The Crimson Tide: A Novel

“Are there no other reasons?”

He reddened to the temples: “No, there are not–now. There is no other reason–except myself.”

“Yourself?”

“Yes, damn it, myself! That’s all that remains now to keep me straight. And I’ve been so. That may be news to you. Perhaps you don’t believe it.”

“Is it so, Jim?” she asked in a voice scarcely audible.

“Yes, it is. And so I shall keep on, and play the game that way–play it squarely with Vanya, too–”

He had lost his heavy colour; he stood looking at her with a white, strained, grim expression that tightened the jaw muscles; and she felt his powerful hand clenching between hers.

“It’s no use,” he said between his set lips, “I’ve got to go on–see it through in my own fashion–this rotten thing called life. I’m sorry, Marya, that I’m not a better sport–”

A wave of colour swept her face and her hands suddenly crushed his between them.

“You’re wonderful,” she said. “I do love you.”

But the tense, grey look had come back into his face. Looking at her in silence, presently his gaze seemed to become remote, his absent eyes fixed on something beyond her.

“I’ve a rotten time ahead of me,” he said, not knowing he had spoken. When his eyes reverted to her, his features remained expressionless, but his voice was almost tender as he said good night once more.

Her hands fell away; he opened the door and went out without looking back.

He found a taxi at the Plaza. He was swearing when he got into it. And all the way home he kept repeating to himself: “I’m one of those cursed, creeping Josephs; that’s what I am,–one of those pepless, sanctimonious, creeping Josephs… And I always loathed that poor fish, too!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Shotwell Junior discovered in due course of time the memoranda of the repeated messages which Palla had telephoned to his several clubs, asking him to call her up immediately.

It was rather late to do that now, but his pulses began to quicken again in the old, hopeless way; and he went to the telephone booth and called the number which seemed burnt into his brain forever.

A maid answered; Palla came presently; and he thought her voice seemed colourless and unfamiliar.

“Yes, I’m perfectly well,” she replied to his inquiry; “where in the world did you go that night? I simply couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“What had you wished to say to me?”

“Nothing–except–that I was afraid you were angry when you left, and I didn’t wish you to part with me on such terms. Were you annoyed?”

“No.”

“You say it very curtly, Jim.”

“Is that all you desired to say to me?”

“Yes… I was a little troubled… Something else went wrong, too;–everything seemed to go wrong that night… I thought perhaps–if I could hear your voice–if you’d say something kind–”

“Had you nothing else to tell me, Palla?”

“No… What?”

“Then you haven’t changed your attitude?”

“Toward you? I don’t expect to–”

“You know what I mean!”

“Oh. But, Jim, we can’t discuss that over the telephone.”

“I suppose not… Is anything wrong with you, Palla? Your voice sounds so tired–”

“Does it? I don’t know why. Tell me, please, what did you do that unhappy night?”

“I went home.”

“Directly?”

“Yes.”

“I telephoned your house about twelve, and was informed you were not at home.”

“They thought I was asleep. I’m sorry, Palla–”

“I shouldn’t have telephoned so late,” she interrupted, “I’m afraid that it was your mother who answered; and if it was, I received the snub I deserved!”

“Nonsense! It wasn’t meant that way–”

“I’m afraid it was, Jim. It’s quite all right, though. I won’t do it again… Am I to see you soon?”

“No, not for a while–”

“Are you so busy?”

“There’s no use in my going to you, Palla.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said bluntly, “and I’m trying to get over it.”

“I thought we were friends, too.”

After a lengthy silence: “You’re right,” he said, “we are.”

She heard his quick, deep breath like a sigh. “Shall I come to-night?”

“I’m expecting some people, Jim–women who desire to establish a Combat Club in Chicago, and they have come on here to consult me.”

“To-morrow night, then?”

“Please.”

“Will you be alone?”

“I expect to be.”

Once more he said: “Palla, is anything worrying you? Are you ill? Is Ilse all right?”

There was a pause, then Palla’s voice, resolutely tranquil. “Everything is all right in the world as long as you are kind to me, Jim. When you’re not, things darken and become queer–”

“Palla!”

“Yes.”

“Listen! This is to serve notice on you. I’m going to make a fight for you.”

After a silence, he heard her sweet, uncertain laughter.

