The Crimson Tide: A Novel
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For Jim had changed; and it was love for this woman that had changed him–which had made of him the silent, listless man whose grey face haunted his mother’s dreams.
That he, dissipating all her hopes of him, had fallen in love with Palla Dumont was enough unhappiness, it seemed; but that this girl should have found it possible to refuse him–that seemed to Helen a monstrous thing.
And even were Jim able to forget the girl and free himself from this exasperating unhappiness which almost maddened his mother, still she must always afterward remember with bitterness the girl who had rejected her only son.
Not since Palla had telephoned on that unfortunate night had she or Helen ever mentioned Jim. The mother, expecting his obsession to wear itself out, had been only too glad to approve the rupture.
But recently, at moments, her courage had weakened when, evening after evening, she had watched her son where he sat so silent, listless, his eyes dull and remote and the book forgotten on his knees.
A steady resentment for all this change in her son possessed Helen, varied by flashes of impulse to seize Palla and shake her into comprehension of her responsibility–of her astounding stupidity, perhaps.
Not that she wanted her for a daughter-in-law. She wanted Elorn. But now she was beginning to understand that it never would be Elorn Sharrow. And–save when the change in Jim worried her too deeply–she remained obstinately determined that he should not bring this girl into the Shotwell family.
And the amazing paradox was revealed in the fact that Palla fascinated her; that she believed her to be as fine as she was perverse; as honest as she was beautiful; as spiritually chaste as she knew her to be mentally and bodily untainted by anything ignoble.
This, and because Palla was the woman to whom her son’s unhappiness was wholly due, combined to exercise an uncanny fascination on Helen, so that she experienced a constant and haunting desire to be near the girl, where she could see her and hear her voice.
At moments, even, she experienced a vague desire to intervene–do something to mitigate Jim’s misery–yet realising all the while she did not desire Palla to relent.
As for Palla, she was becoming too deeply worried over the darkening aspects of life to care what Helen thought, even if she had divined the occult trend of her mind toward herself.
One thing after another seemed to crowd more threateningly upon her;–Jim’s absence, Marya’s attitude, and the certainty, now, that she saw Jim;–and then the grave illness of John Estridge and her apprehensions regarding Ilse; and the increasing difficulties of club problems; and the brutality and hatred which were becoming daily more noticeable in the opposition which she and Ilse were encountering.
After a tiresome day, Palla left a new Hostess House which she had aided to establish, and took a Fifth Avenue bus, too weary to walk home.
The day had been clear and sunny, and she wondered dully why it had left with her the impression of grey skies.
Dusk came before she arrived at her house. She went into her unlighted living room, and threw herself on the lounge, lying with eyes closed and the back of one gloved hand across her temples.
When a servant came to turn up the lamp, Palla had bitten her lip till the blood flecked her white glove. She sat up, declined to have tea, and, after the maid had departed, she remained seated, her teeth busy with her under lip again, her eyes fixed on space.
After a long while her eyes swerved to note the clock and what its gilt hands indicated.
And she seemed to arrive at a conclusion, for she went to her bedroom, drew a bath, and rang for her maid.
“I want my rose evening gown,” she said. “It needs a stitch or two where I tore it dancing.”
At six, not being dressed yet, she put on a belted chamber robe and trotted into the living room, as confidently as though she had no doubts concerning what she was about to do.
It seemed to take a long while for the operator to make the connection, and Palla’s hand trembled a little where it held the receiver tightly against her ear. When, presently, a servant answered:
“Please say to him that a client wishes to speak to him regarding an investment.”
Finally she heard his voice saying: “This is Mr. James Shotwell Junior; who is it wishes to speak to me?”
“A client,” she faltered, “–who desires to–to participate with you in some plan for the purpose of–of improving our mutual relationship.”
“Palla.” She could scarcely hear his voice.
“I–I’m so unhappy, Jim. Could you come to-night?”
He made no answer.
“I suppose you haven’t heard that Jack Estridge is very ill?” she added.
“No. What is the trouble?”
“Pneumonia. He’s a little better to-night.”
She heard him utter: “That’s terrible. That’s a bad business.” Then to her: “Where is he?”
She told him. He said he’d call at the hospital. But he said nothing about seeing her.
