“This girl,” thought Helen Shotwell to herself, “could easily have taken Jim away from Elorn Sharrow had she chosen to do so. There is no doubt about her charm and her goodness. She certainly is a most unusual girl.”
But she did not say this to her only son. She did not even tell him that she had met his girl in black. And Palla had not informed him; she knew that; because the girl herself had told her that she had not seen Jim for “a long, long time.” It really was not nearly as long as Palla seemed to consider it.
Helen lunched with Leila Vance one day. The former spoke pleasantly of Palla.
“She’s such a darling,” said Mrs. Vance, “but the child worries me.”
“Why?”
“Well, she’s absorbed some ultra-modern Russian notions — socialistic ones — rather shockingly radical. Can you imagine it in a girl who began her novitiate as a Carmelite nun?”
Helen said: “She does not seem to have a tendency toward extremes.”
“She has. That awful affair in Russia seemed to shock her from one extreme to another. It’s a long way from the cloister to the radical rostrum.”
“She spoke of this new Combat Club.”
“She organised it,” said Leila. “They have a hall where they invite public discussion of social questions three nights a week. The other three nights, a rival and very red club rents the hall and howls for anarchy and blood.”
“Isn’t it strange?” said Helen. “One can not imagine such a girl devoting herself to radical propaganda.”
“Too radical,” said Leila. “I’m keeping an uneasy eye on that very wilful and wrong-headed child. Why, my dear, she has the most fastidious, the sweetest, the most chaste mind, and yet the things she calmly discusses would make your hair curl.”
“For example?” inquired Helen, astonished.
“Well, for example, they’ve all concluded that it’s time to strip poor old civilisation of her tinsel customs, thread-worn conventions, polite legends, and pleasant falsehoods.
“All laws are silly. Everybody is to do as they please, conforming only to the universal law of Love and Service. Do you see where that would lead some of those pretty hot-heads?”
“Good heavens, I should think so!”
“Of course. But they can’t seem to understand that the unscrupulous are certain to exploit them — that the most honest motives — the purest — invite that certain disaster consequent on social irregularities.
“Palla, so far, is all hot-headed enthusiast — hot-hearted theorist. But I remember that she did take the white veil once. And, as I tell you, I shall try to keep her within range of my uneasy vision. Because,” she added, “she’s really a perfect darling.”
“She is a most attractive girl,” said Helen slowly; “but I think she’d be more attractive still if she were happily married.”
“And had children.”
Their eyes met, unsmilingly, yet in silent accord.
* * * * *
Their respective cars awaited them at the Ritz and took them in different directions. But all the afternoon Helen Shotwell’s mind was occupied with what she now knew of Palla Dumont. And she realised that she wished the girl were back in Russia in spite of all her charm and fascination — yes, on account of it.
Because this lovely, burning asteroid might easily cross the narrow orbit through which her own social world spun peacefully in its orderly progress amid that metropolitan galaxy called Society.
Leila Vance was part of that galaxy. So was her own and only son. Wandering meteors that burnt so prettily might yet do damage.
For Helen, having known this girl, found it not any too easy to believe that her son could have relinquished her completely in so disturbingly brief a time.
Had she been a young man she knew that she would not have done so. And, knowing it, she was troubled.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, her only son was troubled, too, as he walked slowly homeward through the winter fog.
And by the time he was climbing his front steps he had concluded to accept this girl as she was — or thought she was — to pull no more long faces or sour faces, but to go back to her, resolutely determined to enjoy her friendship and her friends too; and give his long incarcerated sense of humour an airing, even if he suffered acutely while it revelled.
CHAPTER XIII
Palla’s activities seemed to exhilarate her physically and mentally. Body and brain were now fully occupied; and, if the profit to her soul were dubious, nevertheless the restless spirit of the girl now had an outlet; and at home and in the Combat Club she planned and discussed and investigated the world’s woes to her ardent heart’s content.
