Elise Van Zile owed her dark beauty to her Spanish mother. Her olive
skin, her smouldering black eyes, her slim, svelte body whose liquid
grace made the fact that she was a little taller than the average
woman an added charm rather than a defect, Elise had inherited from
Elisa Alvarez.
Mrs. Porter Palmer was a Van Zile, and garrulously proud of the fact.
Descended from the early Dutch settlers of New Amsterdam, her family
had been for over three hundred years numbered among the social elite
of the city. But there was also a Pacific Coast branch of the Van
Ziles, as Mrs. Palmer, when she exhausted her account of the
Manhattan constituency, was wont to relate. Derrick Van Zile had
sailed in a clipper ship in 1849 to seek his fortune in the golden
hills of California. Moreover, unlike thousands of his fellow
argonauts, he had found it. The hoard of gold dust he had passed
along to his son had been sufficient to enable the latter to abandon
the valley of the Sacramento and journey to the town at its mouth,
San Francisco. There Johann Van Zile had established a shipping
business, running a fleet of swift American sailing vessels to the
Orient and adding considerably to the family fortune. The grandson
of Johann Van Zile had been eventually handed both the name and the
business.
Though not distinguished by either the bold, adventure-seeking
temperament of Derrick or the shrewd business sense of his
grandfather, the present John Van Zile, father of Elise, was acute
enough in his choice of subordinates and hence succeeded very nicely
at managing an enterprise that by this time was extensive enough to
manage itself. In one respect, John III had excelled both Derrick
and Johann as well as the John who had been his own father. He had
united himself in marriage to a fair daughter of the original Spanish
aristocracy of California.
True, Elisa Alvarez had had very little to say in the matter. It had
been an arrangement between her father and the awkward, loosely built
young American, who, without perceptibly ever exerting himself,
seemed to have an uncanny ability to get what he wanted. John Van
Zile had met the pretty senorita and her aggressively protective
father and his bristling moustachios during a voyage on one of his
own ships to Mexico and return. The Alvarez' had been visiting
relatives. They were Castillian-born, and proud and reserved, as is
the habit of their caste. Becoming acquainted with the dark young
lady, who had, almost at first glance, won his heart, had not been
easy for Van Zile. In fact, not until Senor Alvarez had learned
definitely that this was the rich shipping magnate, Van Zile, had the
matter been arranged. After that the road had been smoothed. Senor
Alvarez had lineage, but was in impecunious circumstances. Mr. Van
Zile would make a settlement upon the consummation of the marriage.
It was agreed.
Elise Van Zile seemed quite contented with her union. She had never
been moved to any deep love for her husband. But he treated her
well, and she rendered him wifely devotion. What deep thoughts
lurked behind those dark, smouldering eyes and within that Spanish
heart were locked with her in her grave when she quietly passed on at
the birth of her only child, a daughter. The mother's name was
French--Americanized into Elise, and the child was placed in the
hands of a corps of nurses, housekeepers, and governesses.
Spanish girls mature early, and Elise Van Zile had from the first
appeared to be compounded more of Spanish blood than of American. At
fifteen she was a woman. At twenty she was a fully developed lady of
the world, in whom the wisdom of two races seemed to have blended.
She was a favorite in San Francisco society, a wonderfully attractive
creature, as many a smitten gallant of the Bay City had eagerly told
her, after at last venturing to brave the dignified Castilian reserve
that formed a cool protective barrier around Elise's colorful
personality. She had permitted not one of these swains to touch her
heart, to arouse the capacity for love concealed within her. So far
her emotional life had been confined to mild flirtations as
uninteresting as the daily social round.
For months, in San Francisco, Elise had lately been assailed by a
restlessness that had shaken her out of her usual calm. Her life had
become a monotonous routine, stale and unprofitable. She longed for
new surroundings. Her father had been irritating her, moreover, by
his hints that it was time she married. In vain she had replied to
him, "But none of these men appeal to me. They are mere boys." John
Van Zile, growing steadily older, was anxious for an heir to whom he
might hand over his business. Having been deprived by the death of
his wife of the chance for a direct heir and having no inclination to
marry again, he considered a grandson the next possibility.
