Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  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.

  “I wondered,” came her wistful voice, “whether, perhaps, you would dine here alone with me this evening.”

  “Why do you ask me?”

  “Because — I — our last quarrel was so bitter — and I feel the hurt of it yet. It hurts even physically, Jim.”

&
nbsp; “I did not mean to do such a thing to you.”

  “No, I know you didn’t. But that numb sort of pain is always there. I can’t seem to get rid of it, no matter what I do.”

  “Are you very busy still?”

  “Yes.... I saw — Marya — to-day.”

  “Is that unusual?” he asked indifferently.

  “Yes. I haven’t seen her since — since she and Vanya separated.”

  “Oh! Have they separated?” he asked with such unfeigned surprise that the girl’s heart leaped wildly.

  “Didn’t you know it? Didn’t Marya tell you?” she asked shivering with happiness.

  “I haven’t seen her since I saw you,” he replied.

  Palla’s right hand flew to her breast and rested there while she strove to control her voice. Then:

  “Please, Jim, let us forgive and break bread again together. I—” she drew a deep, unsteady breath— “I can’t tell you how our separation has made me feel. I don’t quite know what it’s done to me, either. Perhaps I can understand if I see you — if I could only see you again — —”

  There ensued a silence so protracted that a shaft of fear struck through her. Then his voice, pleasantly collected:

  “I’ll be around in a few minutes.”

  * * * * *

  She was scared speechless when the bell rang — when she heard his unhurried step on the stair.

  Before he was announced by the maid, however, she had understood one problem in the scheme of things — realised it as she rose from the lounge and held out her slender hand.

  He took it and kept it. The maid retired.

  “Well, Palla,” he said.

  “Well,” she said, rather breathlessly, “ — I know now.”

  His voice and face seemed amiable and lifeless; his eyes, too, remained dull and incurious; but he said: “I don’t think I understand. What is it you know?”

  “Shall I tell you?”

  “If you wish.”

  His pleasant, listless manner chilled her; she hesitated, then turned away, withdrawing her hand.

  When she had seated herself on the sofa he dropped down beside her in his old place. She lighted a cigarette for him.

  “Tell me about poor old Jack,” he said in a low voice.

  Their dinner was a pleasant but subdued affair. Afterward she played for him — interrupted once by a telephone call from Ilse, who said that John’s temperature had risen a degree and the only thing to do was to watch him every second. But she refused Palla’s offer to join her at the hospital, saying that she and the night nurse were sufficient; and the girl went slowly back to the piano.

  But, somehow, even that seemed too far away from her lover — or the man who once had been her avowed lover. And after idling-with the keys for a few minutes she came back to the lounge where he was seated.

  He looked up from his revery: “This is most comfortable, Palla,” he said with a slight smile.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Of course.”

  “You need not go away at all — if it pleases you.” Her voice was so indistinct that for a moment he did not comprehend what she had said. Then he turned and looked at her. Both were pale enough now.

  “That is what — what I was going to tell you,” she said. “Is it too late?”

  “Too late!”

  “To say that I am — in love with you.”

  He flushed heavily and looked at her in a dazed way.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “I mean — if you want me — I am — am not afraid any more — —”

  They had both risen instinctively, as though to face something vital. She said:

  “Don’t ask me to submit to any degrading ceremony.... I love you enough.”

  He said slowly: “Do you realise what you say? You are crazy! You and your socialist friends pretend to be fighting anarchy. You preach against Bolshevism! You warn the world that the Crimson Tide is rising. And every word you utter swells it! You are the anarchists yourselves! You are the Bolsheviki of the world! You come bringing disorder where there is order; you substitute unproven theory for proven practice!

  “Like the hun, you come to impose your will on a world already content with its own God and its own belief! And that is autocracy; and autocracy is what you say you oppose!

  “I tell you and your friends that it was not wolves that were pupped in the sand of the shaggy Prussian forests when the first Hohenzollern was dropped. It was swine! Swine were farrowed; — not even sanglier, but decadent domestic swine; — when Wilhelm and his degenerate litter came out to root up Europe! And they were the first real Bolsheviki!”

  He turned and began to stride to and fro; his pale, sunken face deeply shadowed, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  “What in God’s name,” he said fiercely, “are women like you doing to us! What do you suppose happens to such a man as I when the girl he loves tells him she cares only to be his mistress! What hope is there left in him? — what sense, what understanding, what faith?