“I wondered,” came her wistful voice, “whether, perhaps, you would dine here alone with me this evening.”
“Why do you ask me?”
“Because–I–our last quarrel was so bitter–and I feel the hurt of it yet. It hurts even physically, Jim.”
“I did not mean to do such a thing to you.”
“No, I know you didn’t. But that numb sort of pain is always there. I can’t seem to get rid of it, no matter what I do.”
“Are you very busy still?”
“Yes… I saw–Marya–to-day.”
“Is that unusual?” he asked indifferently.
“Yes. I haven’t seen her since–since she and Vanya separated.”
“Oh! Have they separated?” he asked with such unfeigned surprise that the girl’s heart leaped wildly.
“Didn’t you know it? Didn’t Marya tell you?” she asked shivering with happiness.
“I haven’t seen her since I saw you,” he replied.
Palla’s right hand flew to her breast and rested there while she strove to control her voice. Then:
“Please, Jim, let us forgive and break bread again together. I–” she drew a deep, unsteady breath–“I can’t tell you how our separation has made me feel. I don’t quite know what it’s done to me, either. Perhaps I can understand if I see you–if I could only see you again–”
There ensued a silence so protracted that a shaft of fear struck through her. Then his voice, pleasantly collected:
“I’ll be around in a few minutes.”
She was scared speechless when the bell rang–when she heard his unhurried step on the stair.
Before he was announced by the maid, however, she had understood one problem in the scheme of things–realised it as she rose from the lounge and held out her slender hand.
He took it and kept it. The maid retired.
“Well, Palla,” he said.
“Well,” she said, rather breathlessly, “–I know now.”
His voice and face seemed amiable and lifeless; his eyes, too, remained dull and incurious; but he said: “I don’t think I understand. What is it you know?”
“Shall I tell you?”
“If you wish.”
His pleasant, listless manner chilled her; she hesitated, then turned away, withdrawing her hand.
When she had seated herself on the sofa he dropped down beside her in his old place. She lighted a cigarette for him.
“Tell me about poor old Jack,” he said in a low voice.
Their dinner was a pleasant but subdued affair. Afterward she played for him–interrupted once by a telephone call from Ilse, who said that John’s temperature had risen a degree and the only thing to do was to watch him every second. But she refused Palla’s offer to join her at the hospital, saying that she and the night nurse were sufficient; and the girl went slowly back to the piano.
But, somehow, even that seemed too far away from her lover–or the man who once had been her avowed lover. And after idling-with the keys for a few minutes she came back to the lounge where he was seated.
He looked up from his revery: “This is most comfortable, Palla,” he said with a slight smile.
“Do you like it?”
“Of course.”
“You need not go away at all–if it pleases you.” Her voice was so indistinct that for a moment he did not comprehend what she had said. Then he turned and looked at her. Both were pale enough now.
“That is what–what I was going to tell you,” she said. “Is it too late?”
“Too late!”
“To say that I am–in love with you.”
He flushed heavily and looked at her in a dazed way.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“I mean–if you want me–I am–am not afraid any more–”
They had both risen instinctively, as though to face something vital. She said:
“Don’t ask me to submit to any degrading ceremony… I love you enough.”
He said slowly: “Do you realise what you say? You are crazy! You and your socialist friends pretend to be fighting anarchy. You preach against Bolshevism! You warn the world that the Crimson Tide is rising. And every word you utter swells it! You are the anarchists yourselves! You are the Bolsheviki of the world! You come bringing disorder where there is order; you substitute unproven theory for proven practice!
“Like the hun, you come to impose your will on a world already content with its own God and its own belief! And that is autocracy; and autocracy is what you say you oppose!
“I tell you and your friends that it was not wolves that were pupped in the sand of the shaggy Prussian forests when the first Hohenzollern was dropped. It was swine! Swine were farrowed;–not even sanglier, but decadent domestic swine;–when Wilhelm and his degenerate litter came out to root up Europe! And they were the first real Bolsheviki!”
He turned and began to stride to and fro; his pale, sunken face deeply shadowed, his hands clenching and unclenching.
