Works of Robert W Chambers
Page 930
But this brown-eyed girl in black was evidently her own sort — Jim’s sort. And that preoccupied her; and she lent only an inattentive ear to the animated monologue of the man beside her.
Before the offices of Sharrow & Co. her car stopped.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” she said, “that I’m so busy this week. But we ought to meet at many places, unless you continue to play the recluse. Don’t you really go anywhere any more?”
“No. But I’m going,” he said bluntly.
“Please do. And call me up sometimes. Take a sporting chance whenever you’re free. We ought to get in an hour together now and then. You’re coming to my dance of course, are you not?”
“Of course I am.”
The girl smiled in her sweet, generous way and gave him her hand again.
And he went into the office feeling rather miserable and beginning to realise why.
For in spite of what he had said to Palla about the wisdom of absenting himself, the mere sight of her had instantly set him afire.
And now he wanted to see her — needed to see her. A day was too long to pass without seeing her. An evening without her — and another — and others, appalled him.
And all the afternoon he thought of her, his mind scarcely on his business at all.
* * * * *
His parents were dining at home. He was very gay that evening — very amusing in describing his misadventures with Messrs. Puma and Skidder. But his mother appeared to be more interested in the description of his encounter with Elorn.
“She’s such a dear,” she said. “If you go to the Speedwells’ dinner on Thursday you’ll see her again. You haven’t declined, I hope; have you, Jim?”
It appeared that he had.
“If you drop out of things this way nobody will bother to ask you anywhere after a while. Don’t you know that, dear?” she said. “This town forgets overnight.”
“I suppose so, mother. I’ll keep up.”
His father remarked that it was part of his business to know the sort of people who bought houses.
Jim agreed with him. “I’ll surely kick in again,” he promised cheerfully.... “I think I’ll go to the club this evening.”
His mother smiled. It was a healthy sign. Also, thank goodness, there were no girls in black at the club.
At the club he resolutely passed the telephone booths and even got as far as the cloak room before he hesitated.
Then, very slowly, he retraced his steps; went into the nearest booth, and called a number that seemed burnt into his brain. Palla answered.
“Are you doing anything, dear?” he asked — his usual salutation.
“Oh. It’s you!” she said calmly.
“It is. Who else calls you dear? May I come around for a little while?”
“Have you forgotten what you — —”
“No! May I come?”
“Not if you speak to me so curtly, Jim.”
“I’m sorry.”
She deliberated so long that her silence irritated him.
“If you don’t want me,” he said, “please say so.”
“I certainly don’t want you if you are likely to be ill-tempered, Jim.”
“I’m not ill-tempered.... I’ll tell you what’s the trouble if I may come. May I?”
“Is anything troubling you?”
“Of course.”
“I’m so sorry!”
“Am I to come?”
“Yes.”
She herself admitted him. He laid his hat and coat on a chair in the hall and followed her upstairs to the living-room.
When she had seated herself she looked up at him interrogatively, awaiting his pleasure. He stood a moment with his back to the fire, his hands twisting nervously behind him. Then:
“My trouble,” he explained naïvely, “is that I am restless and unhappy when I remain away from you.”
The girl laughed. “But, Jim, you seemed to be having a perfectly good time at Delmonico’s this noon.”
He reddened and gave her a disconcerted look.
“I don’t see,” she added, “why any man shouldn’t have a good time with such an attractive girl. May I ask who she is?”
“Elorn Sharrow,” he replied bluntly.
Palla’s glance had sometimes wandered over social columns in the papers and periodicals, and she was not ignorant concerning the identity and local importance of Miss Sharrow.
She looked up curiously at Jim. He was so very good to look at! Better, even, to know. And Miss Sharrow was his kind. They had seemed to belong together. And it came to Palla, hazily, and for the first time, that she herself seemed to belong nowhere in particular in the scheme of things.
But that was quite all right. She had now established for herself a habitation. She had some friends — would undoubtedly make others. She had her interests, her peace of mind, and her independence. And behind her she had the dear and tragic past — a passionate memory of a dead girl; a terrible remembrance of a dead God.
The heart of the world alone could make up to her these losses. For now she was already preparing to seek it in her own way, under her own Law of Love.
“Jim,” she said almost timidly, “I have not intended to make you unhappy. Don’t you understand that?”
He seated himself: she lighted a cigarette for him.
“I suppose you can’t help doing it,” he said glumly.
“I really can’t, it seems. I don’t love you. I wish I did.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Of course I do.... I wish I were in love with you.”
After a moment she said: “I told you how much I care for you. But — if you think it is easier for you — not to see me — —”
“I can’t seem to stay away.”
“I’m glad you can’t — for my sake; but I’m troubled on your account. I do so adore to be with you! But — but if — —”
“Hang it all!” he exclaimed, forcing a wry smile. “I act like an unbaked fool! You’ve gone to my head, Palla, and I behave like a drunken kid.... I’ll buck up. I’ve got to. I’m not the blithering, balmy, moon-eyed, melancholy ass you think me — —”
Her quick laughter rang clear, and his echoed it, rather uncertainly.
