Complete weird tales of.., p.1067
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1067
“I think you have forgotten the parson’s house on the way. You are immoral, Kay.”
“Can’t a Yank sky-pilot in Paris—”
“Darling, I must have some clothing!”
“Can’t you get things in Paris?”
“Yes, if you’ll wait and not become impatient for Isla. And I warn you, Kay, I simply won’t marry you until I have some decent gowns and underwear.”
“You don’t care for me as much as I do for you,” he murmured in lazy happiness.
“I care for you more. I’ve cared for you longer, too.”
“How long, Yellow-hair?”
“Ever — ever since your head lay on my knees in my car a year ago last winter! You know it, too,” she added. “You are a spoiled young man. I shall not tell you again how much I care for you!”
“Say ‘love’,’ Yellow-hair,” he coaxed.
“No!”
“Don’t you?”
“Don’t I what?”
“Love me?”
“Yes.”
“Then won’t you say it?”
She laughed contentedly. Then her warm head moved a little on his shoulder; he looked down; lightly their lips joined.
“Kay — my dear — dear Kay,” she whispered.
“There’s somebody opening the garden door,” she said under her breath, and sat bolt upright.
McKay also sat up on his steamer chair.
“Oh!” he cried gaily, “hello, Recklow! Where on earth have you been for three days?”
Recklow came into the rose arbour. The blossoms were gone from the vines but it was a fragrant, golden place into which the September sun filtered. He lifted Miss Erith’s hand and kissed it gravely. “How are you?” he inquired.
“Perfectly well, and ready for Paris!” she said smilingly.
Recklow shook hands with McKay.
“You’ll want a furlough, too,” he remarked. “I’ll fix it. How do you feel, McKay?”
“All right. Has anything come out of our report on the Great
Secret?”
Recklow seated himself and they listened in strained silence to his careful report. Once Evelyn caught her breath and Recklow paused and turned to look at her.
“There were thousands and thousands of insane down there under the earth,” she said pitifully.
“Yes,” he nodded.
“Did — did they all die?”
“Are the insane not better dead, Miss Erith?” he asked calmly….
And continued his recital.
That evening there was a full moon over the garden. Recklow lingered with them after dinner for a while, discussing the beginning of the end of all things Hunnish. For Foch was striking at last; Pershing was moving; Haig, Gouraud, Petain, all were marching toward the field of Armageddon. They conversed for a while, the men smoking. Then Recklow went away across the dewy grass, followed by two frisky and factious cats.
But when McKay took Miss Erith’s head into his arms the girl’s eyes were wet.
“The way they died down there — I can’t help it, Kay,” she faltered.
“Oh, Kay, Kay, you must love me enough to make me forget — forget—”
And she clasped his neck tightly in both her arms.
The Crimson Tide
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
TO
MARGARET ILLINGTON BOWES
AND
EDWARD J. BOWES
I
I’d rather walk with Margaret,
I’d rather talk with Margaret,
And anchor in some sylvan nook
And fish Dream Lake with magic hook
Than sit indoors and write this book.
II
An author’s such an ass, alas!
To watch the world through window glass
When out of doors the skies are fair
And pretty girls beyond compare––
Like Margaret––are strolling there.
III
I’d rather walk with E. J. Bowes,
I’d rather talk with E. J. Bowes,
In woodlands where the sunlight gleams
Across the golden Lake of Dreams
Than drive a quill across these reams.
IV
If I could have my proper wish
With these two friends I’d sit and fish
Where sheer cliffs wear their mossy hoods
And Dream Lake widens in the woods,
But Fate says “No! Produce your goods!”
ENVOI
Inspect my goods and choose a few
Dear Margaret, and Edward, too;
Then sink them in the Lake of Dreams
In dim, gold depths where sunshine streams
Down from the sky’s unclouded blue,
And I’ll be much obliged to you.
R. W. C.
FOREWORD
AN AMERICAN AMBULANCE going south stopped on the snowy road; the driver, an American named Estridge, got out; his companion, a young woman in furs, remained in her seat.
Estridge, with the din of the barrage in his ears, went forward to show his papers to the soldiers who had stopped him on the snowy forest road.
His papers identified him and the young woman; and further they revealed the fact that the ambulance contained only a trunk and some hand luggage; and called upon all in authority to permit John Henry Estridge and Miss Palla Dumont to continue without hindrance the journey therein described.
The soldiers — Siberian riflemen — were satisfied and seemed friendly enough and rather curious to obtain a better look at this American girl, Miss Dumont, described in the papers submitted to them as “American companion to Marie, third daughter of Nicholas Romanoff, ex-Tzar.”
An officer came up, examined the papers, shrugged.
“Very well,” he said, “if authority is to be given this American lady to join the Romanoff family, now under detention, it is not my affair.”