“What in God’s name,” he said fiercely, “are women like you doing to us! What do you suppose happens to such a man as I when the girl he loves tells him she cares only to be his mistress! What hope is there left in him?–what sense, what understanding, what faith?
“You don’t have to tell me that the Crimson Tide is rising. I saw it in the Argonne. I wish to God I were back there and the hun was still resisting. I wish I had never lived to come back here and see what demoralisation is threatening my own country from that cursed germ of wilful degeneracy born in the Prussian twilight, fed in Russian desolation, infecting the whole world–”
His voice died in his throat; he walked swiftly past her, turned at the threshold:
“I’ve known three of you,” he said, “–you and Ilse and Marya. I’ve seen a lot of your associates and acquaintances who profess your views. And I’ve seen enough.”
He hesitated; then when he could control his voice again:
“It’s bad enough when a woman refuses marriage to a man she does not love. That man is going to be unhappy. But have you any idea what happens to him when the girl he loves, and who says she cares for him, refuses marriage?
“It was terrible even when you cared for me only a little. But–but now–do you know what I think of your creed? I hate it as you hated the beasts who slew your friend! Damn your creed! To hell with it!”
She covered her face with both hands: there was a noise like thunder in her brain.
She heard the door close sharply in the hall below.
This was the end.
CHAPTER XXII
She felt a trifle weak. In her ears there lingered a dull, confused sensation, like the echo of things still falling. Something had gone very wrong with the scheme of nature. Even beneath her feet, now, the floor seemed unsteady, unreliable.
A half-darkness dimmed her eyes; she laid one slim hand on the sofa-back and seated herself, fighting instinctively for consciousness.
She sat there for a long while. The swimming faintness passed away. An intense stillness seemed to invade her, and the room, and the street outside. And for vast distances beyond. Half hours and hours rang clearly through the silence from the mantel-clock. So still was the place that a sheaf of petals falling from a fading rose on the piano seemed to fill the room with ghostly rustling.
This, then, was the finish. Love had ended. Youth itself was ending, too, here in the dead silence of this lamplit room.
There remained nothing more. Except that ever darkening horizon where, at the earth’s ends, those grave shapes of cloud closed out the vista of remote skies.
There seemed to be no shelter anywhere in the vast nakedness of the scheme of things–no shadow under which to crouch–no refuge.
Dim visions of cloistered forms, moving in a blessed twilight, grew and assumed familiar shape amid the dumb desolation reigning in her brain. The spectral temptation passed, repassed; processional, recessional glided by, timed by her heart’s low rhythm.
But, little by little, she came to understand that there was no refuge even there; no mystic glow in the dark corridors of her own heart; no source of light save from the candles glimmering on the high altar; no aureole above the crucifix.
Always, everywhere, there seemed to be no shelter, no roof above the scheme of things.
She heard the telephone. As she slowly rose from the sofa she noted the hour as it sounded;–four o’clock in the morning.
A man’s voice was speaking–an unhurried, precise, low-pitched, monotonous voice:
“This–is–the–Memorial Hospital. Doctor–Willis–speaking. Mr.–John–Estridge–died–at–ten minutes–to–four. Miss Westgard–wishes–to–go–to–your–residence–and–remain–over–night–if–convenient… Thank you. Miss–Westgard–will–go–to–you–immediately. Good-night.”
Palla rose from her chair in the unfurnished drawing-room, went out into the hall, admitted Ilse, then locked and chained the two front doors.
When she turned around, trembling and speechless, they kissed. But it was only Palla’s mouth that trembled; and when they mounted the stairs it was Ilse’s arm that supported Palla.
Except that her eyes were heavy and seemed smeared with deep violet under the lower lids, Ilse did not appear very much changed.
She took off her furs, hat, and gloves and sat down beside Palla. Her voice was quite clear and steady; there appeared to be no sign of shock or of grief, save for a passing tremor of her tired eyes now and then.
She said: “We talked a little together, Jack and I, after I telephoned to you.
“That was the last. His hand began to burn in mine steadily, like something on fire. And when, presently, I found he was not asleep, I motioned to the night nurse.
“The change seemed to come suddenly; she went to find one of the internes; I sat with my hand on his pulse… There were three physicians there… Jack was not conscious after midnight.”