Under the circumstances, the invitation of Mrs. Porter Palmer to her
niece to spend the spring in New York with her had arrived at an
opportune time. Elise was eager for the new scene. Her father had
indicated that her aunt would introduce her to a horde of new rich,
eligible men. It was quite possible that one of them would appeal to
her as being this paragon whom her fastidious tastes had evidently
set upon. Elise agreed. It was not beyond the realms of the
imagination, she conceded, that she might return to San Francisco
engaged.
To herself she had speculated as to whether or not she would ever
return to San Francisco at all. She and her father had no deep love
for each other, had never understood each other. She wanted to taste
life in New York. Later, perhaps, she would find an excuse to go
abroad, to Paris, to Spain, where among her mother's relatives she
might lead a more romantic existence than with the stolid Van Ziles.
She was quite willing to embark upon marriage, provided it was not at
the sacrifice of the luxuries which she now enjoyed. In France or
Spain perhaps she might encounter a man with the right combination of
romantic attraction and money.
An hour before the tea which her aunt was giving in her honor, Elise
sat in front of the dressing-table in the sunny, exquisitely
furnished boudoir that formed part of the suite her aunt had placed
at her disposal. She was polishing her nails, and thinking of Count
Rodrigo Torriani.
She was asking herself if she had, indeed, met at last a man worthy
of her steel. At that first unexpected meeting with him in the lobby
of the Quartier Latin, she knew that she was gazing upon a personage
of far more interesting potentialities than any other male of her
acquaintance. His good looks, his aristocratic bearing, the bold
manner in which he had swept her with his dark eyes, had struck a
responsive chord within her. Here was a man whom she admitted that,
under propitious circumstances, she could love. Here was the
potential vis-a-vis of her sought-for emotional experience. If he
were rich, and he had every appearance of being well-to-do, she might
even marry him.
It never occurred to Elise Van Zile that she could not do with any
man as she wished. And, indeed, there was little reason why it
should have occurred to her, men being what they are.
And so she was looking forward with distinct pleasure to seeing Count
Torriani again, and she was making certain that he would be even more
thoroughly attracted by her striking appearance than he had been on
the occasion of their only previous meeting.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Elise stood with her aunt in the
reception hall below as the first of the guests arrived. They were
for the most part fussy, inconsequential people, friends of her
aunt's, older than Elise and uninteresting to her, though she
bestowed upon them a calm, gracious greeting that served very
satisfactorily.
By the time Rodrigo arrived, immaculate in afternoon attire, the room
was comfortably filled by the chatterers.
Rodrigo gravely kissed the hand of his hostess and her guest of
honor, making the ceremony of briefer duration in the case of the
latter than with Mrs. Palmer. He speculated uneasily if there was
something a little mocking in the smile with which Miss Van Zile
swept him from under her long lashes.
"Haven't you brought John Dorning along with you?" chided Mrs. Palmer.
"John was detained momentarily," Rodrigo explained. "Do you, by any
chance, recall Mark Rosner, a former associate of Dorning and Son?"
The elderly lady pursed her white lips. "He was the nervous one, was
he not? Always excited about something?"
"Yes. As you probably read in the papers this morning, he's had the
nervous shock of his life. Thieves broke in last night and stole a
black and ruby Huin Ysin vase he was exhibiting for a customer in the
window of his shop."
"Oh, really! A genuine Huin Ysin?"
"It was worth eight thousand dollars. Rosner was aware that we have
what is undoubtedly the only duplicate of it in America. He is
practically forced to buy it from us, and John was arranging the
purchase. You can rest assured, of course, that good old John won't
take advantage of the chap's hard luck. But you mustn't let me bore
you with business." The apology was addressed to Elise Van Zile. He
knew that, as far as Mrs. Porter Palmer was concerned, he could talk
antiques and the prices of them the rest of the afternoon. It was
her only enjoyable diversion.
He moved nearer to Elise, and, since it was evident that he would be
the last to arrive at the tea, she moved over with him a few moments
later to twin chairs out of the beaten path of the other guests.
"You take a very deep interest in your business?" she remarked
languidly, and again there was that slightly mocking note.
"I really do," he answered promptly. "I have never been so happy in
my life as I have since my arrival in America and my association with
Dorning and Son."
"How interesting. Then you have not always been a business man?"
