Red Fleece | Page 3

a desk man."
What Lonegan had swallowed to make his voice clear and steady, only
he knew, but his nerve was effective. "You've got to help me, Boylan,"
he said. "You know the military end. You've got to help me get him
attached. I know you'd do it for me, but I want you to do it for him--"
A grunt from the big man, who disappeared.
...Lonegan's lip curled. Again it was only Lonegan who knew why. He
read the cablegram carefully again, and felt his face as if speculating
whether he could wait until morning for a shave. There was routine to
do, and the developments of the day to file. Peter was on a mail story....
It occurred to him presently that his second would be interested in this

eventuality from the Office. He called several places by 'phone without
locating the younger man.
"He's with the woman," Lonegan concluded.
Peter had left her address somewhere, but it was not at hand; neither
was her house available to telephone. Lonegan took down the Warsaw
directory, and came finally to the street-number after this line:
"Bertha Solwicz, sempstress."
Chapter 3
She, too, was almost a stranger in Warsaw, and lonely. Each had their
work, and many hours each day were required for it; still, after the first
fortnight, they managed to meet often. Peter's time was hers, for he had
the habit of leaving his feature-letter for the quiet hours of the night.
"I hate the name of Solwicz," she told him the first time he came to her
house, "especially from you. And you must call me Berthe, not Bertha."
In spite of her obvious lack of means, she had a few friends of rare
quality, and yet he did not meet them. On her table that first day, he
picked up a little book of poems, the leader of which was entitled We
Are Free. Peter had read it a few weeks before and given it a quality of
appreciation that was seldom called in these days. Just now he noted
that the volume was affectionately inscribed to her from the author,
Moritz Abel. She spoke of him and of the group of young master
workmen to which he belonged. Then she read the poem, as they stood
together. It was a moment of honor to the poet. Peter had turned pale,
and the little room was hushed about them, as if Warsaw were suddenly
stilled.
"You see what they are doing," she said. "There is a new race of artists
in Russia. They have passed the emotions---"
"This poem was due in the world," Peter said. "But it is still an age
ahead of the crowd."

"That's what makes it so hard for them--for him. He does not like that.
He would like to talk to all men straight. Moritz Abel--the name will
not be forgotten. He is like the others of the new race. They are terrible
in their calm. They have passed the emotions. They are free. Other
artists in Europe or America repress the emotions. That is but the
beginning of the mastery. When they are as great as this group of
young men, they will show the spirit of the thing, not the emotion of it.
Emotions are red. This is pure white, don't you see?"
For three days Warsaw had been upheaved in excitement. On the
afternoon that the messenger from Lonegan brought the news of the
cablegram, Berthe and Peter were planning an excursion into the
country for the next day. She watched him closely as he read, and was
sensitive enough to realize the importance of the message, before he
spoke.... He found her gray eyes upon him. She chose her own way to
break the tension:
"The country is heaven, no doubt about that. One must die to get there.
Also one must live just so. Even when I was little, something always
happened--just as we were planning to set out for the country."
He showed her the message, but had hardly heard her words. His
discovery of this slender solitary red-lipped girl and what it meant, was
rarely clear at this moment. She had awakened him plane by plane,
awakened his passion and his mercy and his intuition.
"Tell me again what you said about the country. I was away for a
minute."
"It is hard to think of a little excursion to the fields--with such a holiday
ahead, as you are called upon."
"I wasn't thinking of that either, Berthe, but of you."
"Of course, you will go?"
"Doubtless."

"I was only talking foolishly, about our little excursion. One's own
wants are so pitifully unimportant now."
"I had hardly expected personally to encounter a war," he remarked and
added smilingly, "The fact is, I hadn't thought of meeting