The Crimson Tide: A Novel

She hastened her steps; he moved as swiftly.

“Look here,” he said, “I know who you are, and where you’re going. And we’ve stood just about enough from you and your friends.”

In the quick revulsion from annoyance and disgust to a very lively flash of fright, Palla involuntarily slackened her pace and widened the distance between her and this unknown.

“You better right-about-face and go home!” he said quietly. “You talk too damn much with your face. And we’re going to stop you. See?”

At that her flash of fear turned to anger:

“Try it,” she said hotly; and hurried on, her hand clutching the pistol in her wet muff, her eyes fixed on the unknown man.

“I’ve a mind to dust you good and plenty right here,” he said. “Quit your running, now, and beat it back again–” His vise-like grip was on her left arm, almost jerking her off her feet; and the next moment she struck him with her loaded pistol full in the face.

As he veered away, she saw the seam open from his cheek bone to his chin–saw the white face suddenly painted with wet scarlet.

The sight of the blood made her sick, but she kept her pistol levelled, backing away westward all the while.

There was an iron railing near; he went over and leaned against it as though stupefied.

And all the while she continued to retreat until, behind her, his dim shape merged into the foggy dark.

Then Palla turned and ran. And she was still breathing fast and unevenly when she came to that perfect blossom of vulgarity and apotheosis of all American sham–Broadway–where in the raw glare from a million lights the senseless crowds swept north and south.

And here, where Jew-manager and gentile ruled the histrionic destiny of the United States–here where art, letters, service, industry, business had each developed its own species of human prostitute–two muddy-brained torrents of humanity poured in opposite directions, crowding, shoving, shuffling along in the endless, hopeless Hunt for Happiness.

She had made, in the beginning of her street-corner career, arrangements with a neighbouring boot-black to furnish one soap-box on demand at a quarter of a dollar rent for every evening.

She extracted the quarter from her purse and paid the boy; carried the soap-box herself to the curb; and, with that invariable access of fright which attacked her at such moments, mounted it to face the first few people who halted out of curiosity to see what else she meant to do.

Columns of passing umbrellas hid her so that not many people noticed her; but gradually that perennial audience of shabby opportunists which always gathers anywhere from nowhere, ringed her soap-box. And Palla began to speak in the drizzling rain.

For some time there were no interruptions, no jeers, no doubtful pleasantries. But when it became more plain to the increasing crowd that this smartly though simply gowned young woman had come to Broadway in the rain for the purpose of protesting against all forms of violence, including the right of the working people to strike, ugly remarks became audible, and now and then a menacing word was flung at her, or some clenched hand insulted her and amid a restless murmur growing rougher all the time.

Once, to prove her point out of the mouth of the proletariat itself, she quoted from Rosa Luxemburg; and a well-dressed man shouldered his way toward her and in a low voice gave her the lie.

The painful colour dyed her face, but she went on calmly, explaining the different degrees and extremes of socialism, revealing how the abused term had been used as camouflage by the party committed to the utter annihilation of everything worth living for.

And again, to prove her point, she quoted:

“Socialism does not mean the convening of Parliaments and the enactment of laws; it means the overthrow of the ruling classes with all the brutality at the disposal of the proletariat.”

The same well-dressed man interrupted again:

“Say, who pays you to come here and hand out that Wall Street stuff?”

“Nobody pays me,” she replied patiently.

“All right, then, if that’s true why don’t you tell us something about the interests and the profiteers and all them dirty games the capitalists is rigging up? Tell us about the guy who wants us to pay eight cents to ride on his damned cars! Tell us about the geezers who soak us for food and coal and clothes and rent!

“You stand there chirping to us about Love and Service and how we oughta give. Give! Jesus!–we ain’t got anything left to give. They ain’t anything to give our wives or our children,–no, nor there ain’t enough left to feed our own faces or pay for a patch on our pants! Give? Hell! The interests took it. And you stand there twittering about Love and Service! We oughta serve ’em a brick on the neck and love ’em with a black-jack!”

“How far would that get you?” asked Palla gently.

“As far as their pants-pockets anyway!”

“And when you empty those, who is to employ and pay you?”

“Don’t worry,” he sneered, “we’ll do the employing after that.”

“And will your employees do to you some day what you did to your employers with a black-jack?”

The crowd laughed, but her heckler shook his fist at her and yelled:

“Ain’t I telling you that we’ll be sitting in these damn gold-plated houses and payin’ wages to these here fat millionaires for blackin’ our shoes?”

“You mean that when Bolshevism rules there are to be rich and poor just the same as at present?”

Again the crowd laughed.

“All right!” bawled the man, waving both arms above his head, “–yes, I do mean it! It will be our turn then. Why not? What do we want to split fifty-fifty with them soft, fat millionaires for? Nix on that stuff! It will be hog-killing time, and you can bet your thousand-dollar wrist watch, Miss, that there’ll be some killin’ in little old New York!”

He had backed out of the circle and disappeared in the crowd before Palla could attempt further reasoning with him. So she merely shook her head in gentle disapproval and dissent:

“What is the use,” she said, “of exchanging one form of tyranny for another? Why destroy the autocracy of the capitalist and erect on its ruins the autocracy of the worker?

“How can class distinctions be eradicated by fanning class-hatred? In a battle against all dictators, why proclaim dictatorship–even of the proletariat?

“All oppression is hateful, whether exercised by God or man–whether the oppressor be that murderous, stupid, treacherous, tyrannical bully in the Old Testament, miscalled God, or whether the oppressor be the proletariat which screamed for the blood of Jesus Christ and got it!

“Free heart, free mind, free soul!–anything less means servitude, not service–hatred, not love!”