He suspected that Elise had learned the full details of his past from
her aunt, who, being of an obviously inquiring nature, had
doubtlessly by this time fully informed herself concerning him. He
judged that she was merely feeling him out. It made him uneasy. But
he answered, "In my own country, it is considered, for some reason,
not quite _au fait_ for a gentleman to engage in honest toil. Though
my father was in trade, and no finer gentleman ever lived. Over here
it is the reverse. One is not judged to have amounted to anything
unless he is, or has been, a business man."
"More's the pity." She said it with more than necessary vehemence.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I believe this perpetual preoccupation in business has
ruined the American man for anything else. He does not have time to
play until he has made his fortune, and then he is too old to learn.
He knows nothing of art, literature, or the finer things of life, and
he cares less. He takes his pleasure in short, mad doses, as the
business men were taking it at that bedlam of a supper club at which
we met you the other night. One should take pleasure slowly, as one
drinks liqueurs. One should take time to live. Don't you think so?"
"Of course." He had hardly listened, so intent was he upon looking
at her.
The lazy eyes of Elise were glowing now. The butler, arriving with
the tea things, interrupted their conversation. Rodrigo found the
pause rather welcome. It broke for the moment the spell which her
personality was weaving around him. Facing her thus, alone, she
seemed as out of place in this staid gathering of old women of both
sexes as Cleopatra in a sewing-circle. For here was a woman, he
recognized, who possessed magnetic appeal. She had no interest in
art or literature, despite her profession of concern for them. She
was supremely self-indulgent, he judged, thrill-seeking, eager for
something that would wake her sated and very beautiful self to life.
Instinctively his pulse quickened as he looked at her, felt the
magnetic tug of her. For him, he knew, she would be profoundly
disturbing, much more disturbing than Sophia Binner or Rosa. In her
beat the blood of Madame Du Barry, Manon Lescaut, though she would
never lose her head for love. She would always keep her head. She
would reserve the losing of heads to her victims.
And yet she fascinated him. Already he was wishing that the other
guests would miraculously disappear. Already he was planning when he
could see her again.
"Your indictment of American business, coming from an American woman,
surprises me. I understood that American women were their husbands'
chief inspirations in the making of money," he endeavored to put
discussion upon a lighter plane.
"American wives want money to spend. That is why they urge their
husbands to make it. They drive the poor fellows like muleteers.
And if the business man has no wife to drive him, it is some other
woman not so respectable but none the less desirous of jewels and a
limousine. American women dominate their men absolutely. The
husbands haven't a chance. You see, I can speak freely because I am
half Spanish, and in most ways a great deal more than half. I am a
Latin, like you. That is why it seems strange to me that you should
wish to attach yourself to the grindstone of American business."
It did not seem to be the right occasion on which to enlighten her by
stating that he was in business in order to make a living.
"And what are we Latins fitted for, then?" he asked lightly.
Her dark eyes were fixed upon him and her voice softened, "For life,
pleasure--love."
For a moment his shadowy eyes narrowed and seemed to grow even darker
as he returned her look. Then he shook his long body, as if to throw
off the disturbing influence, and he tried to say matter-of-factly,
"But our business is not so sordid as you seem to think. It is as
much art as it is commerce. I want you to meet my associate and dear
friend, John Dorning, Miss Van Zile. The very sight of him would
convince you that Dorning and Son is no money-factory. I tell
you--come with your aunt to tea with us at our apartment. You will
enjoy seeing our little private art collection, and you will meet one
of the best chaps in the world." He arose and wondered uneasily if
he were making a respectable adieu. This woman confused him so. He
tried to persuade himself that the invitation he had just uttered was
merely a device for smoothing over his intended abrupt departure.
But his conscience whispered he was scheming to see her again.
"I should be delighted," she smiled, and rose also. Together they
sought Mrs. Palmer, detached her from the group she was beguiling
with gossip, and Elise said, "Count Torriani has invited us to tea at
his apartment, Aunt Helen." She turned to Rodrigo. "What was the
day you mentioned, Count Torriani?"
[Illustration: NO MAN HAD GUESSED WHAT FIRE LAY WITHIN ELISE'S COOL
BODY.]
"Why--Thursday. Yes, Thursday will be excellent. John will be
there, Mrs. Palmer, and he will make his excuses to you in person."
"You may tell him I shall expect a very abject apology," fussed Mrs.
Palmer, and really meant it, for she disliked having people take her
invitations lightly.
