the limousine, seated beside her husband, she said presently: "I wish Jim would marry Elorn Sharrow."

"He's likely to some day, isn't he?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, there's no hurry," remarked her husband. "He ought not to marry anybody until he's thirty, and he's only twenty-four. I'm glad enough to have him remain at home with us."

"But that's what worries me; he _doesn't_!"

"Doesn't what?"

"Doesn't remain at home."

Her husband laughed: "Well, I meant it merely in a figurative sense. Of course Jim goes out----"

"Where?"

"Why, everywhere, I suppose," said her husband, a little surprised at her tone.

She said calmly: "I hear things--pick up bits of gossip--as all women do.... And at a tea the other day a man asked me why Jim never goes to his clubs any more. So you see he doesn't go to any of his clubs when he goes 'out' in the evenings.... And he's been to no dances--judging from what is said to me.... And he doesn't go to see Elorn Sharrow any more. She told me that herself. So--where does he go?"

"Well, but----"

"Where _does_ he go--every evening?"

"I'm sure I couldn't answer----"

"Every evening!" she repeated absently.

"Good heavens, Helen----"

"And what is on that boy's mind? There's something on it."

"His business, let us hope----"

She shook her head: "I know my son," she remarked.

"So do I. What is particularly troubling you, dear? There's something you haven't told me."

"I'm merely wondering who that girl was who lunched with him at Delmonico's--_three times_--last week," mused his wife.

"Why--she's probably all right, Helen. A man doesn't take the other sort there."

"So I've heard," she said drily.

"Well, then?"

"Nothing.... She's very pretty, I understand.... And wears mourning."

"What of it?" he asked, amused. She smiled at him, but there was a trace of annoyance in her voice.

"Don't you think it very natural that I should wonder who any girl is who lunches with my son three times in one week?... And is remarkably pretty, besides?"

* * * * *

The girl in question looked remarkably pretty at that very moment, where she sat at her desk, the telephone transmitter tilted toward her, the receiver at her ear, and her dark eyes full of gayest malice.

"Miss Dumont, please?" came a distant and familiar voice over the wire. The girl laughed aloud; and he heard her.

"You _said_ you were not going to call me up."

"Is it _you_, Palla?"

"How subtle of you!"

He said anxiously. "Are you doing anything this evening--by any unhappy chance----"

"I am."

"Oh, hang it! What _are_ you doing?"

"How impertinent!"

"You know I don't mean it that way----"

"I'm not sure. However, I'll be kind enough to tell you what I'm doing. I'm sitting here at my desk, listening to an irritable young man----"

"That's wonderful luck!" he exclaimed joyously.

"Wonderful luck for a girl to sit at a desk and listen to an irritable young man?"

"If you'll stop talking bally nonsense for a moment----"

"If you bully me, I shall stop talking altogether!"

"For heaven's sake----"

"I hear you, kind sir; you need not shout!"

He said humbly: "Palla, would you let me drop in----"

"Drop into what? Into poetry? Please do!"

"For the love of----"

"Jim! You told me last evening that you expected to be at the opera to-night."

"I'm not going."

"--So I didn't expect you to call me!"

"Can't I see you?" he asked.

"I'm sorry----"

"The deuce!"

"I'm expecting some people, Jim. It's your own fault; I didn't expect a tete-a-tete with you this evening."

"Is it a party you're giving?"

"Two or three people. But my place is full of flowers and as pretty as a garden. Too bad you can't see it."

"Couldn't I come to your garden-party?" he asked humbly.

"You mean just to see my garden for a moment?"

"Yes; let me come around for a moment, anyway--if you're dressed. Are you?"

"Certainly I'm dressed. Did you think it was to be a garden-of-Eden party?"

Her gay, mischievous laughter came distinctly to him over the wire. Then her mood changed abruptly:

"You funny boy," she said, "don't you understand that I want you to come?"

