CHAPTER IX
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?"
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."