Part 80 (1/2)

The mourning which she had worn for her aunt, and which she had worn for John Estridge that morning, she now put off, although vaguely inclined for it. But she shrank from the explanations in which it was certain she must become involved when on duty at the Red Cross and the canteen that afternoon.

Undressed, she sent her maid for a cup of tea, feeling too tired for luncheon. Afterward she lay down on her bed, meaning merely to close her eyes for a moment.

It was after four in the afternoon when she sat up with a start--too late for the Red Cross; but she could do something at the canteen.

She went about dressing as though bruised. It seemed to take an interminable time. Her maid called a taxi; but the short winter daylight had nearly gone when she arrived at the canteen.

She remained there on kitchen duty until seven, then untied her white tablier, washed, pinned on her hat, and went out into the light-shot darkness of the streets and turned her steps once more toward home.

There is, among the weirder newspapers of the metropolis, a sheet affectionately known as ”pink-and-punk,” the circulation of which seems to depend upon its distribution of fake ”extras.”

As Palla turned into her street, shabby men with hoa.r.s.e voices were calling an extra and selling the newspaper in question.

She bought one, glanced at the headlines, then, folding it, unlocked her door.

Dinner was announced almost immediately, but she could not touch it.

She sank down on the sofa, still wearing her furs and hat. After a little while she opened her newspaper.

It seemed that a Bolsheviki plot had been discovered to murder the premiers and rulers of the allied nations, and to begin simultaneously in every capital and princ.i.p.al city of Europe and America a reign of murder and destruction.

In fact, according to the account printed in startling type, the Terrorists had already begun their destructive programme in Philadelphia. Half a dozen buildings--private dwellings and one small hotel--had been more or less damaged by bombs. A New York man named Wilding, fairly well known as an impresario, had been killed outright; and a Russian pianist, Vanya Tchernov, who had just arrived in Philadelphia to complete arrangements for a concert to be given by him under Mr. Wilding's management, had been fatally injured by the collapse of the hotel office which, at that moment, he was leaving in company with Mr. Wilding.

A numbness settled over Palla's brain. She did not seem to be able to comprehend that this affair concerned Vanya--that this newspaper was telling her that Vanya had been fatally hurt somewhere in Philadelphia.

Hours later, while she was lying on the lounge with her face buried in the cus.h.i.+ons, and still wearing her hat and furs, somebody came into the room. And when she turned over she saw it was Ilse.

Palla sat up stupidly, the marks of tears still glistening under her eyes. Ilse picked up the newspaper from the couch, laid it aside, and seated herself.

”So you know about Vanya?” she said calmly.

Palla nodded.

”You don't know all. Marya called me on the telephone a few minutes ago to tell me.”

”Vanya is dead,” whispered Palla.

”Yes. They found an unmailed letter directed to Marya in his pockets.

That's why they notified her.”

After an interval: ”So Vanya is dead,” repeated Palla under her breath.

Ilse sat plaiting the black edges of her handkerchief.

”It's such a--a senseless interruption--death----” she murmured. ”It seems so wanton, so meaningless in the scheme of things ... to make two people wait so long--so long!--to resume where they had been interrupted----”

Palla asked coldly whether Marya had seemed greatly shocked.

”I don't know, Palla. She called me up and told me. I asked her if there was anything I could do; and she answered rather strangely that what remained for her to do she would do alone. I don't know what she meant.”