“You poor dear,” she said, “you’re nearest my heart of anybody. I told you so. It’s only that one thing I don’t dare do.”
He nodded.
“Can’t you really understand that I’m afraid?”
“Afraid!” he repeated. “I should think you might be, considering your astonishing point of view. I should think you’d be properly scared to death!”
“I am. No girl, afraid, should ever take such a chance. Love and Fear cannot exist together. The one always slays the other.”
He looked at her curiously, remembering what Estridge had told him about her — how, on that terrible day in the convent chapel, this girl’s love had truly slain the fear within her as she faced the Red assassins and offered to lay down her life for her friend. Than which, it is said, there is no greater love....
“Of what are you thinking?” she asked, watching his expression.
“Of you — you strange, generous, fearless, wilful girl!” Then he squared his shoulders and shook them as though freeing himself of something oppressive.
“What you may need is a spanking!” he suggested coolly.
“Good heavens, Jim! — —”
“But I’m afraid you’re not likely to get it. And what is going to happen to you — and to me — I don’t know — I don’t know, Palla.”
“May I prophesy?”
“Go to it, Miriam.”
“Behold, then: I shall never care for any man more than I care now for you; I shall never care more for you than I do now.... And if you are sweet-tempered and sensible, we shall be very happy with each other.... Even after you marry.... Unless your wife misunderstands — —”
“My wife!” he repeated derisively.
“Miss Sharrow, for instance.”
The absurdity of it, too! After all, it was this man’s destiny to marry. And, if it chanced to be that girl ——
“You know,” he said in a detached, musing way, “it is well for you to remember that I shall never marry unless I marry you.... Life is long. There are other women.... I may forget you — at intervals.... But I shall never marry except with you, Palla.”
Her smile forced the gravity from her lips and eyes:
“If you behave like a veiled prophet you’ll end by scaring me,” she said.
But he merely gathered her into his arms and kissed her — laid back her head and looked down into her face and kissed her lips, without haste, as though she belonged to him.
Her head rested quite motionless on his shoulder. Perhaps she was still too taken aback to do anything about the matter. Her heart had hurried a little — not much — stimulated, possibly, by the rather agreeable curiosity which invaded her — charmingly expressive, now, in her wide brown eyes.
“So that’s the way of it,” he concluded, still looking down at her. “There are other women in the world. And life is long. But I marry you or nobody. And it’s my opinion that I shall not die unmarried.”
She smiled defiantly.
“You don’t seem to think much of my opinions,” she said.
“Are you more friendly to mine?”
“Certain opinions of yours,” he retorted, “originated in the diseased bean of some crazy Russian — never in your mind! So of course I hold them in contempt.”
She saw his face darken, watched it a moment, then impulsively drew his head down against hers.
“I do care for your opinions,” she said, her cheek, delicately warm, beside his. “So, even if you can not comprehend mine, be generous to them. I’m sincere. I try to be honest. If you differ from me, do it kindly, not contemptuously. For there is no such thing as ‘noble contempt!’ There is respectability in anger and nobility in tolerance. But none in disdain, for they are contradictions.”
“I tell you,” he said, “I despise and hate this loose socialistic philosophy that makes a bonfire of everything the world believes in!”
“Don’t hate other creeds; merely conform to your own, Jim. It will keep you very, very busy. And give others a chance to live up to their beliefs.”
He felt the smile on her lips and cheek:
“I can’t live up to my belief if I marry you,” she said. “So let us care for each other peacefully — accepting each other as we are. Life is long, as you say.... And there are other women.... And ultimately you will marry one of them. But until then — —”
He felt her lips very lightly against his — cool young lips, still and fragrant and sweet.
After a moment she asked him to release her; and she rose and walked across the room to the mirror.
Still busy with her hair, she turned partly toward him:
“Apropos of nothing,” she said, “a man was exceedingly impudent to me on the street this evening. A Russian, too. I was so annoyed!”
“What do you mean?”
“It happened just as I started to ascend the steps.... There was a man there, loitering. I supposed he meant to beg. So I felt for my purse, but he jumped back and began to curse me roundly for an aristocrat and a social parasite!”
“What did he say?”
“I was so amazed — quite stupefied. And all the while he was swearing at me in Russian and in English, and he warned me to keep away from Marya and Vanya and Ilse and mind my own damned business. And he said, also, that if I didn’t there were people in New York who knew how to deal with any friend of the Russian aristocracy.”
She patted a curly strand of hair into place, and came toward him in her leisurely, lissome way.
“Fancy the impertinence of that wretched Red! And I understand that both Vanya and Marya have received horribly insulting letters. And Ilse, also. Isn’t it most annoying?”
She seated herself at the piano and absently began the Adagio of the famous sonata.
CHAPTER X
There was still, for Palla, much shopping to do. The drawing room she decided to leave, for the present, caring as she did only for a few genuine and beautiful pieces to furnish the pretty little French grey room.
