The Crimson Tide. Robert W. ChambersЧитать онлайн книгу.
under the circumstances, to say that you wanted to know her.”
“That’s what I meant,” he replied, wincing. “Would you consider it?”
She could not disguise her amusement.
“Yes; I’ll consider it, Mr. Shotwell. I’ll give it my careful attention. I owe you something, anyway.”
“What?” he asked uncertainly, prepared for further squelching.
“I don’t know exactly what. But when a man remembers a woman, and the woman forgets the man, isn’t something due him?”
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“I think there is,” he said so naïvely that Palla was unable to restrain her gaiety.
“This is a silly conversation,” she said, “––as silly as though I had accepted the cocktail you so thoughtfully suggested. We’re both enjoying each other and we know it.”
“Really!” he exclaimed, brightening.
His boyish relief––everything that this young man said to her––seemed to excite the girl to mirth. Perhaps she had been starved for laughter longer than is good for anybody. Besides, her heart was naturally responsive––opened easily––was easily engaged.
“Of course I’m inclined to like you,” she said, “or I wouldn’t be here lunching with you and talking nonsense instead of houses–––”
“We’ll talk houses!”
“No; we’ll look at them––later. … Do you know it’s a long, long time since I have laughed with a really untroubled heart?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, it isn’t good for a girl. Sadness is a sickness––a physical disorganisation that infects the mind. It makes a strange emotion of love, too, perverting it to that mysticism we call religion––and wasting it. … I suppose you’re rather shocked,” she said smilingly.
“No. … But have you no religion?”
“Have you?”
“Well––yes.”
“Which?”
“Protestant. … Are you Catholic?”
The girl rested her cheek on her hand and dabbed absently at her orange ice.
“I was once,” she said. “I was very religious––in 66 the accepted sense of the term. … It came rather suddenly;––it seemed to be born as part of a sudden and close friendship with a girl––began with that friendship, I think. … And died with it.”
She sat quite silent for a while, then a tremulous smile edged her lips:
“I had meant to take the veil,” she said. “I did begin my novitiate.”
“Here?”
“No, in Russia. There are a few foreign cloistered orders there. … But I had a tragic awakening. …” She bent her head and quoted softly, “ ‘For the former things have passed away.’ ”
The orange ice was melting; she stirred it idly, watching it dissolve.
“No,” she said, “I had utterly misunderstood the scheme of things. Divinity is not a sad, a solemn, a solitary autocrat demanding selfish tribute, blind allegiance, inexorable self-abasement. It is not an insecure tyrant offering bribery for the cringing, frightened servitude demanded.”
She looked up smilingly at the man: “Nor, within us, is there any soul in the accepted meaning,––no satellite released at death to revolve around or merge into some super-divinity. No!
“For I believe,––I know––that the body––every one’s body––is inhabited by a complete god, immortal, retaining its divine entity, beholden to no other deity save only itself, and destined to encounter in a divine democracy and through endless futures, unnumbered brother gods––the countless divinities which have possessed and shall possess those tenements of mankind which we call our bodies. … You do not, of course, subscribe to such a faith,” she added, meeting his gaze.
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“Well–––” He hesitated. She said:
“Autocracy in heaven is as unthinkable, as unbelievable, and as obnoxious to me as is autocracy on earth. There is no such thing as divine right, here or elsewhere,––no divine prerogatives for tyranny, for punishment, for cruelty.”
“How did you happen to embrace such a faith?” he asked, bewildered.
“I was sick of the scheme of things. Suffering, cruelty, death outraged my common sense. It is not in me to say, ‘Thy will be done,’ to any autocrat, heavenly or earthly. It is not in me to fawn on the hand that strikes me––or that strikes any helpless thing! No! And the scheme of things sickened me, and I nearly died of it–––”
She clenched her hand where it rested on the table, and he saw her face flushed and altered by the fire within. Then she smiled and leaned back in her chair.
“In you,” she said gaily, “dwells a god. In me a goddess,––a joyous one,––a divine thing that laughs,––a complete and free divinity that is gay and tender, that is incapable of tyranny, that loves all things both, great and small, that exists to serve––freely, not for reward––that owes allegiance and obedience only to the divine and eternal law within its own godhead. And that law is the law of love. … And that is my substitute for the scheme of things. Could you subscribe?”
After a silence he quoted: “Could you and I with Him conspire–––”
She nodded: “ ‘To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire–––’ But there is no ‘Him.’ It’s you and I. … Both divine. … Suppose we grasp it and ‘shatter it to bits.’ Shall we?”
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“ ‘And then remould it nearer to the heart’s desire?’ ”
“Remould it nearer to the logic of common sense.”
Neither spoke for a few moments. Then she drew a swift, smiling breath.
“We’re getting on rather rapidly, aren’t we?” she said. “Did you expect to lunch with such a friendly, human girl? And will you now take her to inspect this modest house which you hope may suit her, and which, she most devoutly hopes may suit her, too?”
“This has been a perfectly delightful day,” he said as they rose.
“Do you want me to corroborate you?”
“Could you?”
“I’ve had a wonderful time,” she said lightly.
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CHAPTER VI
John Estridge, out of a job––as were a million odd others now arriving from France by every transport––met James Shotwell, Junior, one wintry day as the latter was leaving the real estate offices of Sharrow & Co.
“The devil,” exclaimed Estridge; “I supposed you, at least, were safe in the service, Jim! Isn’t your regiment in Germany?”
“It is,” replied Shotwell wrathfully, shaking hands. “Where do you come from, Jack?”
“From hell––via Copenhagen. In milder but misleading metaphor, I come from Holy Russia.”
“Did the Red Cross fire you?”
“No,