Physically, too, Red Cross and canteen work gave her much needed occupation; and she went everywhere on foot, never using bus, tram or taxicab. The result was, in spite of late and sometimes festive hours, that Palla had become something more than an unusually pretty girl, for there was much of real beauty in her full and charming face and in her enchantingly rounded yet lithe and lissome figure.
About the girl, also, there seemed to be a new freshness like fragrance — a virginal sweetness — that indefinable perfume of something young and vigorous that is already in bud.
* * * * *
That morning she went over to the dingy row of buildings to sign the lease of the hall for three evenings a week, as quarters for Combat Club No. 1.
The stuffy place where the Red Flag Club had met the night before was still reeking with stale smoke and the effluvia of the unwashed; but the windows were open and a negro was sweeping up a litter of defunct cigars.
“Yaas’m, Mr. Puma’s office is next do’,” he replied to Palla’s inquiry; “ — Sooperfillum Co’poration. Yaas’m.”
Next door had been a stable and auction ring, and odours characteristic still remained, although now the ring had been partitioned, boarded over and floored, and Mr. Hewitt’s glass rods full of blinding light were suspended above the studio ceilings of the Super-Picture Corporation.
Palla entered the brick archway. An office on the right bore the name of Angelo Puma; and that large, richly coloured gentleman hastily got out of his desk chair and flashed a pair of magnificent as well as astonished eyes upon Palla as she opened the door and walked in.
When she had seated herself and stated her business, Puma, with a single gesture, swept from the office several men and a stenographer, and turned to Palla.
“Is it you, then, who are this Combat Club which would rent from me the hall next door!” he exclaimed, showing every faultless tooth in his head.
Palla smiled: “I am empowered by the club to sign a lease.”
“That is sufficient!” exclaimed Puma, with a superb gesture. “So! It is signed! Your desire is enough. The matter is accomplished when you express the wish!”
Palla blushed a little but smilingly affixed her signature to the papers elaborately presented by Angelo Puma.
“A lease?” he remarked, with a flourish of his large, sanguine, and jewelled hand. “A detail merely for your security, Miss Dumont. For me, I require only the expression of your slightest wish. That, to me, is a command more binding than the seal of the notary!”
And he flashed his dazzling smile on Palla, who was tucking her copy of the agreement into her muff.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Puma,” she said, almost inclined to laugh at his extravagances. And she laid down a certified check to cover the first month’s rental.
Mr. Puma bowed; his large, heavily lashed black eyes were very brilliant; his mouth much too red under the silky black moustache.
“For me,” he said impulsively, “art alone matters. What is money? What is rent? What are all the annoying details of commerce? Interruptions to the soul-flow! Checks to the fountain jet of inspiration! Art only is important. Have you ever seen a cinema studio, Miss Dumont?”
Palla never had.
“Would it interest you, perhaps?”
“Thank you — some time — —”
“It is but a step! They are working. A peep will take but a moment — if you please — a thousand excuses that I proceed to show you the way! — —”
She stepped through a door. From a narrow anteroom she saw the set-scene in a ghastly light, where men in soiled shirt-sleeves dragged batteries of electric lights about, each underbred face as livid as the visage of a corpse too long unburied.
There were women there, too, looking a little more human in their makeups under the horrible bluish glare. Camera men were busy; a cadaverous and profane director, with his shabby coat-collar turned up, was talking loudly in a Broadway voice and jargon to a bewildered girl wearing a ball gown.
As Puma led Palla through the corridor from partition to partition, disclosing each set with its own scene and people — the whole studio full of blatant noise and ghastly faces or painted ones, Palla thought she had never before beheld such a concentration of every type of commonness in her entire existence. Faces, shapes, voices, language, all were essentially the properties of congenital vulgarity. The language, too, had to be sharply rebuked by Puma once or twice amid the wrangling of director, camera man and petty subordinates.