Palla’s lips and throat were dry and aching and her voice almost inaudible:
“Darling,” she whispered, “–darling–if I could give him back to you and take his place!–”
Ilse smiled, but her heavy eyelids quivered:
“The scheme of things is so miserably patched together… Except for the indestructible divinity within each one of us, it all would be so hopeless… I had never been able to imagine Jack and Death together–” She looked up at the clock. “He was alive only an hour ago… Isn’t it strange–”
“Oh, Ilse, Ilse! I wish this God who deals out such wickedness and misery had struck me down instead!”
Neither seemed to notice the agnostic paradox in this bitter cry wrung from a young girl’s grief.
Ilse closed her eyes as though to rest them, and sat so, her steady hand on Palla’s. And, so resting, said in her unfaltering voice:
“Jack, of course, lives… But it seems a long time to wait to see him.”
“Jack lives,” whispered Palla.
“Of course… Only–it seems so long a time to wait… I wanted to show him–how kind love has been to us–how still more wonderful love could have been to us … for I could have borne him many children… And now I shall bear but one.”
After a silence, Palla lifted her eyes. In them the shadow of terror still lingered; there was not an atom of colour in her face.
Ilse slept that night, though Palla scarcely closed her eyes. Dreadful details of the coming day rose up to haunt her–all the ghastly routine necessary before the dead lie finally undisturbed by the stir and movement of many footsteps–the coming and going of the living.
Because what they called pneumonia was the Black Death of the ancient East, they had warned Ilse to remain aloof from that inert thing that had been her lover. So she did not look upon his face again.
There were relatives of sorts at the chapel. None spoke to her. The sunshine on the flower-covered casket was almost spring like.
And in the cemetery, too, there was no snow; and, under the dead grass, everywhere new herbage tinted the earth with delicate green.
Ilse returned from the cemetery with Palla. Her black veil and garments made of her gold hair and blond skin a vivid beauty that grief had not subdued.
That deathless courage which was part of her seemed to sustain the clear glow of her body’s vigour as it upheld her dauntless spirit.
“Did you see Jim in the chapel?” she asked quietly.
Palla nodded. She had seen Marya, also. After a little while Ilse said gravely:
“I think it no treachery to creed when one submits to the equally vital belief of another. I think our creed includes submission, because that also is part of love.”
Palla lifted her face in flushed surprise:
“Is there any compromising with truth?” she asked.
“I think love is the greatest truth. What difference does it make how we love?”
“Does not our example count? You had the courage of your belief. Do you counsel me to subscribe to what I do not believe by acquiescing in it?”
Ilse closed her sea-blue eyes as though fatigued. She said dreamily:
“I think that to believe in love and mating and the bearing of children is the only important belief in the world. But under what local laws you go about doing these things seems to be of minor importance,–a matter, I should say, of personal inclination.”
Ilse wished to go home. That is, to her own apartment, where now were enshrined all her memories of this dead man who had given to her womanhood that ultimate crown which in her eyes seemed perfect.
She said serenely to Palla: “Mine is not the loneliness that craves company with the living. I have a long time to wait; that is all. And after a while I shall not wait alone.
“So you must not grieve for me, darling. You see I know that Jack lives. It’s just the long, long wait that calls for courage. But I think it is a little easier to wait alone until–until there are two to wait–for him–”
“Will you call me when you want me, Ilse?”
“Always, darling. Don’t grieve. Few women know happiness. I have known it. I know it now. It shall not even die with me.”
She smiled faintly and turned to enter her doorway; and Palla continued on alone toward that dwelling which she called home.
The mourning which she had worn for her aunt, and which she had worn for John Estridge that morning, she now put off, although vaguely inclined for it. But she shrank from the explanations in which it was certain she must become involved when on duty at the Red Cross and the canteen that afternoon.
Undressed, she sent her maid for a cup of tea, feeling too tired for luncheon. Afterward she lay down on her bed, meaning merely to close her eyes for a moment.
It was after four in the afternoon when she sat up with a start–too late for the Red Cross; but she could do something at the canteen.
She went about dressing as though bruised. It seemed to take an interminable time. Her maid called a taxi; but the short winter daylight had nearly gone when she arrived at the canteen.