But he, also, appeared to be perfectly good natured about the matter, accepting a cigarette from Estridge and glancing at the young woman in the ambulance as he lighted it.
“You know,” he remarked, “if it would interest you and the young lady, the Battalion of Death is over yonder in the birch woods.”
“The woman’s battalion?” asked Estridge.
“Yes. They make their début to-day. Would you like to see them? They’re going forward in a few minutes, I believe.”
Estridge nodded and walked back to the ambulance.
“The woman’s battalion is over in those birch woods, Miss Dumont. Would you care to walk over and see them before they leave for the front trenches?”
The girl in furs said very gravely:
“Yes, I wish to see women who are about to go into battle.”
She rose from the seat, laid a fur-gloved hand on his offered arm, and stepped down onto the snow.
“To serve,” she said, as they started together through the silver birches, following a trodden way, “is not alone the only happiness in life: it is the only reason for living.”
“I know you think so, Miss Dumont.”
“You also must believe so, who are here as a volunteer in Russia.”
“It’s a little more selfish with me. I’m a medical student; it’s a liberal education for me even to drive an ambulance.”
“There is only one profession nobler than that practised by the physician, who serves his fellow men,” she said in a low, dreamy voice.
“Which profession do you place first?”
“The profession of those who serve God alone.”
“The priesthood?”
“Yes. And the religious orders.”
“Nuns, too?” he demanded with the slightest hint of impatience in his pleasant voice.
The girl noticed it, looked up at him and smiled slightly.
“Had my dear Grand Duchess not asked for me, I should now he entering upon my novitiate among the Russian nuns.... And she, too, I think, had there been no revolution. She was quite ready a year ago. We talked it over. But the Empress would not permit it. And then came the trouble about the Deaconesses. That was a grave mistake — —”
She checked herself, then:
“I do not mean to criticise the Empress, you understand.”
“Poor lady,” he said, “such gentle criticism would seem praise to her now.”
They were walking through a pine belt, and in the shadows of that splendid growth the snow remained icy, so that they both slipped continually and she took his arm for security.
“I somehow had not thought of you, Miss Dumont, as so austerely inclined,” he said.
She smiled: “Because I’ve been a cheerful companion — even gay? Well, my gaiety made my heart sing with the prospect of seeing again my dearest friend — my closest spiritual companion — my darling little Grand Duchess.... So I have been, naturally enough, good company on our three days’ journey.”
He smiled: “I never suspected you of such extreme religious inclinations,” he insisted.
“Extreme?”
“Well, a novice — —” he hesitated. Then, “And you mean, ultimately, to take the black veil?”
“Of course. I shall take it some day yet.”
He turned and looked at her, and the man in him felt the pity of it as do all men when such fresh, virginal youth as was Miss Dumont’s turns an enraptured face toward that cloister door which never again opens on those who enter.
Her arm rested warmly and confidently within his; the cold had made her cheeks very pink and had crisped the tendrils of her brown hair under the fur toque.
“If,” she said happily, “you have found in me a friend, it is because my heart is much too small for all the love I bear my fellow beings.”
“That’s a quaint thing to say,” he said.
“It’s really true. I care so deeply, so keenly, for my fellow beings whom God made, that there seemed only one way to express it — to give myself to God and pass my life in His service who made these fellow creatures all around me that I love.”
“I suppose,” he said, “that is one way of looking at it.”
“It seemed to be the only way for me. I came to it by stages.... And first, as a child, I was impressed by the loveliness of the world and I used to sit for hours thinking of the goodness of God. And then other phases came — socialistic cravings and settlement work — but you know that was not enough. My heart was too full to be satisfied. There was not enough outlet.”
“What did you do then?”
“I studied: I didn’t know what I wanted, what I needed. I seemed lost; I was obsessed with a desire to aid — to be of service. I thought that perhaps if I travelled and studied methods — —”
She looked straight ahead of her with a sad little reflective smile:
“I have passed by many strange places in the world.... And then I saw the little Grand Duchess at the Charity Bazaar.... We seemed to love each other at first glance.... She asked to have me for her companion.... They investigated.... And so I went to her.”
The girl’s face became sombre and she bent her dark eyes on the snow as they walked.
All the world was humming and throbbing with the thunder of the Russian guns. Flakes continually dropped from vibrating pine trees. A pale yellow haze veiled the sun.
Suddenly Miss Dumont lifted her head:
“If anything ever happens to part me from my friend,” she said, “I hope I shall die quickly.”
“Are you and she so devoted?” he asked gravely.
“Utterly. And if we can not some day take the vows together and enter the same order and the same convent, then the one who is free to do so is so pledged.... I do not think that the Empress will consent to the Grand Duchess Marie taking the veil.... And so, when she has no further need of me, I shall make my novitiate.... There are soldiers ahead, Mr. Estridge. Is it the woman’s battalion?”
He, also, had caught sight of them. He nodded.