“So intense are the emotions evoked by a fanatic devotion to art,” he explained to Palla, “that, at moments, the old, direct and vigorous Anglo-Saxon tongue is heard here, unashamed. What will you? It is art! It is the fervour that forgets itself in blind devotion — in rapturous self-dedication to the god of Truth and Beauty!”
As she turned away, she heard from a neighbouring partition the hoarse expostulations of one of Art’s blind acolytes: “Say, f’r Christ’s sake, Delmour, what the hell’s loose in your bean! Yeh done it wrong an’ yeh know damn well yeh done it wrong — —”
Puma opened another door: “One of our projection rooms, Miss Dumont. If it is your pleasure to see a few reels run off — —”
“Thank you, but I really must go — —”
The office door stood open and she went out that way. Mr. Puma confronted her, moistly brilliant of eye:
“For me, Miss Dumont, I am frank like there never was a child in arms! Yes. I am all art; all heart. For me, beauty is God!—” he kissed his fat fingers and wafted the caress toward the dirty ceiling.
“Please excuse,” he said with his powerful smile, “but have you ever, perhaps, thought, Miss Dumont, of the screen as a career?”
“I?” asked Palla, surprised and amused. “No, Mr. Puma, I haven’t.”
“A test! Possibly, in you, latent, sleeps the exquisite apotheosis of Art incarnate! Who can tell? You have youth, beauty, a mind! Yes. Who knows if, also, happily, genius slumbers within? Yes?”
“I’m very sure it doesn’t,” replied Palla, laughing.
“Ah! Who can be sure of anything — even of heaven!” cried Puma.
“Very true,” said Palla, trying to speak seriously, “But the career of a moving picture actress does not attract me.”
“The emoluments are enormous!”
“Thank you, no — —”
“A test! We try! It would be amusing for you to see yourself upon the screen as you are, Miss Dumont? As you are — young, beautiful, vivacious — —”
He still blocked her way, so she said, laying her gloved hand on the knob:
“Thank you very much. Some day, perhaps. But I really must go — —”
He immediately bowed, opened the glass door, and went with her to the brick arch.
“I do not think you know,” he said, “that I have entered partnership with a friend of yours?”
“A friend of mine?”
“Mr. Elmer Skidder.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed, smilingly, “I hope the partnership will be a fortunate one. Will you kindly inform Mr. Skidder of my congratulations and best wishes for his prosperity? And you may say that I shall be glad to hear from him about his new enterprise.”
To Mr. Puma’s elaborate leave-taking she vouchsafed a quick, amused nod, then hurried away eastward to keep her appointment at the Canteen.
* * * * *
About five o’clock she experienced a healthy inclination for tea and wavered between the Plaza and home. Ilse and Marya were with her, but an indefinable something caused her to hesitate, and finally to let them go to the Plaza without her.
What might be the reason of this sudden whim for an unpremeditated cup of tea at home she scarcely took the trouble to analyse. Yet, she was becoming conscious of a subtle and increasing exhilaration as she approached her house and mounted the steps.
Suddenly, as she fitted the latch-key, her heart leaped and she knew why she had come home.
For a moment her fast pulse almost suffocated her. Was she mad to return here on the wildest chance that Jim might have come — might be inside, waiting? And what in the world made her suppose so? — for she had neither seen him nor heard from him in many days.
“I’m certainly a little crazy,” she thought as she opened the door. At the same moment her eyes fell on his overcoat and hat and stick.
Her skirt was rather tight, but her limbs were supple and her feet light, and she ran upstairs to the living room.
As he rose from an armchair she flung her arms out with a joyous little cry and wrapped them tightly around his neck, muff, reticule and all.
“You darling,” he was saying over and over in a happy but rather stupid voice, and crushing her narrow hands between his; “ — you adorable child, you wonderful girl — —”
“Oh, I’m so glad, Jim! Shall we have tea?... You dear fellow! I’m so very happy that you came! Wait a moment—” she leaned wide from him and touched an electric bell. “Now you’ll have to behave properly,” she said with delightful malice.