  “You don’t have to tell me that the Crimson Tide is rising. I saw it in the Argonne. I wish to God I were back there and the hun was still resisting. I wish I had never lived to come back here and see what demoralisation is threatening my own country from that cursed germ of wilful degeneracy born in the Prussian twilight, fed in Russian desolation, infecting the whole world — —”

  His voice died in his throat; he walked swiftly past her, turned at the threshold:

  “I’ve known three of you,” he said, “ — you and Ilse and Marya. I’ve seen a lot of your associates and acquaintances who profess your views. And I’ve seen enough.”

  He hesitated; then when he could control his voice again:

  “It’s bad enough when a woman refuses marriage to a man she does not love. That man is going to be unhappy. But have you any idea what happens to him when the girl he loves, and who says she cares for him, refuses marriage?

  “It was terrible even when you cared for me only a little. But — but now — do you know what I think of your creed? I hate it as you hated the beasts who slew your friend! Damn your creed! To hell with it!”

  She covered her face with both hands: there was a noise like thunder in her brain.

  She heard the door close sharply in the hall below.

  This was the end.

  CHAPTER XXII

  She felt a trifle weak. In her ears there lingered a dull, confused sensation, like the echo of things still falling. Something had gone very wrong with the scheme of nature. Even beneath her feet, now, the floor seemed unsteady, unreliable.

  A half-darkness dimmed her eyes; she laid one slim hand on the sofa-back and seated herself, fighting instinctively for consciousness.

  She sat there for a long while. The swimming faintness passed away. An intense stillness seemed to invade her, and the room, and the street outside. And for vast distances beyond. Half hours and hours rang clearly through the silence from the mantel-clock. So still was the place that a sheaf of petals falling from a fading rose on the piano seemed to fill the room with ghostly rustling.

  * * * * *

  This, then, was the finish. Love had ended. Youth itself was ending, too, here in the dead silence of this lamplit room.

  There remained nothing more. Except that ever darkening horizon where, at the earth’s ends, those grave shapes of cloud closed out the vista of remote skies.

  There seemed to be no shelter anywhere in the vast nakedness of the scheme of things — no shadow under which to crouch — no refuge.

  Dim visions of cloistered forms, moving in a blessed twilight, grew and assumed familiar shape amid the dumb desolation reigning in her brain. The spectral temptation passed, repassed; processional, recessional glided by, timed by her heart’s low rhythm.

  But, little by little, she came to understand that there was no refuge even there; no mystic glow in the dark corridors of her own heart; no source of light save from the candles glimmering on the high
altar; no aureole above the crucifix.

  Always, everywhere, there seemed to be no shelter, no roof above the scheme of things.

  * * * * *

  She heard the telephone. As she slowly rose from the sofa she noted the hour as it sounded; — four o’clock in the morning.

  A man’s voice was speaking — an unhurried, precise, low-pitched, monotonous voice:

  “This — is — the — Memorial Hospital. Doctor — Willis — speaking. Mr. — John — Estridge — died — at — ten minutes — to — four. Miss Westgard — wishes — to — go — to — your — residence — and — remain — over — night — if — convenient.... Thank you. Miss — Westgard — will — go — to — you — immediately. Good-night.”

  * * * * *

  Palla rose from her chair in the unfurnished drawing-room, went out into the hall, admitted Ilse, then locked and chained the two front doors.

  When she turned around, trembling and speechless, they kissed. But it was only Palla’s mouth that trembled; and when they mounted the stairs it was Ilse’s arm that supported Palla.

  Except that her eyes were heavy and seemed smeared with deep violet under the lower lids, Ilse did not appear very much changed.

  She took off her furs, hat, and gloves and sat down beside Palla. Her voice was quite clear and steady; there appeared to be no sign of shock or of grief, save for a passing tremor of her tired eyes now and then.

  She said: “We talked a little together, Jack and I, after I telephoned to you.

  “That was the last. His hand began to burn in mine steadily, like something on fire. And when, presently, I found he was not asleep, I motioned to the night nurse.

  “The change seemed to come suddenly; she went to find one of the internes; I sat with my hand on his pulse.... There were three physicians there.... Jack was not conscious after midnight.”

  Palla’s lips and throat were dry and aching and her voice almost inaudible:

  “Darling,” she whispered, “ — darling — if I could give him back to you and take his place! — —”

  Ilse smiled, but her heavy eyelids quivered:

  “The scheme of things is so miserably patched together.... Except for the indestructible divinity within each one of us, it all would be so hopeless.... I had never been able to imagine Jack and Death together—” She looked up at the clock. “He was alive only an hour ago.... Isn’t it strange—”