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The Crimson Tide: A Novel
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He had lost his heavy colour; he stood looking at her with a white, strained, grim expression that tightened the jaw muscles; and she felt his powerful hand clenching between hers.
“It’s no use,” he said between his set lips, “I’ve got to go on–see it through in my own fashion–this rotten thing called life. I’m sorry, Marya, that I’m not a better sport–”
A wave of colour swept her face and her hands suddenly crushed his between them.
“You’re wonderful,” she said. “I do love you.”
But the tense, grey look had come back into his face. Looking at her in silence, presently his gaze seemed to become remote, his absent eyes fixed on something beyond her.
“I’ve a rotten time ahead of me,” he said, not knowing he had spoken. When his eyes reverted to her, his features remained expressionless, but his voice was almost tender as he said good night once more.
Her hands fell away; he opened the door and went out without looking back.
He found a taxi at the Plaza. He was swearing when he got into it. And all the way home he kept repeating to himself: “I’m one of those cursed, creeping Josephs; that’s what I am,–one of those pepless, sanctimonious, creeping Josephs… And I always loathed that poor fish, too!”
CHAPTER XVIII
Shotwell Junior discovered in due course of time the memoranda of the repeated messages which Palla had telephoned to his several clubs, asking him to call her up immediately.
It was rather late to do that now, but his pulses began to quicken again in the old, hopeless way; and he went to the telephone booth and called the number which seemed burnt into his brain forever.
A maid answered; Palla came presently; and he thought her voice seemed colourless and unfamiliar.
“Yes, I’m perfectly well,” she replied to his inquiry; “where in the world did you go that night? I simply couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“What had you wished to say to me?”
“Nothing–except–that I was afraid you were angry when you left, and I didn’t wish you to part with me on such terms. Were you annoyed?”
“No.”
“You say it very curtly, Jim.”
“Is that all you desired to say to me?”
“Yes… I was a little troubled… Something else went wrong, too;–everything seemed to go wrong that night… I thought perhaps–if I could hear your voice–if you’d say something kind–”
“Had you nothing else to tell me, Palla?”
“No… What?”
“Then you haven’t changed your attitude?”
“Toward you? I don’t expect to–”
“You know what I mean!”
“Oh. But, Jim, we can’t discuss that over the telephone.”
“I suppose not… Is anything wrong with you, Palla? Your voice sounds so tired–”
“Does it? I don’t know why. Tell me, please, what did you do that unhappy night?”
“I went home.”
“Directly?”
“Yes.”
“I telephoned your house about twelve, and was informed you were not at home.”
“They thought I was asleep. I’m sorry, Palla–”
“I shouldn’t have telephoned so late,” she interrupted, “I’m afraid that it was your mother who answered; and if it was, I received the snub I deserved!”
“Nonsense! It wasn’t meant that way–”
“I’m afraid it was, Jim. It’s quite all right, though. I won’t do it again… Am I to see you soon?”
“No, not for a while–”
“Are you so busy?”
“There’s no use in my going to you, Palla.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in love with you,” he said bluntly, “and I’m trying to get over it.”
“I thought we were friends, too.”
After a lengthy silence: “You’re right,” he said, “we are.”
She heard his quick, deep breath like a sigh. “Shall I come to-night?”
“I’m expecting some people, Jim–women who desire to establish a Combat Club in Chicago, and they have come on here to consult me.”
“To-morrow night, then?”
“Please.”
“Will you be alone?”
“I expect to be.”
Once more he said: “Palla, is anything worrying you? Are you ill? Is Ilse all right?”
There was a pause, then Palla’s voice, resolutely tranquil. “Everything is all right in the world as long as you are kind to me, Jim. When you’re not, things darken and become queer–”
“It’s no use,” he said between his set lips, “I’ve got to go on–see it through in my own fashion–this rotten thing called life. I’m sorry, Marya, that I’m not a better sport–”
A wave of colour swept her face and her hands suddenly crushed his between them.
“You’re wonderful,” she said. “I do love you.”
But the tense, grey look had come back into his face. Looking at her in silence, presently his gaze seemed to become remote, his absent eyes fixed on something beyond her.
“I’ve a rotten time ahead of me,” he said, not knowing he had spoken. When his eyes reverted to her, his features remained expressionless, but his voice was almost tender as he said good night once more.
Her hands fell away; he opened the door and went out without looking back.
He found a taxi at the Plaza. He was swearing when he got into it. And all the way home he kept repeating to himself: “I’m one of those cursed, creeping Josephs; that’s what I am,–one of those pepless, sanctimonious, creeping Josephs… And I always loathed that poor fish, too!”
CHAPTER XVIII
Shotwell Junior discovered in due course of time the memoranda of the repeated messages which Palla had telephoned to his several clubs, asking him to call her up immediately.
It was rather late to do that now, but his pulses began to quicken again in the old, hopeless way; and he went to the telephone booth and called the number which seemed burnt into his brain forever.
A maid answered; Palla came presently; and he thought her voice seemed colourless and unfamiliar.
“Yes, I’m perfectly well,” she replied to his inquiry; “where in the world did you go that night? I simply couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“What had you wished to say to me?”
“Nothing–except–that I was afraid you were angry when you left, and I didn’t wish you to part with me on such terms. Were you annoyed?”
“No.”
“You say it very curtly, Jim.”
“Is that all you desired to say to me?”
“Yes… I was a little troubled… Something else went wrong, too;–everything seemed to go wrong that night… I thought perhaps–if I could hear your voice–if you’d say something kind–”
“Had you nothing else to tell me, Palla?”
“No… What?”
“Then you haven’t changed your attitude?”
“Toward you? I don’t expect to–”
“You know what I mean!”
“Oh. But, Jim, we can’t discuss that over the telephone.”
“I suppose not… Is anything wrong with you, Palla? Your voice sounds so tired–”
“Does it? I don’t know why. Tell me, please, what did you do that unhappy night?”
“I went home.”
“Directly?”
“Yes.”
“I telephoned your house about twelve, and was informed you were not at home.”
“They thought I was asleep. I’m sorry, Palla–”
“I shouldn’t have telephoned so late,” she interrupted, “I’m afraid that it was your mother who answered; and if it was, I received the snub I deserved!”
“Nonsense! It wasn’t meant that way–”
“I’m afraid it was, Jim. It’s quite all right, though. I won’t do it again… Am I to see you soon?”
“No, not for a while–”
“Are you so busy?”
“There’s no use in my going to you, Palla.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in love with you,” he said bluntly, “and I’m trying to get over it.”
“I thought we were friends, too.”
After a lengthy silence: “You’re right,” he said, “we are.”
She heard his quick, deep breath like a sigh. “Shall I come to-night?”
“I’m expecting some people, Jim–women who desire to establish a Combat Club in Chicago, and they have come on here to consult me.”
“To-morrow night, then?”
“Please.”
“Will you be alone?”
“I expect to be.”
Once more he said: “Palla, is anything worrying you? Are you ill? Is Ilse all right?”
There was a pause, then Palla’s voice, resolutely tranquil. “Everything is all right in the world as long as you are kind to me, Jim. When you’re not, things darken and become queer–”
Другие электронные книги автора Robert Chambers
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Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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