In touch with his unexciting business again, after many months of
glorious absence, and seated once more at his abhorred yellow-oak
desk, young Shotwell discovered it was anything except agreeable for
him to gather up the ravelled thrums of civilian life after the
thrilling taste of service over seas.
For him, so long accustomed to excitement, the zest of living seemed
to die with the signing of the armistice.
In fact, since the Argonne drive, all luck seemed to have deserted
him; for in the very middle of operations he had been sent back to the
United States as instructor; and there the armistice had now caught
him. Furthermore, then, before he realised what dreadful thing was
happening to him, he had been politely assigned to that vague limbo
supposedly inhabited by a mythical organisation known as The Officers'
Reserve Corps, and had been given indefinite leave of absence
preliminary to being mustered out of the service of the United
States.
To part from his uniform was agonising, and he berated the fate that
pried him loose from tunic and puttees. So disgusted was he that,
although the Government allowed three months longer before discarding
uniforms, he shed his in disgust for "cits."
But James Shotwell, Jr., was not the only man bewildered and
annoyed by the rapidity of events which followed the first days of
demobilisation. Half a dozen other young fellows in the big real
estate offices of Clarence Sharrow & Co. found themselves yanked out
of uniform and seated once more at their familiar, uninviting desks
of yellow oak--very young men, mostly, assigned to various camps of
special three-month instruction; and now cruelly interrupted while
scrambling frantically after commissions in machine-gun companies,
field artillery, flying units, and tank corps.
And there they were, back again at the old grind before they could
realise their horrid predicament--the majority already glum and
restless under the reaction, and hating Shotwell, who, among them all,
had been the only man to cross the sea.
This war-worn and envied veteran of a few months, perfectly aware that
his military career had ended, was now trying to accept the situation
and habituate himself to the loathly technique of commerce.
Out of uniform, out of humour, out of touch with the arts of peace;
still, at times, all a-quiver with the nervous shock of his
experience, it was very hard for him to speak respectfully to Mr.
Sharrow.
As instructor to rookie aspirants he would have been somebody: he had
already been somebody as a lieutenant of infantry in the thunderous
scheme of things in the Argonne.
But in the offices of Clarence Sharrow & Co. he was merely a rather
nice-looking civilian subordinate, whose duties were to aid clients in
the selection and purchase of residences, advise them, consult with
them, make appointments to show them dwelling houses, vacant or still
tenanted, and in every stage of repair or decrepitude.
On the wall beside his desk hung a tinted map of the metropolis. Upon
a table at his elbow were piled ponderous tomes depicting the Bronx in
all its beauty, and giving details of suburban sewers. Other volumes
contained maps of the fashionable residential district, showing every
consecrated block and the exact location as well as the linear
dimensions of every awesome residence and back yard from Washington
Square to Yorkville.
By referring to a note-book which he carried in his breast pocket,
young Shotwell could inform any grand lady or any pompous or fussy
gentleman what was the "asking price" of any particular residence
marked for sale upon the diagrams of the ponderous tomes.
Also--which is why Sharrow selected him for that particular
job--clients liked his good manners and his engaging ways.
The average client buys a freshly painted house in preference to a
well-built one, but otherwise clamours always for a bargain. The
richer the client the louder the clamour. And to such demands Shotwell
was always sympathetic--always willing to inquire whether or not the
outrageous price asked for a dwelling might possibly be "shaded" a
little.
It always could be shaded; but few clients knew that; and the
majority, much flattered at their own business acumen, entertained
kind feelings toward Sharrow & Co. and sentiments almost cordial
toward young Shotwell when the "shading" process had proved to be
successful.
But the black-eye dealt the residential district long ago had not yet
cleared up. Real property of that sort was still dull and inactive
except for a flare-up now and then along Park Avenue and Fifth.
War, naturally, had not improved matters; and, as far as the
residential part of their business was concerned, Sharrow & Co.
transacted the bulk of it in leasing apartments and, now and then, a
private house, usually on the West Side.
That morning, in the offices of Sharrow & Co., a few clients sat
beside the desks of the various men who specialised in the particular
brand of real estate desired: several neat young girls performed
diligently upon typewriters; old man Sharrow stood at the door of his
private office twirling his eyeglasses by the gold chain and urbanely
getting rid of an undesirable visitor--one Angelo Puma, who wanted
some land for a moving picture studio, but was persuasively unwilling
to pay for it.
He was a big man, too heavy, youngish, with plump olive skin, black
hair, lips too full and too red under a silky moustache, and eyes that
would have been magnificent in a woman--a Spanish dancer, for
example--rich, dark eyes, softly brilliant under curling lashes.
He seemed to covet the land and the ramshackle stables on it, but he
wanted somebody to take back a staggering mortgage on the property.