“Jim?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I suppose it would shock you if I made a fight for–you!”

He took it as a jest and laughed at her perverse humour. But what she had meant she herself scarcely realised; and she turned away from the telephone, conscious of a vague excitement invading her and of a vaguer consternation, too. For behind the humorous audacity of her words, she seemed to realise there remained something hidden–something she was on the verge of discovering–something indefinable, menacing, grave enough to dismay her and drive from her lips the last traces of the smile which her audacious jest had left there.

The ladies from Chicago were to dine with her; her maid had hooked her gown; orchids from Jim had just arrived, and she was still pinning them to her waist–still happily thrilled by this lovely symbol of their renewed accord, when the bell rang.

It was much too early to expect anybody: she fastened her orchids and started to descend the stairs for a last glance at the table, when, to her astonishment, she saw Angelo Puma in the hall in the act of depositing his card upon the salver extended by the maid.

He looked up and saw her before she could retreat: she made the best of it and continued on down, greeting him with inquiring amiability:

“Miss Dumont, a thousand excuses for this so bold intrusion,” he began, bowing extravagantly at every word. “Only the urgent importance of my errand could possibly atone for a presumption like there never has been in all–”

“Please step into the drawing room, Mr. Puma, if you have something of importance to say.”

He followed her on tiptoe, flashing his magnificent eyes about the place, still wearing over his evening dress the seal overcoat with its gardenia, which was already making him famous on Broadway.

Palla seated herself, wondering a little at the perfumed splendour of her landlord. He sat on the extreme edge of an arm chair, his glossy hat on his knee.

“Miss Dumont,” he said, laying one white-gloved paw across his shirt-front, “you shall behold in me a desolate man!”

“I’m sorry.” She looked at him in utter perplexity.

“What shall you say to me?” he cried. “What just reproaches shall you address to me, Miss Dumont!”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Puma,” she said, inclined to laugh, “–until you tell me what is your errand.”

“Miss Dumont, I am most unhappy and embarrass. Because you have pay me in advance for that which I am unable to offer you.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Alas! You have pay to me by cheque for six months more rent of my hall.”

“Yes.”

“I have given to you a lease for six months more, and with it an option for a year of renewal.”

“Yes.”

“Miss Dumont, behold me desolate.”

“But why?”

“Because I am force by circumstance over which I have no control to cancel this lease and option, and ask you most respectfully to be so kind as to secure other quarters for your club.”

“But we can’t do that!” exclaimed Palla in dismay.

“I am so very sorry–”

“We can’t do it,” added Palla with decision. “It’s utterly impossible, Mr. Puma. All our meetings are arranged for months in advance; all the details are completed. We could not disarrange the programme adopted. From all over the United States people are invited to come on certain fixed dates. All arrangements have been made; you have my cheque and I have your signed lease. No, we are obliged to hold you to your contract, and I’m very sorry if it inconveniences you.”

Puma’s brilliant eyes became tenderly apprehensive.

“Miss Dumont,” he said in a hushed and confidential voice, “believe me when I venture to say to you that your club should leave for reasons most grave, most serious.”

“What reasons?”

“The others–the Red Flag Club. Who knows what such crazy people might do in anger? They are very angry already. They complain that your club has interfere with them–”

“That is exactly why we’re there, Mr. Puma–to interfere with them, neutralise their propaganda, try to draw the same people who listen to their violent tirades. That is why we’re there, and why we refuse to leave. Ours is a crusade of education. We chose that hall because we desired to make the fight in the very camp of the enemy. And I must tell you plainly that we shall not give up our lease, and that we shall hold you to it.”

The dark blood flooded his heavy features:

“I do not desire to take it to the courts,” he said. “I am willing to offer compensation.”

“We couldn’t accept. Don’t you understand, Mr. Puma? We simply must have that particular hall for the Combat Club.”

Puma remained perfectly silent for a few moments. There was still, on his thick lips, the suave smile which had been stamped there since his appearance in her house.

But in this man’s mind and heart there was growing a sort of dull and ferocious fear–fear of elements already gathering and combining to menace his increasing prosperity.

Sullenly he was aware that this hard-won prosperity was threatened. Always its conditions had been unstable at best, but now the atmospheric pressure was slowly growing, and his sky of promise was not as clear.