"You enchanting girl!" he exclaimed. "Do you really mean it?"

"Of course! And if you come at once we'll have nearly an hour together before anybody arrives."

She had that sweet, unguarded way with her at moments, and it always sent a faint shock of surprise and delight through him.

* * * * *

Her smiling maid admitted him and took his hat, coat and stick as though accustomed to these particular articles.

Palla was alone in the living-room when he was announced, and as soon as the maid disappeared she gave him both hands in swift welcome--an impulsive, unconsidered greeting entirely new to them both.

"You didn't mind my tormenting you. Did you, Jim? I was so happy that you did call me up, after all. Because you know you _did_ tell me yesterday that you were going to the opera to-night. But all the same, when the 'phone rang, somehow I knew it was you--I knew it--somehow----"

She loosened one hand from his and swung him with the other toward the piano: "Do you like my flower garden? Isn't the room attractive?"

"Charming," he said. "And you are distractingly pretty to-night!"

"In this dull, black gown? But, _merci_, anyway! See how effective your roses are!--the ones you sent yesterday and the day before! They're all opening. And I went out and bought a lot more, and all that fluffy green camouflage----"

She withdrew her other hand from his without embarrassment and went over to rearrange a sheaf of deep red carnations, spreading the clustered stems to wider circumference.

"What is this party you're giving, anyway?" he asked, following her across the room and leaning beside her on the piano, where she still remained very busily engaged with her decorations.

"An impromptu party," she exclaimed. "I was shopping this morning--in fact I was buying pots and pans for the cook--when somebody spoke to me. And I recognised a university student whom I had known in Petrograd after the first revolution--Marya Lanois, her name is----"

She moved aside and began to fuss with a huge bowl of crimson roses, loosening the blossoms, freeing the foliage, and talking happily all the while:

"Marya Lanois," she repeated, "--an interesting girl. And with her was a man I had met--a pianist--Vanya Tchernov. They told me that another friend of mine--a girl named Ilse Westgard--is now living in New York. They couldn't dine with me, but they're coming to supper. So I also called up Ilse Westgard, she's coming, too;--and I also asked your friend, Mr. Estridge. So you see, Monsieur, we shall have a little music and much valuable conversation, and then I shall give them some supper----"

She stepped back from the piano, surveyed her handiwork critically, then looked around at him for his opinion.

"Fine," he said. "How jolly your new house is"--glancing about the room at the few well chosen pieces of antique furniture, the harmonious hangings and comfortably upholstered modern pieces.

"It really is beginning to be livable; isn't it, Jim?" she ventured. "Of course there are many things yet to buy----"

They leisurely made the tour of the white-panelled room, looking with approval at the delicate Georgian furniture; the mezzotints; the damask curtains of that beautiful red which has rose-tints in it, too; the charming old French clock and its lovely gilded garniture; the deep-toned ash-grey carpet under foot.

Before the mantel, with its wood fire blazing, they paused.

"It's so enchantingly homelike," she exclaimed. "I already love it all. When I come in from shopping I just stand here with my hat and furs on, and gaze about and adore everything!"

"Do you adore me, too?" he asked, laughing at her warmth. "You see I'm becoming one of your fixtures here, also."

In her brown eyes the familiar irresponsible gaiety began to glimmer:

"I do adore you," she said, "but I've no business to."

"Why not?"

She seated herself on the sofa and cast a veiled glance at him, enchantingly malicious.

"Do you think you know me well enough to adore me?" she inquired with misleading gravity.

"Indeed I do----"

"Am I as easy to know as that? Jim, you humiliate me."

"I didn't say that you are easy to know----"

"You meant it!" she insisted reproachfully. "You think so, too--just because I let myself be picked up--by a perfectly strange man----"

"Good heavens, Palla--" he began nervously; but caught the glimmer in her lowered eyes--saw her child's mouth tremulous with mirth controlled.