And Mr. Sharrow shook his head gently, and twirled his eyeglasses.
"For me," insisted Puma, "I do not care. It is good property. I would
pay cash if I had it. But I have not. No. My capital at the moment is
tied up in production; my daily expenses, at present, require what
cash I have. If your client is at all reasonable----"
"He isn't," said Sharrow. "He's a Connecticut Yankee."
For a moment Angelo Puma seemed crestfallen, then his brilliant smile
flashed from every perfect tooth:
"That is very bad for me," he said, buttoning-his showy overcoat.
"Pardon me; I waste your time--" pulling on his gloves. "However, if
your client should ever care to change his mind----"
"One moment," said Sharrow, whose time Mr. Puma had indeed wasted at
intervals during the past year, and who heartily desired to be rid of
property and client: "Suppose you deal directly with the owner. We are
not particularly anxious to carry the property; it's a little out of
our sphere. Suppose I put you in direct communication with the
owner."
"Delighted," said Puma, flashing his smile and bowing from the waist;
and perfectly aware that his badgering had bored this gentleman to the
limit.
"I'll write out his address for you," said Sharrow, "--one moment,
please----"
Angelo Puma waited, his glossy hat in one hand, his silver-headed
stick and folded suede gloves in the other.
Like darkly brilliant searchlights his magnificent eyes swept the
offices of Sharrow & Co.; at a glance he appraised the self-conscious
typists, surmised possibilities in a blond one; then, as a woman
entered from the street, he rested his gaze upon her. And he kept it
there.
Even when Sharrow came out of his private office with the slip of
paper, Angelo Puma's eyes still remained fastened upon the young girl
who had spoken to a clerk and then seated herself in a chair beside
the desk of James Shotwell, Jr.
"The man's name," repeated Sharrow patiently, "is Elmer Skidder. His
address is Shadow Hill, Connecticut."
Puma turned to him as though confused, thanked him effusively, took
the slip of paper, pulled on his gloves in a preoccupied way, and very
slowly walked toward the street door, his eyes fixed on the girl who
was now in animated conversation with young Shotwell.
As he passed her she was laughing at something the young man had just
said, and Puma deliberately turned and looked at her again--looked her
full in the face.
She was aware of him and of his bold scrutiny, of course--noticed his
brilliant eyes, no doubt--but paid no heed to him--was otherwise
preoccupied with this young man beside her, whom she had neither seen
nor thought about since the day she had landed in New York from the
rusty little Danish steamer _Elsinore_.
And now, although he had meant nothing at all to her except an episode
already forgotten, to meet him again had instantly meant something to
her.
For this man now represented to her a link with the exciting
past--this young soldier who had been fresh from the furnace when she
had met him on deck as the _Elsinore_ passed in between the forts in
the grey of early morning.
The encounter was exciting her a little, too, over-emphasising its
importance.
"Fancy!" she repeated, "my encountering you here and in civilian
dress! Were you dreadfully disappointed by the armistice?"
"I'm ashamed to say I took it hard," he admitted.
"So did I. I had hoped so to go to France. And you--oh, I _am_ sorry
for you. You were so disgusted at being detailed from the fighting
line to Camp Upton! And now the war is over. What a void!"
"You're very frank," he said. "We're supposed to rejoice, you know."
"Oh, of course. I really do rejoice----"
They both laughed.
"I mean it," she insisted. "In my sober senses I am glad the war is
over. I'd be a monster if I were not glad. But--_what_ is going to
take its place? Because we must have something, you know. One can't
endure a perfect void, can one?"
Again they laughed.
"It was such a tremendous thing," she explained. "I did want to be
part of it before it ended. But of course peace is a tremendous thing,
too----"
And they both laughed once more.
"Anybody overhearing us," she confided to him, "would think us mere
beasts. Of course you are glad the war is ended: that's why you
fought. And I'm glad, too. And I'm going to rent a house in New York
and find something to occupy this void I speak of. But isn't it nice
that I should come to you about it?"
"Jolly," he said. "And now at last I'm going to learn your name."
"Oh. Don't you know it?"
"I wanted to ask you, but there seemed to be no proper opportunity----"
"Of course. I remember. There seemed to be no reason."
"I was sorry afterward," he ventured.
That amused her. "You weren't really sorry, were you?"
"I really was. I thought of you----"
"Do you mean to say you remembered me after the ship docked?"
"Yes. But I'm very sure you instantly forgot me."
"I certainly did!" she admitted, still much amused at the idea. "One
doesn't remember everybody one sees, you know," she went on
frankly,"--particularly after a horrid voyage and when one's head is
full of exciting plans. Alas! those wonderful plans of mine!--the
stuff that dreams are made of. And here I am asking you kindly to find
me a modest house with a modest rental.... And by the way," she added
demurely, "my name is Palla Dumont."