She remained there on kitchen duty until seven, then untied her white tablier, washed, pinned on her hat, and went out into the light-shot darkness of the streets and turned her steps once more toward home.
There is, among the weirder newspapers of the metropolis, a sheet affectionately known as “pink-and-punk,” the circulation of which seems to depend upon its distribution of fake “extras.”
As Palla turned into her street, shabby men with hoarse voices were calling an extra and selling the newspaper in question.
She bought one, glanced at the headlines, then, folding it, unlocked her door.
Dinner was announced almost immediately, but she could not touch it.
She sank down on the sofa, still wearing her furs and hat. After a little while she opened her newspaper.
It seemed that a Bolsheviki plot had been discovered to murder the premiers and rulers of the allied nations, and to begin simultaneously in every capital and principal city of Europe and America a reign of murder and destruction.
In fact, according to the account printed in startling type, the Terrorists had already begun their destructive programme in Philadelphia. Half a dozen buildings–private dwellings and one small hotel–had been more or less damaged by bombs. A New York man named Wilding, fairly well known as an impresario, had been killed outright; and a Russian pianist, Vanya Tchernov, who had just arrived in Philadelphia to complete arrangements for a concert to be given by him under Mr. Wilding’s management, had been fatally injured by the collapse of the hotel office which, at that moment, he was leaving in company with Mr. Wilding.
A numbness settled over Palla’s brain. She did not seem to be able to comprehend that this affair concerned Vanya–that this newspaper was telling her that Vanya had been fatally hurt somewhere in Philadelphia.
Hours later, while she was lying on the lounge with her face buried in the cushions, and still wearing her hat and furs, somebody came into the room. And when she turned over she saw it was Ilse.
Palla sat up stupidly, the marks of tears still glistening under her eyes. Ilse picked up the newspaper from the couch, laid it aside, and seated herself.
“So you know about Vanya?” she said calmly.
Palla nodded.
“You don’t know all. Marya called me on the telephone a few minutes ago to tell me.”
“Vanya is dead,” whispered Palla.
“Yes. They found an unmailed letter directed to Marya in his pockets. That’s why they notified her.”
After an interval: “So Vanya is dead,” repeated Palla under her breath.
Ilse sat plaiting the black edges of her handkerchief.
“It’s such a–a senseless interruption–death–” she murmured. “It seems so wanton, so meaningless in the scheme of things … to make two people wait so long–so long!–to resume where they had been interrupted–”
Palla asked coldly whether Marya had seemed greatly shocked.
“I don’t know, Palla. She called me up and told me. I asked her if there was anything I could do; and she answered rather strangely that what remained for her to do she would do alone. I don’t know what she meant.”
Whether Marya herself knew exactly what she meant seemed not to be entirely clear to her. For, when Mr. Puma, dressed in a travelling suit and carrying a satchel, arrived at her apartment in the Hotel Rajah, and entered the reception room with his soundless, springy step, she came out of her bedroom partly dressed, and still hooking her waist.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded contemptuously, looking him over from, head to foot. “Did you really suppose I meant to go to Mexico with you?”
His heavy features crimsoned: “What pleasantry is this, my Marya?–” he began; but the green blaze in her slanting eyes silenced him.
“The difference,” she said, “between us is this. You run from those who threaten you. I kill them.”
“Of–of what nonsense are you speaking!” he stammered. “All is arranged that we shall go at eleven–”
“No,” she said wearily, “one sometimes plays with stray animals for a few moments–and that is all. And that is all I ever saw in you, Angelo–a stray beast to amuse and entertain me between two yawns and a cup of tea.” She shrugged, still twisted lithely in her struggle to hook her waist. “You may go,” she added, not even looking at him, “or, if you are not too cowardly, you may come with me to the Red Flag Club.”
“In God’s name what do you mean–”
“Mean? I mean to take my pistol to the Red Flag Club and kill some Bolsheviki. That is what I mean, my Angelo–my ruddy Eurasian pig!”
She slipped in the last hook, turned and enveloped him again with an insolent, slanting glance: “Allons! Do you come to the Red Flag?”
“Marya–”
“Yes or no! Allez!”
“My God, are–are you then demented?” he faltered.