"Oh, Jim!" she said, still laughing, "do you think I care how we met? How absurd of you to let me torment you. You're altogether too boyish, too self-conscious. You're loaded down with all the silly traditions which I've thrown away. I don't care how we met. I'm glad we know each other."

She opened a silver box on a little table at her elbow, chose a cigarette, lighted it, and offered it to him.

"I rather like the taste of them now," she remarked, making room for him on the sofa beside her.

When he was seated, she reached up to a jar of flowers on the piano, selected a white carnation, broke it short, and then drew the stem through his lapel, patting the blossom daintily into a pom-pon.

"Now," she said gaily, "if you'll let me, I'll straighten your tie. Shall I?"

He turned toward her; she accomplished that deftly, then glanced across at the clock.

"We've only half an hour longer to ourselves," she exclaimed, with that unconscious candour which always thrilled him. Then, turning to him, she said laughingly: "Does it really matter how two people meet when time races with us like that?"

"And do you realise," he said in a low, tense voice, "that since I met you every racing minute has been sweeping me headlong toward you?"

She was so totally unprepared for the deeper emotion in his voice and bearing--so utterly surprised--that she merely gazed at him.

"Haven't you been aware of it, Palla?" he said, looking her in the eyes.

"Jim!" she protested, "you are disconcerting! You never before have taken such a tone toward me."

She rose, walked over to the clock, examined it minutely for a few moments. Then she turned, cast a swift, perplexed glance at him, and came slowly back to resume her place on the sofa.

"Men should be very, very careful what they say to me." As she lifted her eyes he saw them beginning to glimmer again with that irresponsible humour he knew so well.

"Be careful," she said, her brown gaze gay with warning; "--I'm godless and quite lawless, and I'm a very dangerous companion for any well-behaved and orthodox young man who ventures to tell me that I'm adorable. Why, you might as safely venture to adore Diana of the Ephesians! And you know what she did to her admirers."

"She was really Aphrodite, wasn't she?" he said, laughing.

"Aphrodite, Venus, Isis, Lada--and the Ephesian Diana--I'm afraid they all were hussies. But I'm a hussy, too, Jim! If you doubt it, ask any well brought up girl you know and tell her how we met and how we've behaved ever since, and what obnoxious ideas I entertain toward all things conventional and orthodox!"

"Palla, are you really serious?--I'm never entirely sure what is under your badinage."

"Why, of course I am serious. I don't believe in any of the things that you believe in. I've often told you so, though you don't believe me----"

"Nonsense!"

"I don't, I tell you. I did once. But I'm awake. No 'threats of hell or hopes of any sugary paradise' influence me. Nor does custom and convention. Nor do the laws and teachings of our present civilisation matter one straw to me. I'd break every law if it suited me."

He laughed and lifted her hand from her lap: "You funny child," he said, "you wouldn't steal, for example--would you?"

"I don't desire to."

"Would you commit perjury?"

"No!"

"Murder?"

"I have a law of my own, kind sir. It doesn't happen to permit murder, arson, forgery, piracy, smuggling----"

Their irresponsible laughter interrupted her.

"What else wouldn't you do?" he managed to ask.

"I wouldn't do anything mean, deceitful, dishonest, cruel. But it's not your antiquated laws--it's my own and original law that governs my conduct."

"You always conform to it?"

"I do. But you don't conform to yours. So I'll try to help you remember the petty but always sacred conventions of our own accepted code----"

And, with unfeigned malice, she began to disengage her hand from his--loosened the slim fingers one by one, all the while watching him sideways with prim lips pursed and lifted eyebrows.

"Try always to remember," she said, "that, according to your code, any demonstration of affection toward a comparative stranger is exceedingly bad form."

However, he picked up her hand again, which she had carelessly left lying on the sofa near his, and again she freed it, leisurely.

They conversed animatedly, as always, discussing matters of common interest, yet faintly in her ears sounded the unfamiliar echo of passion.

