And there was another matter that was causing her a constantly increasing unrest––she had not seen Marya for many a day.
Quiet grief for what now appeared to be a friendship 297 ended––at other times a tingle of bitterness that he had let it end so relentlessly––and sometimes, at night, the secret dread––eternally buried yet perennially resurrected––the still, hidden, ever-living fear of Marya; these the girl knew, now, as part of life.
And went on, steadily, with her life’s business, as though moving toward a dark horizon where clouds towered gradually higher, reflecting the glimmer of unseen lightning.
Somehow, lately, a vague sensation of impending trouble had invaded her; and she never entirely shook it off, even in her lighter moods, when there was gay company around her; or in the warm flush of optimistic propaganda work; or in the increasingly exciting sessions of the Combat Club, now interrupted nightly by fierce outbreaks from emissaries of the Red Flag Club, who were there to make mischief.
Also, there had been an innovation established among her company of moderate socialists; a corps of missionary speakers, who volunteered on certain nights to speak from the classic soap-box on street corners, urging the propaganda of their panacea, the Law of Love and Service.
Twice already, despite her natural timidity and dread of public speaking, Palla had faced idle, half-curious, half sneering crowds just east or west of Broadway; had struggled through with what she had come to say; had gently replied to heckling, blushed under insult, stood trembling by her guns to the end.
Ilse was more convincing, more popular with her gay insouciance and infectious laughter, and her unexpected and enchanting flashes of militancy, which always interested the crowd.
And always, after these soap-box efforts, both Palla 298 and Ilse were insulted over the telephone by unknown men. Their mail, also, invariably contained abusive or threatening letters, and sometimes vile ones; and Estridge purchased pistols for them both and exacted pledges that they carry them at night.
On the evening selected for Palla’s third essay in street oratory, she slipped her pistol into her muff and set out alone, not waiting for Ilse, who, with John Estridge, was to have met her after dinner at her house, and, as usual, accompany her to the place selected.
But they knew where she was to speak, and she did not doubt they would turn up sooner or later at the rendezvous.