The Crimson Tide: A Novel

“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.