The Crimson Tide: A Novel

“Sure; we’ll stall along, Angy!”

They opened the glass door and went out into the studio. And Puma began again on his favourite theme, the acquiring of Broadway property and the erection of a cinema theatre. And Skidder, with his limited imagination of a cross-roads storekeeper, listened cautiously, yet always conscious of agreeable thrills whenever the subject was mentioned.

And, although he knew that capital was shy and that conditions were not favourable, his thoughts always reverted to a man he might be willing to go into such a scheme with–the president of the Shadow Hill Trust Company, Alonzo Pawling.

At that very moment, too, it chanced that Mr. Pawling’s business had brought him to New York–in fact, his business was partly with Palla Dumont, and they were now lunching together at the Ritz.

Alonzo Pawling stood well over six feet. He still had all his hair–which was dyed black–and also an inky pair of old-fashioned side whiskers. For the beauty of his remaining features less could be said, because his eyes were a melancholy and faded blue, his nose very large and red, and his small, loose mouth seemed inclined to sag, as though saturated with moisture.

Many years a widower he had, when convenient opportunity presented itself, never failed to offer marriage to Palla Dumont. And when, as always, she refused him in her frank, amused fashion, they returned without embarrassment to their amiable footing of many years–she as child of his old friend and neighbour, Judge Dumont, he as her financial adviser, and banker.

As usual, Mr. Pawling had offered Palla his large, knotty hand in wedlock that morning. And now that this inevitable preliminary was safely over, they were approaching the end of a business luncheon on entirely amiable terms with each other.

Financial questions had been argued, investments decided upon, news of the town discussed, and Palla was now telling him about Elmer Skidder and his new and apparently prosperous venture into moving pictures.

“He came to see me last evening,” she said, smiling at the recollection, “and he arrived in a handsome limousine with an extra man on the front–oh, very gorgeous, Mr. Pawling!–and we had tea and he told me how prosperous he had become in the moving picture business.”

“I guess,” said Mr. Pawling, “that there’s a lot of money in moving pictures. But nobody ever seems to get any of it except the officials of the corporation and their favourite stars.”

“It seems to be an exceedingly unattractive business,” said Palla, recollecting her unpleasant impressions at the Super-Picture studios.

“The right end of it,” said Mr. Pawling, “is to own a big theatre.”

She smiled: “You wouldn’t advise me to make such an investment, would you?”

Mr. Pawling’s watery eyes rested on her reflectively and he sucked in his lower lips as though trying to extract the omnipresent moisture.

“I dunno,” he said absently.

“Mr. Skidder told me that he would double his invested capital in a year,” she said.

“I guess he was bragging.”

“Perhaps,” she rejoined, laughing, “but I should not care to make such an investment.”

“Did he ask you?”

“No. But it seemed to me that he hinted at something of that nature. And I was not at all interested because I am contented with my little investments and my income as it is. I don’t really need much money.”

Mr. Pawling’s pendulous lip, released, sagged wetly and his jet-black eyebrows were lifted in a surprised arch.

“You’re the first person I ever heard say they had enough money,” he remarked.

“But I have!” she insisted gaily.

Mr. Pawling’s sad horse-face regarded her with faded surprise. He passed for a rich man in Shadow Hill.

“Where is Elmer’s place of business?” he inquired finally, producing a worn note-book and a gold pencil. And he wrote down the address.

There was in all the world only one thing that seriously worried Mr. Pawling, and that was this worn note-book. Almost every day of his life he concluded to burn it. He lived in a vague and daily fear that it might be found on him if he died suddenly. Such things could happen–automobile or railroad accidents–any one of numberless mischances.

And still he carried it, and had carried it for years–always in a sort of terror while the recent Mrs. Pawling was still alive–and in dull but perpetual anxiety ever since.

There were in it pages devoted to figures. There were, also, memoranda of stock transactions. There were many addresses, too, mostly feminine.

Now he replaced it in the breast pocket of his frock-coat, and took out a large wallet strapped with a rubber band.

While he was paying the check, Palla drew on her gloves; and, at the Madison Avenue door, stood chatting with him a moment longer before leaving for the canteen.

Then, smilingly declining his taxi and offering her slender hand in adieu, she went westward on foot as usual. And Mr. Pawling’s directions to the chauffeur were whispered ones as though he did not care to have the world at large share in his knowledge of his own occult destination.

Palla’s duty at the canteen lasted until six o’clock that afternoon, and she hurried on her way home because people were dining there at seven-thirty.

With the happy recollection that Jim, also, was dining with her, she ran lightly up the steps and into the house; examined the flowers which stood in jars of water in the pantry, called for vases, arranged a centre-piece for the table, and carried other clusters of blossoms into the little drawing-room, and others still upstairs.

Then she returned to criticise the table and arrange the name-cards. And, this accomplished, she ran upstairs again to her own room, where her maid was waiting.

Two or three times in a year–not oftener–Palla yielded to a rare inclination which assailed her only when unusually excited and happy. That inclination was to whistle.

She whistled, now, while preparing for the bath; whistled like a blackbird as she stood before the pier-glass before the maid hooked her into a filmy, rosy evening gown–her first touch of colour since assuming mourning.

The bell rang, and the waitress brought an elaborate florist’s box. There were pink orchids in it and Jim’s card;–perfection.

How could he have known! She wondered rapturously, realising all the while that they’d have gone quite as well with her usual black.

Would he come early? She had forgotten to ask it. Would he? For, in that event–and considering his inclination to take her into his arms–she decided to leave off the orchids until the more strenuous rites of friendship had been accomplished.

She was carrying the orchids and the long pin attached, in her left hand, when the sound of the doorbell filled her with abrupt and delightful premonitions. She ventured a glance over the banisters, then returned hastily to the living room, where he discovered her and did exactly what she had feared.

Her left hand, full of orchids, rested on his shoulder; her cool, fresh lips rested on his. Then she retreated, inviting inspection of the rosy dinner gown; and fastened her orchids while he was admiring it.

Her guests began to arrive before either was quite ready, so engrossed were they in happy gossip. And Palla looked up in blank surprise that almost amounted to vexation when the bell announced that their tête-à-tête was ended.

Shotwell had met the majority of Palla’s dinner guests. Seated on her right, he received from his hostess information concerning some of those he did not know.

“That rather talkative boy with red hair is Larry Rideout,” she said in a low voice. “He edits a weekly called The Coming Race. The Post Office authorities have refused to pass it through the mails. It’s rather advanced, you know.”

“Who is the girl on his right–the one with the chalky map?”

“Questa Terrett. Don’t you think her pallor is fascinating?”

“No. What particular stunt does she perform?”

“Don’t be flippant. She writes.”

“Ads?”

“Jim! She writes poems. Haven’t you seen any of them?”