The Crimson Tide: A Novel. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ companion and friend of the youthful Grand Duchess Marie. For three years that blind devotion had been her outlet–that and their mutual inclination for a life to be dedicated to God.

      What was to be her outlet now?–now that the little Grand Duchess was dead–now that God, as she had conceived him, had ceased to exist for her–now that the war was ended, and nobody needed that warm young heart of hers–that ardent little heart so easily set throbbing with the passionate desire to give.

      The wintry sunlight flooded the familiar sitting room, setting potted geraniums ablaze, gilding the leather backs of old books, staining prisms on the crystal chandelier with rainbow tints, and causing Max, the family cat, to blink until the vertical pupils of his amber eyes seemed to disappear entirely.

      There was some snow outside–not very much–a wild bird or two among the naked apple trees; green edges, still, where snowy lawn and flower border met.

      And there was colour in the leafless shrubbery, too–wine-red stems of dogwood, ash-blue berry-canes, and the tangled green and gold of willows. And over all a pale cobalt sky, and a snow-covered hill, where, in the woods, crows sat cawing on the taller trees, and a slow goshawk sailed.

      A rich land, this, even under ice and snow–a rich, rolling land hinting of fat furrows and heavy grain; and of spicy, old-time gardens where the evenings were heavy with the scent of phlox and lilies.

      Palla, her hands behind her back, seeming very childish and slim in her black gown, stood searching absently among the books for something to distract her–something in harmony with the restless glow of hidden fires hot in her restless heart.

      But war is too completely the great destroyer, killing even the serener pleasures of the mind, corrupting normal appetite, dulling all interest except in what pertains to war.

      War is the great vandal, too, obliterating even that interest in the classic past which is born of respect for tradition. War slays all yesterdays, so that human interest lives only in the fierce and present moment, or blazes anew at thought of what may be to-morrow.

      Only the chronicles of the burning hour can hold human attention where war is. For last week is already a decade ago; and last year a dead century; but to-day is vital and to-morrow is immortal.

      It was so with Palla. Her listless eyes swept the ranks of handsome, old-time books–old favourites bound in gold and leather, masters of English prose and poetry gathered and garnered by her grand-parents when books were rare in Shadow Hill.

      Not even the modern masters appealed to her–masters of fiction acclaimed but yesterday; virile thinkers in philosophy, in science; enfranchised poets who had stridden out upon Olympus only yesterday to defy the old god’s lightning with unshackled strophes–and sometimes unbuttoned themes.

      But it was with Palla as with others; she drifted back to the morning paper, wherein lay the interest of the hour. And nothing else interested her or the world.

      Martha announced lunch. Max accompanied her on her retreat to the kitchen. Palla loitered, not hungry, nervous and unquiet under the increasing need of occupation for that hot heart of hers.

      After a while she went out to the dining room, ate enough, endured Martha to the verge, and retreated to await the evening paper.

      Her attorney, Mr. Tiddley, came at three. They discussed quit-claims, mortgages, deeds, surveys, and reported encroachments incident to the decay of ancient landmarks. And the conversation maddened her.

      At four she put on a smart mourning hat and her black furs, and walked down to see the bank president, Mr. Pawling. The subject of their conversation was investments; and it bored her. At five she returned to the house to receive a certain Mr. Skidder–known in her childhood as Blinky Skidder, in frank recognition of an ocular peculiarity–a dingy but jaunty young man with a sheep’s nose, a shrewd upper lip, and snapping red-brown eyes, who came breezily in and said: “Hello, Palla! How’s the girl?” And took off his faded mackinaw uninvited.

      Mr. Skidder’s business had once been the exploitation of farmers and acreage; his specialty the persuasion of Slovak emigrants into the acquisition of doubtful land. But since the war, emigrants were few; and, as honest men must live, Mr. Skidder had branched out into improved real estate and city lots. But the pickings, even here, were scanty, and loans hard to obtain.

      “I’ve changed my mind,” said Palla. “I’m not going to sell this house, Blinky.”

      “Well, for heaven’s sake–ain’t you going to New York?” he insisted, taken aback.

      “Yes, I am. But I’ve decided to keep my house.”

      “That,” said Mr. Skidder, snapping his eyes, “is silly sentiment, not business. But please yourself Palla. I ain’t saying a word. I ain’t trying to tell you I can get a lot more for you than your house is worth–what with values falling and houses empty and the mills letting men go because there ain’t going to be any more war orders!–but please yourself, Palla. I ain’t saying a word to urge you.”

      “You’ve said several,” she remarked, smilingly. “But I think I’ll keep the house for the present, and I’m sorry that I wasted your time.”

      “Please yourself, Palla,” he repeated. “I guess you can afford to from all I hear. I guess you can do as you’ve a mind to, now… So you’re fixing to locate in New York, eh?”

      “I think so.”

      “Live in a flat?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “What are you going to do in New York?” he asked curiously.

      “I’m sure I don’t know. There’ll be plenty to do, I suppose.”

      “You bet,” he said, blinking rapidly, “there’s always something doing in that little old town.” He slapped his knee: “Palla,” he said, “I’m thinking of going into the movie business.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes, I’m considering it. Slovaks and bum farms are played out. There’s no money in Shadow Hill–or if there is, it’s locked up–or the income tax has paralysed it. No, I’m through. There’s nothing doing in land; no commissions. And I’m considering a quick getaway.”

      “Where do you expect to go?”

      “Say, Palla, when you kiss your old home good-bye, there’s only one place to go. Get me?”

      “New York?” she inquired, amused.

      “That’s me! There’s a guy down there I used to correspond with–a feller named Puma–Angelo Puma–not a regular wop, as you might say, but there’s some wop in him, judging by his map–or Mex–or kike, maybe–or something. Anyway, he’s in the moving picture business–The Ultra-Fillum Company. I guess there’s a mint o’ money in fillums.”

      She nodded, a trifle bored.

      “I got a chance to go in with Angelo Puma,” he said, snapping his eyes.

      “Really?”

      “You know, Palla, I’ve made a little money, too, since you been over there living with the Queen of Russia.”

      “I’m very glad, Blinky.”

      “Oh, it ain’t СКАЧАТЬ