The Crimson Tide. Robert W. Chambers
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let her dearest friend die under the rifles of the Reds,” she explained cheerfully, “and my little comrade can not reconcile this sad affair with her faith in Divine justice. So she concludes there isn’t any such thing. And no Divinity.” She shrugged: “That is what shakes the faith in youth––the seeming indifference of the Most High.”
Palla Dumont sat silent. The colour had died out in her cheeks, her dark, indifferent eyes became fixed.
Estridge opened the fur collar of his coat and pulled back his fur cap.
“Do you remember me?” he said to Ilse Westgard.
The girl laughed: “Yes, I remember you, now!”
To Palla Dumont he said: “And do you remember?”
At that she looked up incuriously; leaned forward slowly; gazed intently at him; then she caught both his hands in hers with a swift, sobbing intake of breath.
“You are John Estridge,” she said. “You took me to her in your ambulance!” She pressed his hands almost convulsively, and he felt her trembling under the fur robe.
“Is it true,” he said, “––that ghastly tragedy?”
“Yes.”
“All died?”
“All.”
Estridge turned to Brisson: “Miss Dumont was companion to the Grand Duchess Marie,” he said in brief explanation.
Brisson nodded, biting his cigar.
The Swedish girl-soldier said: “They were devoted––the little Grand Duchess and Palla. … It 10 was horrible, there in the convent cellar––those young girls–––” She gazed out across the snow; then,
“The Reds who did it had already made me prisoner. … They arrested me in uniform after the decree disbanding us. … I was on my way to join Kaledines’ Cossacks––a rendezvous. … Well, the Reds left me outside the convent and went in to do their bloody work. And I gnawed the rope and ran into the chapel to hide among the nuns. And there I saw a White Nun––quite crazed with grief–––”
“I had heard the volley that killed her,” said Palla, in explanation, to nobody in particular. She sat staring out across the snow with dry, bright eyes.
Brisson looked askance at her, looked significantly at the Swedish girl, Ilse Westgard: “And what happened then?” he inquired, with the pleasant, impersonal manner of a physician.
Ilse said: “Palla had already begun her novitiate. But what happened in those terrible moments changed her utterly. … I think she went mad at the moment. … Then the Superior came to me and begged me to hide Palla because the Bolsheviki had promised to return and cut her throat when they had finished their bloody business in the crypt. … So I caught her up in my arms and I ran out into the convent grounds. And at that very moment, God be thanked, a sotnia of the Wild Division rode up looking for me. And they had led horses with them. And we were in the saddle and riding like maniacs before I could think. That is all, except, an hour ago we saw your sleigh.”
“You have been hiding with the Cossacks ever since!” exclaimed Estridge to Palla.
“That is her history,” replied Ilse, “and mine. And,” 11 she added cheerfully but tenderly, “my little comrade, here, is very, very homesick, very weary, very deeply and profoundly unhappy in the loss of her closest friend … and perhaps in the loss of her faith in God.”
“I am tranquil and I am not unhappy,”––said Palla. “And if I ever win free of this murderous country I shall, for the first time in my life, understand what the meaning of life really is. And shall know how to live.”
“You thought you knew how to live when you took the white veil,” said Ilse cheerfully. “Perhaps, after all, you may make other errors before you learn the truth about it all. Who knows? You might even care to take the veil again–––”
“Never!” cried Palla in a clear, hard little voice, tinged with the scorn and anger of that hot revolt which sometimes shakes youth to the very source of its vitality.
Ilse said very calmly to Estridge: “With me it is my reason and not mere hope that convinces me of God’s existence. I try to reason with Palla because one is indeed to be pitied who has lost belief in God–––”
“You are mistaken,” said Palla drily; “––one merely becomes one’s self when once the belief in that sort of God is ended.”
Ilse turned to Brisson: “That,” she said, “is what seems so impossible for some to accept––so terrible––the apparent indifference, the lack of explanation––God’s dreadful reticence in this thunderous whirlwind of prayer that storms skyward day and night from our martyred world.”
Palla, listening, sat forward and said to Brisson: “There is only one religion and it has only two precepts––love and give! The rest––the forms, observances, 12 creeds, ceremonies, threats, promises, are man-made trash!
“If man’s man-made God pleases him, let him worship him. That kind of deity does not please me. I no longer care whether He pleases me or not. He no longer exists as far as I am concerned.”
Brisson, much interested, asked Palla whether the void left by discredited Divinity did not bewilder her.
“There is no void,” said the girl. “It is already filled with my own kind of God, with millions of Gods––my own fellow creatures.”
“Your fellow beings?”
“Yes.”
“You think your fellow creatures can fill that void?”
“They have filled it.”
Brisson nodded reflectively: “I see,” he said politely, “you intend to devote your life to the cult of your fellow creatures.”
“No, I do not,” said the girl tranquilly, “but I intend to love them and live my life that way unhampered.” She added almost fiercely: “And I shall love them the more because of their ignorant faith in an all-seeing and tender and just Providence which does not exist! I shall love them because of their tragic deception and their helplessness and their heart-breaking unconsciousness of it all.”
Ilse Westgard smiled and patted Palla’s cheeks: “All roads lead ultimately to God,” she said, “and yours is a direct route though you do not know it.”
“I tell you I have nothing in common with the God you mean,” flashed out the girl.
Brisson, though interested, kept one grey eye on duty, ever hopeful of wolves. It was snowing hard now––a perfect geography scene, lacking only the 13 wolves; but the étape was only half finished. There might be hope.
The rather amazing conversation in the sleigh also appealed to him, arousing all his instincts of a veteran newspaper man, as well as his deathless curiosity––that perpetual flame which alone makes any intelligence vital.
Also, his passion for all documents––those sewed under his underclothes, as well as these two specimens of human documents––were now keeping his lively interest in life unimpaired.
“Loss of faith,” he said to Palla, and inclined toward further debate, “must be a very serious thing for any woman, I imagine.”
“I haven’t lost faith in love,” she said, smilingly aware that he was encouraging discussion.
“But you say you have lost faith in spiritual love––”
“I did not say so. I did not mean the other kind of love when I said that love is sufficient religion for me.”
“But spiritual love means Deity–––”
“It does not! Can you imagine the