"Thank you," he said smilingly. "Do you care to know mine?"
"I know it. When I came in and told the clerk what I wanted, he said I
should see Mr. Shotwell."
"James Shotwell, Jr.," he said gravely.
"That _is_ amiable. You don't treasure malice, do you? I might merely
have known you as _Mr._ Shotwell. And you generously reveal all from
James to Junior."
They were laughing again. Mr. Sharrow noticed them from his
private office and congratulated himself on having Shotwell in his
employment.
"When may I see a house?" inquired Palla, settling her black-gloved
hands in her black fox muff.
"Immediately, if you like."
"How wonderful!"
He took out his note-book, glanced through several pages, asked her
carelessly what rent she cared to pay, made a note of it, and resumed
his study of the note-book.
"The East Side?" he inquired, glancing at her with curiosity not
entirely professional.
"I prefer it."
From his note-book he read to her the descriptions and situations of
several twenty-foot houses in the zone between Fifth and Third
Avenues.
"Shall we go to see some of them, Mr. Shotwell? Have you, perhaps,
time this morning?"
"I'm delighted," he said. Which, far from straining truth, perhaps
restrained it.
So he got his hat and overcoat, and they went out together into the
winter sunshine.
Angelo Puma, seated in a taxi across the street, observed them. He
wore a gardenia in his lapel. He might have followed Palla had she
emerged alone from the offices of Sharrow & Co.
Shotwell Junior had a jolly morning of it. And, if the routine proved
a trifle monotonous, Palla, too, appeared to amuse herself.
She inspected various types of houses, expensive and inexpensive,
modern and out of date, well built and well kept and "jerry-built" and
dirty.
Prices and rents painfully surprised her, and she gave up any idea of
renting a furnished house, and so informed Shotwell.
So they restricted their inspection to three-story unfurnished and
untenanted houses, where the neighbourhood was less pretentious and
there was a better light in the rear.
But they all were dirty, neglected, out of repair, destitute of decent
plumbing and electricity.
On the second floor of one of these Palla stood, discouraged,
perplexed, gazing absently out, across a filthy back yard full of
seedling ailanthus trees and rubbish, at the rear fire escapes on the
tenements beyond.
Shotwell, exploring the closely written pages of his note-book, could
discover nothing desirable within the terms she was willing to make.
"There's one house on our books," he said at last, "which came in only
yesterday. I haven't had time to look at it. I don't even know where
the keys are. But if you're not too tired----"
Palla gave him one of her characteristic direct looks:
"I'm not too tired, but I'm starved. I could go after lunch."
"Fine!" he said. "I'm hungry, too! Shall we go to Delmonico's?"
The girl seemed a trifle nonplussed. She had not supposed that
luncheon with clients was included in a real estate transaction.
She was not embarrassed, nor did the suggestion seem impertinent. But
she said:
"I had expected to lunch at the hotel."
He reddened a little. Guilt shows its colors.
"Had you rather?" he asked.
"Why, no. I'd rather lunch with you at Delmonico's and talk houses."
And, a little amused at this young man's transparent guile, she added:
"I think it would be very agreeable for us to lunch together."
* * * * *
She came from the dressing-room fresh and flushed as a slightly
chilled rose, rejoining him in the lobby, and presently they were
seated in the palm room with a discreet and hidden orchestra playing,
"Oh! How I Hate To Get Up in the Morning," and rather busy with a
golden Casaba melon between them.
"Isn't this jolly!" he said, expanding easily, as do all young men in
the warmth of the informal.
"Very. What an agreeable business yours seems to be, Mr. Shotwell."
"In what way?" he asked innocently.
"Why, part of it is lunching with feminine clients, isn't it?"
His close-set ears burned. She glanced up with mischief brilliant in
her brown eyes. But he was busy with his melon. And, not looking at
her:
"Don't you want to know me?" he asked so clumsily that she hesitated
to snub so defenceless a male.
"I don't know whether I wish to," she replied, smiling slightly. "I
hadn't aspired to it; I hadn't really considered it. I was thinking
about renting a house."
He said nothing, but, as the painful colour remained in his face, the
girl decided to be a little kinder.
"Anyway," she said, "I'm enjoying myself. And I hope you are."
He said he was. But his voice and manner were so subdued that she
laughed.
"Fancy asking a girl such a question," she said. "You shouldn't ask a
woman whether she doesn't want to know you. It would be irregular
enough, under the circumstances, to say that you wanted to know her."
"That's what I meant," he replied, wincing. "Would you consider it?"
She could not disguise her amusement.
"Yes; I'll consider it, Mr. Shotwell. I'll give it my careful
attention. I owe you something, anyway."
"What?" he asked uncertainly, prepared for further squelching.