The purchase of these ought to be deferred, but she could look about, and she did, wandering into antique shops of every class along Fifth and Madison Avenues and the inviting cross streets.
But her chiefest quest was still for pots and pans and china; for napery, bed linen, and hangings; also for her own and more intimate personal attire.
To her the city was enchanting and not at all as she remembered it before she had gone abroad.
New York, under its canopy of tossing flags and ablaze with brilliant posters, swarmed with unfamiliar people. Every other pedestrian seemed to be a soldier; every other vehicle contained a uniform.
There were innumerable varieties of military dress in the thronged streets; there was the universal note of khaki and olive drab, terminating in leather vizored barrack cap or jaunty overseas service cap, and in spiral puttees, leather ones, or spurred boots.
Silver wings of aviators glimmered on athletic chests; chevrons, wound stripes, service stripes, an endless variety of insignia.
Here the grey-green and oxidised metal of the marines predominated; there, the conspicuous sage-green and gold of naval aviators. On campaign hats were every hue of hat cord; the rich gilt and blue of naval officers and the blue and white of their jackies were everywhere to be encountered.
And then everywhere, also, the brighter hue and exotic cut of foreign uniforms was apparent — splashes of gayer tints amid khaki and sober civilian garb — the beautiful garance and horizon-blue of French officers; the familiar “brass hat” of the British; the grey-blue and maroon of Italians. And there were stranger uniforms in varieties inexhaustible — the schapska-shaped head-gear of Polish officers, the beret of Czecho-Slovaks. And everywhere, too, the gay and well-known red pom-pon bobbed on the caps of French blue-jackets, and British marines stalked in pairs, looking every inch the soldier with their swagger sticks and their vizorless forage-caps.
Always, it seemed to Palla, there was military music to be heard above the roar of traffic — sometimes the drums and bugles of foreign detachments, arrived in aid of “drives” and loans of various sorts.
Ambulances painted grey and bright blue, and driven by smartly uniformed young women, were everywhere.
And to women’s uniforms there seemed no end, ranging all the way from the sober blue of the army nurse and the pretty white of the Red Cross, to bizarre but smart effects carried smartly by well set up girls representing scores of service corps, some invaluable, some of doubtful utility.
Eagle huts, canteens, soldiers’ rest houses, Red Cross quarters, clubs, temporary barracks, peppered the city. Everywhere the service flags were visible, also, telling their proud stories in five-pointed symbols — sometimes tragic, where gold stars glittered.
Never had New York seemed to contain so many people; never had the overflow so congested avenue and street, circle and square, and the wretchedly inadequate and dirty street-car and subway service.
And into the heart of it all went Palla, engulfed in the great tides of Fifth Avenue, drifting into quieter back-waters to east and west, and sometimes caught and tossed about in the glittering maelstrom of Broadway when she ventured into the theatre district.
Opera, comedy, musical show and cinema interested her; restaurant and cabaret she had evaded, so far, but what most excited and fascinated her was the people themselves — these eager, restless moving millions swarming through the city day and night, always in motion under blue skies or falling rain, perpetually in quest of what the world eternally offered, eternally concealed — that indefinite, glimm
ering thing called “heart’s desire.”
To discover, to comprehend, to help, to guide their myriad aspirations in the interminable and headlong hunt for happiness, was, to Palla, the most vital problem in the world.
For her there existed only one solution of this problem: the Law of Love.
And in this world-wide Hunt for Happiness, where scrambling millions followed the trail of Heart’s Desire, she saw the mad huntsman, Folly, leading, and Black Care, the whipper-in; and, at the bitter end, only the bones of the world’s woe; and a Horseman seated on his Pale Horse.
But the problem that still remained was how to swerve the headlong hunt to the true trail toward the only goal where the world’s quarry, happiness, lies asleep.
How to make service the Universal Heart’s Desire? How to transfigure self-love into Love?
To preach her faith from the street corners — to cry it aloud in the wilderness where no ear heeded — violence, aggression, the campaign militant, had never appealed to the girl.
Like her nation, only when cornered did she blaze out and strike. But to harangue, threaten, demand of the world that it accept the Law of Service and of Love, seemed to her a mockery of the faith she had embraced, which, unless irrevocably in liaison with freedom, was no faith at all.
So, for Palla, the solution lay in loyalty to the faith she professed; in living it; in swaying ignorance by example; in overcoming incredulity by service, scepticism by love.
Love and Service? Why, all around her among these teeming millions were examples — volunteers in khaki, their sisters in the garments of mercy! Why must the world stop there? This was the right scent. Why should the hunt swerve for the devil’s herring drawn across the trail?
One for all; all for one! She had read it on one of the war-posters. Somebody had taken the splendid Guardsman’s creed and had made it the slogan for this war against darkness.
And that was her creed — the true faith — the Law of Love. Then, was it good only in war? Why not make it the nation’s creed? Why not emblazon it on the wall of every city on earth? — one for all; all for one; Love, Service, Freedom!