The Crimson Tide: A Novel

“What else wouldn’t you do?” he managed to ask.

“I wouldn’t do anything mean, deceitful, dishonest, cruel. But it’s not your antiquated laws–it’s my own and original law that governs my conduct.”

“You always conform to it?”

“I do. But you don’t conform to yours. So I’ll try to help you remember the petty but always sacred conventions of our own accepted code–”

And, with unfeigned malice, she began to disengage her hand from his–loosened the slim fingers one by one, all the while watching him sideways with prim lips pursed and lifted eyebrows.

“Try always to remember,” she said, “that, according to your code, any demonstration of affection toward a comparative stranger is exceedingly bad form.”

However, he picked up her hand again, which she had carelessly left lying on the sofa near his, and again she freed it, leisurely.

They conversed animatedly, as always, discussing matters of common interest, yet faintly in her ears sounded the unfamiliar echo of passion.

It haunted her mind, too–an indefinable undertone delicately persistent–until at last she sat mute, absent-minded, while he continued speaking.

Her stillness–her remote gaze, perhaps–presently silenced him. And after a little while she turned her charming head and looked at him with that unintentional provocation born of virginal curiosity.

What had moved him so unexpectedly to deeper emotion? Had she? Had she, then, that power? And without effort?–For she had been conscious of none… But–if she tried… Had she the power to move him again?

Naïve instinct–the emotionless curiosity of total inexperience–everything embryonic and innocently ruthless in her was now in the ascendant.

She lifted her eyes and considered him with the speculative candour of a child. She wished to hear once more that unfamiliar something in his voice–see it in his features–

And she did not know how to evoke it.

“Of what are you thinking, Palla?”

“Of you,” she answered candidly, without other intention than the truth. And saw, instantly, the indefinable something born again into his eyes.

Calm curiosity, faintly amused, possessed her–left him possessed of her hand presently.

“Are you attempting to be sentimental?” she asked.

Very leisurely she began once more to disengage her hand–loosening the fingers one by one–and watching him all the while with a slight smile edging her lips. Then, as his clasp tightened:

“Please,” she said, “may I not have my freedom?”

“Do you want it?”

“You never did this before–touched me–unnecessarily.”

As he made no answer, she fell silent, her dark eyes vaguely interrogative as though questioning herself as well as him concerning this unaccustomed contact.

His head had been bent a little. Now he lifted it. Neither was smiling.

Suddenly she rose to her feet and stood with her head partly averted. He rose, too. Neither spoke. But after a moment she turned and looked straight at him, the virginal curiosity clear in her eyes. And he took her into his arms.

Her arms had fallen to her side. She endured his lips gravely, then turned her head and looked at the roses beside her.

“I was afraid,” she said, “that we would do this. Now let me go, Jim.”

He released her in silence. She walked slowly to the mantel and set one slim foot on the fender.

Without looking around at him she said: “Does this spoil me for you, Jim?”

“You darling–”

“Tell me frankly. Does it?”

“What on earth do you mean, Palla! Does it spoil me for you?”

“I’ve been thinking… No, it doesn’t. But I wondered about you.”

He came over to where she stood.

“Dear,” he said unsteadily, “don’t you know I’m very desperately in love with you?”

At that she turned her enchanting little head toward him.

“If you are,” she said, “there need be nothing desperate about it.”

“Do you mean you care enough to marry me, you darling?” he asked impetuously. “Will you, Palla?”

“Why, no,” she said candidly. “I didn’t mean that. I meant that I care for you quite as much as you care for me. So you need not be desperate. But I really don’t think we are in love–I mean sufficiently–for anything serious.”

“Why don’t you think so!” he demanded impatiently.

“Do you wish me to be quite frank?”

“Of course!”

“Very well.” She lifted her head and let her clear eyes rest on his. “I like you,” she said. “I even like–what we did. I like you far better than any man I ever knew. But I do not care for you enough to give up my freedom of mind and of conduct for your asking. I do not care enough for you to subscribe to your religion and your laws. And that’s the tragic truth.”

“But what on earth has all that to do with it? I haven’t asked you to believe as I believe or to subscribe to any law–”

Her enchanting laughter filled the room: “Yes, you have! You asked me to marry you, didn’t you?”

“Of course!”

“Well, I can’t, Jim, because I don’t believe in the law of marriage, civil or religious. If I loved you I’d live with you unmarried. But I’m afraid to try it. And so are you. Which proves that I’m not really in love with you, or you with me–”

The door bell rang.

“But I do care for you,” she whispered, bending swiftly toward him. Her lips rested lightly on his a moment, then she turned and walked out into the centre of the room.

The maid announced: “Mr. Estridge!”