The Crimson Tide: A Novel

The hen-brained–a small minority–misbehaved as usual whenever the opportunity came to do the wrong thing; the meanest and most contemptible partisanship since the shameful era of the carpet bagger prevailed in a section of the Republic where the traditions of great men and great deeds had led the nation to expect nobler things.

For the same old hydra seemed to be still alive on earth, lifting, by turns, its separate heads of envy, intolerance, bigotry and greed. Ignorance, robed with authority, legally robbed those comfortably off.

The bleat of the pacifist was heard in the land. Those who had once chanted in sanctimonious chorus, “He kept us out of war,” now sang sentimental hymns invoking mercy and forgiveness for the crucifiers of children and the rapers of women, who licked their lips furtively and leered at the imbecile choir. Representatives of a great electorate vaunted their patriotism and proudly repeated: “We forced him into war!” Whereas they themselves had been kicked headlong into it by a press and public at the end of its martyred patience.

There appeared to be, so far, no business revival. Prosperity was penalised, taxed to the verge of blackmail, constantly suspected and admonished; and the Congressional Bolsheviki were gradually breaking the neck of legitimate enterprise everywhere throughout the Republic.

And everywhere over the world the crimson tide crept almost imperceptibly a little higher every day.

Toward the middle of January the fever which had burnt John Estridge for a week fell a degree or two.

Palla, who had called twice a day at the Memorial Hospital, was seated that morning in a little room near the disinfecting plant, talking to Ilse, who had just laid aside her mask.

“You look rather ill yourself,” said Ilse in her cheery, even voice. “Is anything worrying you, darling?”

“Yes… You are.”

“I!” exclaimed the girl, really astonished. “Why?”

“Sometimes,” murmured Palla, “my anxiety makes me almost sick.”

“Anxiety about me!–”

“You know why,” whispered Palla.

A bright flush stained Ilse’s face: she said calmly:

“But our creed is broad enough to include all things beautiful and good.”

Palla shrank as though she had been struck, and sat staring out of the narrow window.

Ilse lifted a basket of soiled linen and carried it away. When, presently, she returned to take away another basket, she inquired whether Palla had made up her quarrel with Jim Shotwell, and Palla shook her head.

“Do you really suppose Marya has made mischief between you?” asked Ilse curiously.

“Oh, I don’t know, Ilse,” said the girl listlessly. “I don’t know what it is that seems to be so wrong with the world–with everybody–with me–”

She rose nervously, bade Ilse adieu, and went out without turning her head–perhaps because her brown eyes had suddenly blurred with tears.

Half way to Red Cross headquarters she passed the Hotel Rajah. And why she did it she had no very clear idea, but she turned abruptly and entered the gorgeous lobby, went to the desk, and sent up her name to Marya Lanois.

It appeared, presently, that Miss Lanois was at home and would receive her in her apartment.

The accolade was perfunctory: Palla’s first glance informed her that Marya had grown a trifle more svelte since they had met–more brilliant in her distinctive coloration. There was a tawny beauty about the girl that almost blazed from her hair and delicately sanguine skin and lips.

They seated themselves, and Marya lighted the cigarette which Palla had refused; and they fell into the animated, gossiping conversation characteristic of such reunions.

“Vanya?” repeated Marya, smiling, “no, I have not seen him. That is quite finished, you see. But I hope he is well. Do you happen to know?”

“He seems–changed. But he is working hard, which is always best for the unhappy. And he and his somewhat vociferous friend, Mr. Wilding, are very busy preparing for their Philadelphia concert.”

“Wilding,” repeated Marya, as though swallowing something distasteful. “He was the last straw! But tell me, Palla, what are you doing these jolly days of the new year?”

“Nothing… Red Cross, canteen, club–and recently I go twice a day to the Memorial Hospital.”

“Why?”

“John Estridge is ill there.”

“What is the matter with him?”

“Pneumonia.”

“Oh. I am so sorry for Ilse!–” Her eyes rested intently on Palla’s for a moment; then she smiled subtly, as though sharing with Palla some occult understanding.

Palla’s face whitened a little: “I want to ask you a question, Marya… You know our belief–concerning life in general… Tell me–since your separation from Vanya, do you still believe in that creed?”

“Do I still believe in my own personal liberty to do as I choose? Of course.”

“From the moral side?”

“Moral!” mocked Marya, “–What are morals? Artificial conventions accidentally established! Haphazard folkways of ancient peoples whose very origin has been forgotten! What is moral in India is immoral in England: what is right in China is wrong in America. It’s purely a matter of local folkways–racial customs–as to whether one is or is not immoral.

“Ethics apply to the Greek Ethos; morals to the Latin Mores–moeurs in French, sitte in German, custom in English;–and all mean practically the same thing–metaphysical hair-splitters to the contrary–which is simply this: all beliefs are local, and local customs or morals are the result. Therefore, they don’t worry me.”

Palla sat with her troubled eyes on the careless, garrulous, half-smiling Russian girl, and trying to follow with an immature mind the half-baked philosophy offered for her consumption.

She said hesitatingly, almost shyly: “I’ve wondered a little, Marya, how it ever happened that such an institution as marriage became practically universal–”

“Marriage isn’t an institution,” exclaimed Marya smilingly. “The family, which existed long before marriage, is the institution, because it has a definite structure which marriage hasn’t.

“Marriage always has been merely a locally varying mode of sex association. No laws can control it. Local rules merely try to regulate the various manners of entering into a marital state, the obligations and personal rights of the sexes involved. What really controls two people who have entered into such a relation is local opinion–”

She snapped her fingers and tossed aside her cigarette: “You and I happen to be, locally, in the minority with our opinions, that’s all.”

Palla rose and walked slowly to the door. “Have you seen Jim recently?” she managed to say carelessly.

Marya waited for her to turn before replying: “Haven’t you seen him?” she asked with the leisurely malice of certainty.

“No, not for a long while,” replied Palla, facing with a painful flush this miserable crisis to which her candour had finally committed her. “We had a little difference… Have you seen him lately?”

Marya’s sympathy flickered swift as a dagger:

“What a shame for him to behave so childishly!” she cried. “I shall scold him soundly. He’s like an infant–that boy–the way he sulks if you deny him anything–” She checked herself, laughed in a confused way which confessed and defied.

Palla’s fixed smile was still stamped on her rigid lips as she made her adieux. Then she went out with death in her heart.

At the Red Cross his mother exchanged a few words with her at intervals, as usual, during the séance.