The Crimson Tide: A Novel

The conversation drifted toward the subject of religious orders in Russia, and Mrs. Shotwell asked her how it was that she came to begin a novitiate in a country where Catholic orders had, she understood, been forbidden permission to establish themselves in the realm of the Greek church.

Palla explained in her sweet, colourless voice that the Czar had permitted certain religious orders to establish themselves–very few, however,–the number of nuns of all orders not exceeding five hundred. Also she explained that they were forbidden to make converts from the orthodox religion, which was why the Empress had sternly refused the pleading of the little Grand Duchess.

“I do not think,” added Palla, “that the Bolsheviki have left any Catholic nuns in Russia, unless perhaps they have spared the Sisters of Mercy. But I hear that non-cloistered orders like the Dominicans, and cloistered orders such as the Carmelites and Ursulines have been driven away… I don’t know whether this is true.”

Mrs. Shotwell, her eyes on her flying needle, said casually: “Have you never felt the desire to reconsider–to return to your novitiate?”

The girl, bending low over her work, drew a deep, still breath.

“Yes,” she said, “it has occurred to me.”

“Does it still appeal to you at times?”

The girl lifted her honest eyes: “In life there are moments when any refuge appeals.”

“Refuge from what?” asked Helen quietly.

Palla did not evade the question: “From the unkindness of life,” she said. “But I have concluded that such a motive for cloistered life is a cowardly one.”

“Was that your motive when you took the white veil?”

“No, not then… It seemed to be an overwhelming need for service and adoration… It’s strange how faiths change though need remains.”

“You still feel that need?”

“Of course,” said the girl simply.

“I see. Your clubs and other service give you what you require to satisfy you and make you happy and contented.”

As Palla made no reply, Helen glanced at her askance; and caught a fleeting glimpse of tragedy in this girl’s still face–the face of a cloistered nun burnt white–purged utterly of all save the mystic passion of the spirit.

The face altered immediately, and colour came into it; and her slender hands were steady as she turned her bandage and cut off the thread.

What thoughts concerning this girl were in her mind, Helen could neither entirely comprehend nor analyse. At moments a hot hatred for the girl passed over her like flame–anger because of what she was doing to her only son.

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.