The Crimson Tide: A Novel

“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.

“My God, I’m not,” she mimicked him, “but I can’t answer for what I might do to you if you hang around this apartment any longer.”

She came slowly toward him, her hands bracketed on her hips, her strange eyes narrowing.

“Listen to me,” she said. “I have loved many times. But never you! One doesn’t love your kind. One experiments, possibly, if idle.

“A man died to-day whom I loved; but was too stupid to love enough. Perhaps he knows now how stupid I am… Unless they blew his soul to pieces, also. Allez! Good-night. I tell you I have business to attend to, and you stand there rolling your woman’s eyes at me!–”

“Damn you!” he said between his teeth. “What is the matter with you–”

He had caught her arm; she wrenched it free, tearing the sleeve to her naked shoulder.