The Crimson Tide Part 62

But it couldn't have been, for Palla had given her name, and Mrs. Shotwell would have spoken to her--unless--perhaps his mother--disapproved of something--of her calling Jim at such an hour.... Or of something ... perhaps of their friendship ... of herself, perhaps----

She heard the clock strike and looked across at the mantel.

What was Ilse doing at half-past two in the morning? Where could she be?

Palla involuntarily turned her head and looked at the photograph. Of course Ilse was safe with a man like John Estridge.... That is to say ...

Without warning, her face grew hot and the crimson tide mounted to the roots of her hair, dyeing throat and temples.

A sort of stunning reaction followed as the tide ebbed; she found herself stupidly repeating the word "safe," as though to interpret what it meant.

Safe? Yes, Ilse was safe. She knew how to take care of herself ...

unless....

Again the crimson tide invaded her skin to the temples.... A sudden and haunting fear came creeping after it had ebbed once more, leaving her gazing fixedly into s.p.a.ce through the tumult of her thoughts. And always in dull, unmeaning repet.i.tion the word "safe" throbbed in her ears.

Safe? Safe from what? From the creed they both professed? From their common belief? From the consequences of living up to it?

At the thought, Palla sprang to her feet and stood quivering all over, both hands pressed to her throat, which was quivering too.

Where was Ilse? What had happened? Had she suddenly come face to face with that creed of theirs--that shadowy creed which they believed in, perhaps because it seemed so unreal!--because the ordeal by fire seemed so vague, so far away in that ghostly bourne which is called the future, and which remains always so inconceivably distant to the young--star-distant, remote as inter-stellar dust--aloof as death.

It was three o'clock. There were velvet-dark smears under Palla's eyes, little colour in her lips. The weight of fatigue lay heavily on her young shoulders; on her mind, too, partly stupefied by the violence of her emotions.

Once she had risen heavily, had gone into the maid's room and had told her to go to bed, adding that she herself would wait for Miss Westgard.

That, already, was nearly an hour ago, and the gilt hands of the clock were already creeping around the gilded dial toward the half hour.

As it struck on the clear French bell, a key turned in the outside door; then the door closed; and Palla rose trembling from her chair as Ilse entered, her golden hair in lovely disorder, the evening cloak partly flung from her shoulders.

There was a moment's utter silence. Then Ilse stepped swiftly forward and took Palla in her arms.

"My darling! What has happened?" she asked. "Why are you here at this hour? You look dreadfully ill!----"

Palla's head dropped on her breast.

"What is it?" whispered Ilse. "Darling--darling--you did--you did wait--didn't you?"

Palla's voice was scarcely audible: "I don't know what you mean.... I was only frightened about you.... I've been so unhappy.... And Jim said--good-bye--and I can't--find him----"

"I want you to answer me! Are you in love with him?"

"No.... I don't--think so----"

Ilse drew a deep breath.

"It's all right, then," she said.

Then, suddenly, Palla seemed to understand what Ilse had meant when she had said, "Wait!"

And she lifted her head and looked blindly into the sea-blue eyes--blindly, desperately, striving to see through those clear soul-windows what it might be that was looking out at her.

And, gazing, she knew that she dared not ask Ilse where she had been.

The latter smiled; but her voice was very tender when she spoke.

"We'll telephone your maid in the morning. You must go to bed, Palla."

"Alone?"

Ilse turned carelessly and laid her cloak across a chair. There was a second chamber beyond her own. She went into it, turned down the bed and called Palla, who came slowly after her.

They kissed each other in silence. Then Ilse went back to her own room.

CHAPTER XVII

"Jim," said his mother, "Miss Dumont called you on the telephone at an unusual hour last night. You had gone to your room, and on the chance that you were asleep I did not speak to you."

That was all--sufficient explanation to discount any reproach from her son incident on his comparing notes with the girl in question. Also just enough in her action to convey to the girl a polite hint that the Shotwell family was not at home to people who telephoned at that unconventional hour.

On his way to business that morning, Jim telephoned to Palla, but, learning she was not at home, let the matter rest.

In his sullen and resentful mood he no longer cared--or thought he didn't, which resulted in the same thing--the acc.u.mulation of increasing bitterness during a dull, rainy working day at the office, and a dogged determination to keep clear of this woman until effort to remain away from her was no longer necessary.

For the thing was utterly hopeless; he'd had enough. And in his bruised heart and outraged common sense he was boyishly framing an indictment of modern womanhood--lumping it all and cursing it out--swearing internally at the entire enfranchised pack which the war had set afoot and had licensed to swarm all over everything and raise h.e.l.l with the ancient and established order of things.

The stormy dark came early; and in this frame of mind when he left the office he sulkily avoided the club.

He very rarely drank anything; but, not knowing what to do, he drifted into the Biltmore bar.

He met a man or two he knew, but declined all suggestions for the evening, turned up his overcoat collar, and started through the hotel toward the northern exit.

And met Marya Lanois face to face.

She was coming from the tea-room with two or three other people, but turned immediately on seeing him and came toward him with hand extended.

"Dear me," she said, "you look very wet. And you don't look particularly well. Have you arrived all alone for tea?"

"I had my tea in the bar," he said. "How are you, Marya?--but I musn't detain you--" he glanced at the distant group of people who seemed to be awaiting her.

"You are not detaining me," she said sweetly.

"Your people seem to be waiting----"

"They may go to the deuce. Are you quite alone?"