A man in the outskirts of the crowd shouted: “Say, you’re some rag-chewer, little girl! Go to it!”

She laughed, then glanced at her wrist watch.

There were a few more words she might say before the time she allowed herself had expired, and she found courage to go on, striving to explain to the shifting knot of people that the battle which now threatened civilisation was the terrible and final fight between Order and Disorder and that, under inexorable laws which could never change, order meant life and survival; disorder chaos and death for all living things.

A few cheered her as she bade them good-night, picked up her soap-box and carried it back to her boot-black friend, who inhabited a shack built against the family-entrance side of a saloon.

She was surprised that Ilse and John Estridge had not appeared–could scarcely understand it, as she made her way toward a taxicab.

For, in view of the startling occurrence earlier in the evening, and the non-appearance of Ilse and Estridge, Palla had decided to return in a taxi.

The incident–the boldness of the unknown man and vicious brutality of his attitude, and also a sickening recollection of her own action and his bloody face–had really shocked her, even more than she was aware of at the time.

She felt tired and strained, and a trifle faint now, where she lay back, swaying there on her seat, her pistol clutched inside her muff, as the ramshackle vehicle lurched its noisy way eastward. And always that dull sense of something sinister impending–that indefinable apprehension–remained with her. And she gazed darkly out on the dark streets, possessed by a melancholy which she did not attempt to analyse.

Yet, partly it came from the ruptured comradeship which always haunted her mind, partly because of Ilse and the uncertainty of what might happen to her–may have happened already for all Palla knew–and partly because–although she did not realise it–in the profound deeps of her girl’s being she was vaguely conscious of something latent which seemed to have lain hidden there for a long, long time–something inert, inexorable, indestructible, which, if it ever stirred from its intense stillness, must be reckoned with in years to come.

She made no effort to comprehend what this thing might be–if, indeed, it really existed–no pains to analyse it or to meditate over the vague indications of its presence.

She seemed merely to be aware of something indefinable concealed in the uttermost depths of her.

It was Doubt, unborn.

The taxi drew up before her house. Rain was falling heavily, as she ran up the steps–a cold rain through which a few wet snowflakes slanted.

Her maid heard the rattle of her night-key and came to relieve her of her wet things, and to say that Miss Westgard had telephoned and had left a number to be called as soon as Miss Dumont returned.

The slip of paper bore John Estridge’s telephone number and Palla seated herself at her desk and called it.

Almost immediately she heard Ilse’s voice on the wire.

“What is the matter, dear?” inquired Palla with the slightest shiver of that premonition which had haunted her all day.

But Ilse’s voice was cheerful: “We were so sorry not to go with you this evening, darling, but Jack is feeling so queer that he’s turned in and I’ve sent for a physician.”

“Shall I come around?” asked Palla.

“Oh, no,” replied Ilse calmly, “but I’ve an idea Jack may need a nurse–perhaps two.”

“What is it?” faltered Palla.

“I don’t know. But he is running a high temperature and he says that it feels as though something were wrong with his appendix.

“You see Jack is almost a physician himself, so if it really is acute appendicitis we must know as soon as possible.”

“Is there anything I could do?” pleaded Palla. “Darling, I do so want to be of use if–”

“I’ll let you know, dear. There isn’t anything so far.”

“Are you going to stay there to-night?”

“Of course,” replied Ilse calmly. “Tell me, Palla, how did the soap-box arguments go?”

“Not very well. I was heckled. I’m such a wretched public speaker, Ilse;–I can never remember what rejoinders to make until it’s too late.”

She did not mention her encounter with the unknown man; Ilse had enough to occupy her.

They chatted a few moments longer, then Ilse promised to call her if necessary, and said good-night.

A little after midnight Palla’s telephone rang beside her bed and she started upright with a pang of fear and groped for the instrument.

“Jack is seriously ill,” came the level voice of Ilse. “We have taken him to the Memorial Hospital in one of their ambulances.”

“W–what is it?” asked Palla.

“They say it is pneumonia.”

“Oh, Ilse!–”

“I’m not afraid. Jack is in magnificent physical condition. He is too splendid not to win the fight… And I shall be with him… I shall not let him lose.”

“Tell me what I can do, darling!”

“Nothing–except love us both.”

“I do–I do indeed–”

“Both, Palla!”

“Y–yes.”

“Do you understand?”

“Oh, I–I think I do. And I do love you–love you both–devotedly–”

“You must, now… I am going home to get some things. Then I shall go to the hospital. You can call me there until he is convalescent.”

“Will they let you stay there?”

“I have volunteered for general work. They are terribly short-handed and they are glad to have me.”

“I’ll come to-morrow,” said Palla.

“No. Wait… Good-night, my darling.”

CHAPTER XXI

As a mischievous caricaturist, in the beginning, draws a fairly good portrait of his victim and then gradually habituates his public to a series of progressively exaggerated extravagances, so progressed the programme of the Bolsheviki in America, revealing little by little their final conception of liberty and equality in the bloody and distorted monster which they had now evolved, and which they publicly owned as their ideal emblem.

In the Red Flag Club, Sondheim shouted that a Red Republic was impossible because it admitted on an equality the rich and well-to-do.

Karl Kastner, more cynical, coolly preached the autocracy of the worker; told his listeners frankly that there would always be masters and servants in the world, and asked them which they preferred to be.

With the new year came sporadic symptoms of unrest;–strikes, unwarranted confiscations by Government, increasingly bad service in public utilities controlled by Government, loose talk in a contemptible Congress, looser gabble among those who witlessly lent themselves to German or Bolshevik propaganda–or both–by repeating stories of alleged differences between America and England, America and France, America and Italy.

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.

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.