“It is the Battalion of Death,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s see what they look like.”
The girl-soldiers stood about carelessly, there in the snow among the silver birches and pines. They looked like boys in overcoats and boots and tall wool caps, leaning at ease there on their heavy rifles. Some were only fifteen years of age. Some had been servants, some saleswomen, stenographers, telephone operators, dressmakers, workers in the fields, students at the university, dancers, laundresses. And a few had been born into the aristocracy.
They came, too, from all parts of the huge, sprawling Empire, these girl-soldiers of the Battalion of Death — and there were Cossack girls and gypsies among them — girls from Finland, Courland, from the Urals, from Moscow, from Siberia — from North, South, East, West.
There were Jewesses from the Pale and one Jewess from America in the ranks; there were Chinese girls, Poles, a child of fifteen from Trebizond, a Japanese girl, a French peasant lass; and there were Finns, too, and Scandinavians — all with clipped hair under the astrakhan caps — sturdy, well shaped, soldierly girls who handled their heavy rifles without effort and carried a regulation equipment as though it were a sheaf of flowers.
Their commanding officer was a woman of forty. She lounged in front of the battalion in the snow, consulting with half a dozen officers of a man’s regiment.
The colour guard stood grouped around the battalion colours, where its white and gold folds swayed languidly in the breeze, and clots of virgin snow fell upon it, shaken down from the pines by the cannonade.
Estridge gazed at them in silence. In his man’s mind one thought dominated — the immense pity of it all. And there was a dreadful fascination in looking at these girl soldiers, whose soft, warm flesh was so soon to be mangled by shrapnel and slashed by bayonets.
“Good heavens,” he muttered at last under his breath. “Was this necessary?”
“The men ran,” said Miss Dumont.
“It was the filthy boche propaganda that demoralised them,” rejoined Estridge. “I wonder — are women more level headed? Is propaganda wasted on these girl soldiers? Are they really superior to the male of the species?”
“I think,” said Miss Dumont softly, “that their spiritual intelligence is deeper.”
“They see more clearly, morally?”
“I don’t know.... I think so sometimes.... We women, who are born capable of motherhood, seem to be fashioned also to realise Christ more clearly — and the holy mother who bore him.... I don’t know if that’s the reason — or if, truly, in us a little flame burns more constantly — the passion which instinctively flames more brightly toward things of the spirit than of the flesh.... I think it is true, Mr. Estridge, that, unless taught otherwise by men, women’s inclination is toward the spiritual, and the ardour of her passion aspires instinctively to a greater love until the lesser confuses and perplexes her with its clamorous importunity.”
“Woman’s love for man you call the lesser love?” he asked.
“Yes, it is, compared to love for God,” she said dreamily.
Some of the girl-soldiers in the Battalion of Death turned their heads to look at this young girl in furs, who had come among them on the arm of a Red Cross driver.
Estridge was aware of many bib brown eyes, many grey eyes, some blue ones fixed on him and on his companion in friendly or curious inquiry. They made him think of the large, innocent eyes of deer or channel cattle, for there was something both sweet and wild as well as honest in the gaze of these girl-soldiers.
One, a magnificent blond six-foot creature with the peaches-and-cream skin of Scandinavia and the clipped gold hair of the northland, smiled at Miss Dumont, displaying a set of superb teeth.
“You have come to see us make our first charge?” she asked in Russian, her sea-blue eyes all a-sparkle.
Miss Dumont said “Yes,” very seriously, looking at the girl’s equipment, her blanket roll, gas-mask, boots and overcoat.
Estridge turned to another girl-soldier:
“And if you are made a prisoner?” he enquired in a low voice. “Have you women considered that?”
“Nechevo,” smiled the girl, who had been a Red Cross nurse, and who wore two decorations. She touched the red and black dashes of colour on her sleeve significantly, then loosened her tunic and drew out a tiny bag of chamois. “We all carry poison,” she said smilingly. “We know the boche well enough to take that precaution.”
Another girl nodded confirmation. They were perfectly cheerful about it. Several others drew near and showed their little bags of poison slung around their necks inside their blouses. Many of them wore holy relics and medals also.
Miss Dumont took Estridge’s arm again and looked over at the big blond girl-soldier, who also had been smilingly regarding her, and who now stepped forward to meet them halfway.
“When do you march to the first trenches?” asked Miss Dumont gravely.
“Oh,” said the blond goddess, “so you are English?” And she added in English: “I am Swedish. You have arrived just in time. I t’ink we go forward immediately.”
“God go with you, for Russia,” said Miss Dumont in a clear, controlled voice.
But Estridge saw that her dark eyes were suddenly brilliant with tears. The big blond girl-soldier saw it, too, and her splendid blue eyes widened. Then, somehow, she had stepped forward and taken Miss Dumont in her strong arms; and, holding her, smiled and gazed intently at her.