"I'm sure he would have been here this afternoon if he possibly
could," Rodrigo insisted. He bade them both good-bye, adding, "At
four on next Thursday then."
Outside the sun had been driven under cover by gray clouds. The
bright May afternoon had turned raw and a brisk wind whipped up Fifth
Avenue. Rodrigo greeted the penetrating cold with pleasure. He set
off on foot down the sidewalk, alongside the tumultuous sea of
home-going motors and omnibuses, at a rapid pace. He had the feeling
of having escaped from a close, perfumed atmosphere fraught with
peril. He tried to laugh at himself for styling Mrs. Porter Palmer's
party thus. It was Elise Van Zile who had changed the atmosphere.
He needed a refreshing in the late afternoon open air.
When he reached the austere entrance to Dorning and Son he paused and
went in, though it was nearly six o'clock. He opened the door to
John's office and found it empty. From the open door of Mary Drake's
alcove came the sound of a typewriter, and he strode to her doorway.
She greeted him in a friendly fashion. Indeed Rodrigo, if he had
been looking for it, might have caught something more than friendship
in her shy, pleased acknowledgment of his unexpected presence. He
sank down with a sigh in the chair beside her desk, transferred his
hat and stick to the clothes-tree, and lighted a cigarette.
It had suddenly occurred to him that it was very pleasant indeed
sitting here alone resting with Mary Drake--Mary, who was just as
beautiful as Elise, though in a far different way; wholesome,
efficient, good pal Mary.
"Where's John?" he asked.
"He went away with Mr. Rosner. He said he probably wouldn't be back
this afternoon."
"Did they come to terms about the vase?"
"Yes, John sold it to him for five thousand dollars which is three
thousand dollars less than it is worth, as you know. But that's John
for you. Poor Mr. Rosner was half-crazy with anxiety. It seems this
man who owned the other vase is a Tartar to deal with. He insisted
upon full restitution for the theft, and Mr. Rosner did not have a
cent of insurance. In a way, Rodrigo, it would have been a Godsend
if John hadn't sold him the vase."
"Mary, I didn't realize you were so hard-hearted," Rodrigo bantered.
"Well, if Mr. Rosner couldn't have replaced the stolen property, he
would have had to go out of business, I guess. And that would have
been the best thing in the world for him. I visited his shop the
other noon, Rodrigo, and it is a mess. He will never succeed. The
shop is too small, dark and unprepossessing. His choice of stock has
been abominable--a lot of shoddy originals that nobody wants to buy,
mixed in with palpable fakes that wouldn't deceive the most ignorant
amateur collector. And Mr. Rosner is an irritating, stubborn person,
the worst possible type of salesman in this business."
"But he must be making some money, if he can pay five thousand
dollars cash on short notice."
"He didn't pay for it. John has taken him around to Mr. Bates, the
lawyer, and is having a note drawn up for the amount. Probably he
will never collect it."
A silence followed, broken as Mary resumed her typing. Rodrigo
watched her deft fingers as they twinkled over the keys, and later as
she signed the letter with Dorning's name, sealed it, and placed it
in its envelope. Then, with a little tired sigh, she started
clearing her desk of papers, preparatory to leaving. But he did not
want her to leave him. There was such cool comfort in having Mary
near him. He suddenly told himself quite calmly that this thing that
he had been increasingly feeling for Mary was the real wholesome kind
of love that a man feels for the woman he marries and wants for her
soul rather than for her beauty, the kind of love that he had never
had for any woman before. Since he knew that to tell her of it now
would spoil everything, he merely said, "You work too hard, Mary.
You ought to have more fun. Why don't you telephone your mother that
you are stopping in town for dinner with me to-night? Then we will
go to some quiet place to eat, and a show later, and I'll get you
home before midnight."
He realized with surprise that he was trembling with anxiety like a
schoolboy who has invited a girl to his first dance.
Mary, who had risen to get her hat, turned and peered at him with a
look in which there was shy pleasure. He had never since that fatal
mistake on his first day there, approached her socially before. "It
would be fun," she said. "And it happens that mother wouldn't be
left alone. My aunt is staying with us. I'll see."
She called a number in Brooklyn and spoke tenderly to her mother.
She hung up the receiver slowly, turned and said to him, "Mother is
willing. Go out for a few minutes while I give a few dabs to my
hair."