He released her; she spoke to the maid and then went over with him to the sofa, flinging muff, stole and purse on a chair.
“Pure premonition,” she explained, stripping the gloves from her hands. “Ilse and Marya were all for the Plaza, but something sent me homeward! Isn’t it really very strange, Jim? Why, I almost had an inclination to run when I turned into our street — not even knowing why, of course — —”
“You’re so sweet and generous!” he blurted out. “Why don’t you raise hell with me?”
“You know,” she said demurely, “I don’t raise hell, dear.”
“But I’ve behaved so rottenly — —”
“It really wasn’t friendly to neglect me so entirely.”
He looked down — laid one hand on hers in silence.
“I understand, Jim,” she said sweetly. “Is it all right now?”
“It’s all right.... Of course I haven’t changed.”
“Oh.”
“But it’s all right.”
“Really?”
“Yes.... What is there for me to do but to accept things as they are?”
“You mean, ‘accept me as I am!’ Oh, Jim, it’s so dear of you. And you know well enough that I care for no other man as I do for you — —”
The waitress with the tea-tray cut short that sort of conversation. Palla’s appetite was a healthy one. She unpinned her hat and flung it on the piano. Then she nestled down sideways on the sofa, one leg tucked under the other knee, her hair in enough disorder to worry any other girl — and began to tuck away tea and cakes. Sometimes, in animated conversation, she gesticulated with a buttered bun — once she waved her cup to emphasise her point:
“The main idea, of course, is to teach the eternal law of Love and Service,” she explained. “But, Jim, I have become recently, and in a measure, militant.”
“You’re going to love the unwashed with a club?”
“You very impudent boy! We’re going to combat this new and terrible menace — this sinister flood that threatens the world — the crimson tide of anarchy!”
“Good work, darling! I enlist for a machine gun uni — —”
“Listen! The battle is to be entirely verbal. Our Combat Club No. 1, the first to be established — is open to anybody and everybody. All are at liber
ty to enter into the discussions. We who believe in the Law of Love and Service shall have our say every evening that the club is open — —”
“The Reds may come and take a crack at you.”
“The Reds are welcome. We wish to face them across the rostrum, not across a barricade!”
“Well, you dear girl, I can’t see how any Red is going to resist you. And if any does, I’ll knock his bally block off — —”
“Oh, Jim, you’re so vernacularly inclined! And you’re very flippant, too — —”
“I’m not really,” he said in a lower voice. “Whatever you care about could not fail to appeal to me.”
She gave him a quick, sweet glance, then searched the tea-tray to reward him.
As she gave him another triangle of cinnamon toast, she remembered something else. It was on the tip of her tongue, now; and she checked herself.
He had not spoken of it. Had his mother mentioned meeting her at the Red Cross? If not — was it merely a natural forgetfulness on his mother’s part? Was her silence significant?
Nibbling pensively at her cinnamon toast, Palla pondered this. But the girl’s mind worked too directly for concealment to come easy.
“I’m wondering,” she said, “whether your mother mentioned our meeting at the Red Cross.” And she knew immediately by his expression that he heard it for the first time.
“I was introduced at our headquarters by Leila Vance,” said Palla, in her even voice; “and your mother and she are acquaintances. That is how it happened, Jim.”
He was still somewhat flushed but he forced a smile: “Did you find my mother agreeable, Palla?”
“Yes. And she is so beautiful with her young face and pretty white hair. She always sits between Leila and me while we sew.”
“Did you say you knew me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Of course,” he repeated, reddening again.
No man ever has successfully divined any motive which any woman desires to conceal.
Why his mother had not spoken of Palla to him he did not know. He was aware, of course, that nobody within the circle into which he had been born would tolerate Palla’s social convictions. Had she casually and candidly revealed a few of them to his mother in the course of the morning’s conversation over their sewing?
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 934