Some way, somehow, he must manage to evict these women. Twice Sondheim had warned him. And that evening Sondheim had sent him an ultimatum by Kastner.

And Puma was perfectly aware that Karl Kastner knew enough about him to utterly ruin him in the great Republic which was now giving him a fortune and which had never discovered that his own treacherous mission here was the accomplishment of her ruin.

Puma stood up, heavily, cradling his glossy hat. But his urbane smile became brilliant again and he made Palla an extravagant bow.

“It shall be arrange,” he said cheerfully. “I consult my partner–your friend, Mr. Skidder! Yes! So shall we arrive at entente.”

His large womanish eyes swept the room. Suddenly they were arrested by a photograph of Shotwell Junior–in a silver frame–the only ornament, as yet, in the little drawing room.

And instantly, within Angelo Puma, the venomous instinct was aroused to do injury where it might be done safely and without suspicion of intent.

“Ah,” he exclaimed gaily, “my friend, Mr. Shotwell! It is from him, Miss Dumont, you have purchase this so beautiful residence!”

He bent to salute with a fanciful inclination the photograph of the man who had spoken so contemptuously of him the evening previous.

“Mr. Shotwell also adores gaiety,” he said laughingly. “Last night I beheld him at the Palace of Mirrors–and with an attractive young lady of your club, Miss Dumont–the charming young Russian lady with whom you came once to pay me the rent–” He kissed his hand in an ecstasy of recollection. “So beautiful a young lady! So gay were they in their box! Ah, youth! youth! Ah, the happiness and folly when laughter bubbles in our wine!–the magic wine of youth!”

He took his leave, moving lightly to the door, almost grotesque in his elaborate evolutions and adieux.

Palla went slowly upstairs.

The evening paper lay on a table in the living room. She unfolded it mechanically; looked at it but saw no print, merely an unsteady haze of greyish tint on which she could not seem to concentrate.

Marya and Jim … together… That was the night he went away angry… The night he told her he had gone directly home… But it couldn’t have been… He couldn’t have lied…

She strove to recollect as she sat there staring at the newspaper… What was it that beast had said about it?.. Of course–last night!.. Marya and Jim had been together last night… But where was Vanya?.. Oh, yes… Last night Vanya was away … in Baltimore.

The paper dropped to her lap; she sat looking straight ahead of her.

What had so shocked her then about Jim and Marya being together? True, she had not supposed them to be on such terms–had not even thought about it…

Yes, she had thought about it, scarcely conscious of her own indefinable uneasiness–a memory, perhaps, of that evening when the Russian girl had been at little pains to disguise her interest in this man. And Palla had noticed it–noticed that Marya was seated too near him–noticed that, and the subtle attitude of provocation, and the stealthy evolution of that occult sorcery which one woman instantly divines in another and finds slightly revolting.

Was it merely that memory which had been evoked when Puma’s laughing revelation so oddly chilled her?–the suspected and discovered predilection of this Russian girl for Jim? Or was it something else, something deeper, some sudden and more profound illumination which revealed to her that, in the depths of her, she was afraid?

Afraid? Afraid of what?

Her charming young head sank; the brown eyes stared at the floor.

She was beginning to understand what had chilled her, what she had unconsciously been afraid of–her own creed!– when applied to another woman.

And this was the second time that this creed of hers had risen to confront her, and the second time she had gazed at it, chilled by fear: once, when she had waited for Ilse to return; and now once again.

For now she began to comprehend how ruthless that creed could become when professed by such a girl as Marya Lanois.

She was still seated there when Marya came in, her tiger-red hair in fascinating disorder from the wind, her skin fairly breathing the warm fragrance of exotic youth.

“My Palla! How pale you seem!” she exclaimed, embracing her. “You are quite well? Really? Then I am reassured!”

She went to the mirror and tucked in a burnished strand or two of hair.

“These Chicago ladies–they have not arrived, I see. Am I then so early? For I see that Ilse is not yet here–”

“It is only a quarter to eight,” said Palla, smiling; but the brown eyes were calmly measuring this lithe and warm and lovely thing with green eyes–measuring it intently–taking its measure–taking, for the first time in her life, her measure of any woman.

“Was Vanya’s concert a great success?” she asked.