"I don't know exactly what. But when a man remembers a woman, and the
woman forgets the man, isn't something due him?"
"I think there is," he said so naively that Palla was unable to
restrain her gaiety.
"This is a silly conversation," she said, "--as silly as though I had
accepted the cocktail you so thoughtfully suggested. We're both
enjoying each other and we know it."
"Really!" he exclaimed, brightening.
His boyish relief--everything that this young man said to her--seemed
to excite the girl to mirth. Perhaps she had been starved for laughter
longer than is good for anybody. Besides, her heart was naturally
responsive--opened easily--was easily engaged.
"Of course I'm inclined to like you," she said, "or I wouldn't be here
lunching with you and talking nonsense instead of houses----"
"We'll talk houses!"
"No; we'll _look_ at them--later.... Do you know it's a long, long
time since I have laughed with a really untroubled heart?"
"I'm sorry."
"Yes, it isn't good for a girl. Sadness is a sickness--a physical
disorganisation that infects the mind. It makes a strange emotion of
love, too, perverting it to that mysticism we call religion--and
wasting it.... I suppose you're rather shocked," she said smilingly.
"No.... But have you no religion?"
"Have you?"
"Well--yes."
"Which?"
"Protestant.... Are you Catholic?"
The girl rested her cheek on her hand and dabbed absently at her
orange ice.
"I was once," she said. "I was very religious--in the accepted sense
of the term.... It came rather suddenly;--it seemed to be born as part
of a sudden and close friendship with a girl--began with that
friendship, I think.... And died with it."
She sat quite silent for a while, then a tremulous smile edged her
lips:
"I had meant to take the veil," she said. "I did begin my novitiate."
"Here?"
"No, in Russia. There are a few foreign cloistered orders there....
But I had a tragic awakening...." She bent her head and quoted softly,
"'For the former things have passed away.'"
The orange ice was melting; she stirred it idly, watching it
dissolve.
"No," she said, "I had utterly misunderstood the scheme of things.
Divinity is not a sad, a solemn, a solitary autocrat demanding selfish
tribute, blind allegiance, inexorable self-abasement. It is not an
insecure tyrant offering bribery for the cringing, frightened
servitude demanded."
She looked up smilingly at the man: "Nor, within us, is there any soul
in the accepted meaning,--no satellite released at death to revolve
around or merge into some super-divinity. No!
"For I believe,--I _know_--that the body--every one's body--is
inhabited by a complete god, immortal, retaining its divine entity,
beholden to no other deity save only itself, and destined to encounter
in a divine democracy and through endless futures, unnumbered brother
gods--the countless divinities which have possessed and shall possess
those tenements of mankind which we call our bodies.... You do not, of
course, subscribe to such a faith," she added, meeting his gaze.
"Well----" He hesitated. She said:
"Autocracy in heaven is as unthinkable, as unbelievable, and as
obnoxious to me as is autocracy on earth. There is no such thing as
divine right, here or elsewhere,--no divine prerogatives for tyranny,
for punishment, for cruelty."
"How did you happen to embrace such a faith?" he asked, bewildered.
"I was sick of the scheme of things. Suffering, cruelty, death
outraged my common sense. It is not in me to say, 'Thy will be done,'
to any autocrat, heavenly or earthly. It is not in me to fawn on the
hand that strikes me--or that strikes any helpless thing! No! And the
scheme of things sickened me, and I nearly died of it----"
She clenched her hand where it rested on the table, and he saw her
face flushed and altered by the fire within. Then she smiled and
leaned back in her chair.
"In you," she said gaily, "dwells a god. In me a goddess,--a joyous
one,--a divine thing that laughs,--a complete and free divinity that
is gay and tender, that is incapable of tyranny, that loves all things
both, great and small, that exists to serve--freely, not for
reward--that owes allegiance and obedience only to the divine and
eternal law within its own godhead. And that law is the law of
love.... And that is my substitute for the scheme of things. Could you
subscribe?"
After a silence he quoted: "_Could you and I with Him conspire_----"
She nodded: "'_To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire_----' But
there is no '_Him_.' It's you and I.... Both divine.... Suppose we
grasp it and '_shatter it to bits_.' Shall we?"
"'_And then remould it nearer to the heart's desire?_'"
"Remould it nearer to the logic of common sense."
Neither spoke for a few moments. Then she drew a swift, smiling
breath.
"We're getting on rather rapidly, aren't we?" she said. "Did you
expect to lunch with such a friendly, human girl? And will you now
take her to inspect this modest house which you hope may suit her, and
which, she most devoutly hopes may suit her, too?"
"This has been a perfectly delightful day," he said as they rose.
"Do you want me to corroborate you?"
"Could you?"
"I've had a wonderful time," she said lightly.