It haunted her mind, too--an indefinable undertone delicately persistent--until at last she sat mute, absent-minded, while he continued speaking.

Her stillness--her remote gaze, perhaps--presently silenced him. And after a little while she turned her charming head and looked at him with that unintentional provocation born of virginal curiosity.

What had moved him so unexpectedly to deeper emotion? Had she? Had she, then, that power? And without effort?--For she had been conscious of none.... But--if she tried.... Had she the power to move him again?

Naive instinct--the emotionless curiosity of total inexperience--everything embryonic and innocently ruthless in her was now in the ascendant.

She lifted her eyes and considered him with the speculative candour of a child. She wished to hear once more that unfamiliar _something_ in his voice--see it in his features----

And she did not know how to evoke it.

"Of what are you thinking, Palla?"

"Of you," she answered candidly, without other intention than the truth. And saw, instantly, the indefinable _something_ born again into his eyes.

Calm curiosity, faintly amused, possessed her--left him possessed of her hand presently.

"Are you attempting to be sentimental?" she asked.

Very leisurely she began once more to disengage her hand--loosening the fingers one by one--and watching him all the while with a slight smile edging her lips. Then, as his clasp tightened:

"Please," she said, "may I not have my freedom?"

"Do you want it?"

"You never did this before--touched me--unnecessarily."

As he made no answer, she fell silent, her dark eyes vaguely interrogative as though questioning herself as well as him concerning this unaccustomed contact.

His head had been bent a little. Now he lifted it. Neither was smiling.

Suddenly she rose to her feet and stood with her head partly averted. He rose, too. Neither spoke. But after a moment she turned and looked straight at him, the virginal curiosity clear in her eyes. And he took her into his arms.

Her arms had fallen to her side. She endured his lips gravely, then turned her head and looked at the roses beside her.

"I was afraid," she said, "that we would do this. Now let me go, Jim."

He released her in silence. She walked slowly to the mantel and set one slim foot on the fender.

Without looking around at him she said: "Does this spoil me for you, Jim?"

"You darling----"

"Tell me frankly. Does it?"

"What on earth do you mean, Palla! Does it spoil _me_ for you?"

"I've been thinking.... No, it doesn't. But I wondered about you."

He came over to where she stood.

"Dear," he said unsteadily, "don't you know I'm very desperately in love with you?"

At that she turned her enchanting little head toward him.

"If you are," she said, "there need be nothing desperate about it."

"Do you mean you care enough to marry me, you darling?" he asked impetuously. "Will you, Palla?"

"Why, no," she said candidly. "I didn't mean that. I meant that I care for you quite as much as you care for me. So you need not be desperate. But I really don't think we are in love--I mean sufficiently--for anything serious."

"Why don't you think so!" he demanded impatiently.

"Do you wish me to be quite frank?"

"Of course!"

"Very well." She lifted her head and let her clear eyes rest on his. "I like you," she said. "I even like--what we did. I like you far better than any man I ever knew. But I do not care for you enough to give up my freedom of mind and of conduct for your asking. I do not care enough for you to subscribe to your religion and your laws. And that's the tragic truth."

"But what on earth has all that to do with it? I haven't asked you to believe as I believe or to subscribe to any law----"

Her enchanting laughter filled the room: "Yes, you have! You asked me to marry you, didn't you?"

"Of course!"

"Well, I can't, Jim, because I don't believe in the law of marriage, civil or religious. If I loved you I'd live with you unmarried. But I'm afraid to try it. And so are you. Which proves that I'm not really in love with you, or you with me----"

The door bell rang.

"But I do care for you," she whispered, bending swiftly toward him. Her lips rested lightly on his a moment, then she turned and walked out into the centre of the room.

The maid announced: "Mr. Estridge!" _

Read next: Chapter 8

Read previous: Chapter 6

Table of content of Crimson Tide: A Novel


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book