“Vanya has not yet returned.” She shrugged. “There was nothing in New York papers.”

“I suppose you were very nervous last night,” said Palla.

For a moment Marya continued to arrange her hair by the aid of the mantel mirror, then she turned very lithely and let her green gaze rest full on Palla’s face.

What she might possibly have divined was hidden behind the steady brown eyes that met hers may have determined her attitude and words; for she laughed with frank carelessness and plunged into it all:

“Fancy, Palla, my encountering Jim Shotwell in the Biltmore, and dining with him at that noisy Palace of Mirrors last night! Did he tell you?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“–Over the telephone, perhaps?”

“No, he did not mention it.”

“Well, it was most amusing. It is the unpremeditated that is delightful. And can you see us in that dreadful place, as gay as a pair of school children? And we must laugh at nothing and find it enchanting–and we must dance amid the hoi polloi and clap our hands for the encore too!–”

A light peal of laughter floated from her lips at the recollections evoked:

“And after! Can you see us, Palla, in Vanya’s studio, too wide awake to go our ways!–and the song I sang at that unearthly hour–the song I sing always when happily excited–”

The bell rang; the first guest had arrived.

CHAPTER XIX

Vanya’s concert had been enough of a success to attract the attention of genuine music-lovers and an impecunious impresario–an irresponsible promoter celebrated for rushing headlong into things and being kicked headlong out of them.

All promising virtuosi had cut their wisdom teeth on him; all had acquired experience and its accompanying toothache; none had acquired wealth until free of this ubiquitous impresario.

His name was Wilding: he seized upon Vanya; and that gentle and disconcerted dreamer offered no resistance.

So Wilding began to haunt Vanya’s apartment at all hours of the day, rushing in with characteristic enthusiasm to discuss the vast campaign of nation-wide concerts which in his mind’s eye were already materialising.

Marya had no faith in him and was becoming very tired of his noise and bustle in the stillness and subdued light which meant home to her, and which this loud, excitable, untidy man was eternally invading.

Always he was shouting at Vanya: “It’s a knock-out! It will go big! big! big! We got ’em started in Baltimore!”–a fact, but none of his doing! “We’ll play Philadelphia next; I’m fixin’ it for you. All you gotta do is go there and the yelling starts. Well, I guess. Some riot, believe me!”

Wilding had no money in the beginning. After a while, Vanya had none, or very little; but the impresario wore a new fur coat and spats. And Broadway winked wearily and said: “He’s got another!”–doubtless deeming specification mere redundancy.

Yet, somehow, Wilding did manage to book Vanya in Philadelphia–at a somewhat distant date, it is true–but it was something with which to begin the promised “nation-wide tour” under the auspices of Dawson B. Wilding.

Marya had money of her own, but trusted none of it in Wilding’s schemes. In fact, she had come to detest him thoroughly, and whenever he was announced she would rise like some beautiful, disgusted feline, which something has disturbed in her dim and favourite corner, and move lithely away to another room. And it almost seemed as though her little, warm, closely-chiselled ears actually flattened with bored annoyance as the din of Wilding’s vociferous greeting to Vanya arose behind her.

One day toward Christmas time, she said to Vanya, in her level, satin-smooth voice:

“You know, mon ami, I am tiring rapidly of this great fool who comes shouting and tramping into our home. And when I am annoyed beyond my nerve capacity, I am likely to leave.”

Vanya said gently that he was sorry that he had entered into financial relations with a man who annoyed her, but that it could scarcely be helped now.

He was seated at his piano, not playing, but scoring. And he resumed his composition after he had spoken, his grave, delicate head bent over the ruled sheets, a gold pencil held between his long fingers.

Marya lounged near, watched him. Not for the first time, now, did his sweet temper and gentleness vaguely irritate her–string her nerves a little tighter until they began to vibrate with an indefinable longing to say something to arouse this man–startle him–awaken him to a physical tensity and strength… Such as Shotwell’s for example…

“Vanya?”

He looked up absently, the beauty of dreams still clouding his eyes.

And suddenly, to her own astonishment, her endurance came to its end. She had never expected to say what she was now going to say to him. She had never dreamed of confession–of enlightening him. And now, all at once, she knew she was going to do it, and that it was a needless and cruel and insane and useless thing to do, for it led her nowhere, and it would leave him in helpless pain.

“Vanya,” she said, “I am in love with Jim Shotwell.”

After a few moments, she turned and slowly crossed the studio. Her hat and coat lay on a chair. She put them on and walked out.

The following morning, Palla, arriving to consult Marya on a matter of the Club’s business, discovered Vanya alone in the studio.

He was lying on the lounge when she entered, and he looked ill, but he rose with all his characteristic grace and charm and led her to a chair, saluting her hand as he seated her.

“Marya has not yet arrived?” she inquired.

His delicate features became very grave and still.

“I thought,” added Palla, “that Marya usually breakfasted at eleven–”

Something in his expression checked her; and she fell silent, fascinated by the deathly whiteness of his face.

“I am sorry to tell you,” he said, in a pleasant and steady voice, “that Marya has not returned.”

“Why–why, I didn’t know she was away–”

“Yesterday she decided. Later she was good enough to telephone from the Hotel Rajah, where, for the present, she expects to remain.”

“Oh, Vanya!” Palla’s involuntary exclamation brought a trace of colour into his cheeks.

He said: “It is not her fault. She was loyal and truthful. One may not control one’s heart… And if she is in love–well, is she not free to love him?”

“Who–is–it?” asked Palla faintly.

“Mr. Shotwell, it appears.”

In the dead silence, Vanya passed his hand slowly across his temples; let it drop on his knee.

“Freedom above all else,” he said, “–freedom to love, freedom to cease loving, freedom to love anew… Well … it is curious–the scheme of things… Love must remain inexplicable. For there is no analysis. I think there never could be any man who cared as I have cared, as I do care for her…”

He rose, and to Palla he seemed already a trifle stooped;–it may have been his studio coat, which fitted badly.

“But, Vanya dear–” Palla looked at him miserably, conscious of her own keen fears as well as of his sorrow. “Don’t you think she’ll come back? Do you suppose it is really so serious–what she thinks about–Mr. Shotwell?”

He shook his head: “I don’t know… If it is so, it is so. Freedom is of first importance. Our creed is our creed. We must abide by what we teach and believe.”

“Yes.”

He nodded absently, staring palely into space.

Perhaps his lost gaze evoked the warm-skinned, sunny-haired girl who had gone out of the semi-light of this still place, leaving the void unutterably vast around him. For this had been the lithe thing’s silken lair–the slim and supple thing with beryl eyes–here where thick-piled carpets of the East deadened every human movement–where no sound stirred, nor any air–where dull shapes loomed, lacquered and indistinct, and an odour of Chinese lacquer and nard haunted the tinted dusk.

Like one of those lazy, golden, jewelled sea-creatures of irresponsible freedom brought seemed to fill the girl cooler currents arouses a restlessness infernal, Marya’s first long breath of freedom subtly excited her.

She had no definite ideas, no plans. She was merely tired of Vanya.

Perhaps her fresh, wholesome contact with Jim had started it–the sense of a clean vitality which had seemed to envelop her like the delicious, half-resented chill of a spring-pool plunge. For the exhilaration possessed her still; and the sudden stimulation which the sense of irresponsible freedom brought seemed to fill the girl with a new vigour.

Foot-loose, heart-loose, her green eyes on the open world where it stretched away into infinite horizons, she paced her new nest in the Hotel Rajah, tingling with subdued excitement, innocent of the faintest regret for what had been.

For a week she lived alone, enjoying the sensation of being hidden, languidly savouring the warm comfort of isolation.

She had not sent for her belongings. She purchased new personal effects, enchanted to be rid of familiar things.

There was no snow. She walked a great deal, moving in unaccustomed sections of the city at all hours, skirting in the early winter dusk the glitter of Christmas preparations along avenues and squares, lunching where she was unlikely to encounter anybody she knew, dining, too, at hazard in unwonted places–restaurants she had never heard of, tea-rooms, odd corners.

Vanya wrote her. She tossed his letters aside, scarcely read. Ilse and Palla wrote her, and telephoned her. She paid them no attention.

The metropolitan jungle fascinated her. She adored her liberty, and looked out of beryl-green eyes across the border of license, where ghosts of the half-world swarmed in no-man’s-land.