Red Stefan (2 page)

“You're English—you ought to be able to get away. Have you tried the proper people?”

“My husband was half Russian. He was a Russian subject. They say I've lost my British nationality. They won't let me go.”

“Is your husband dead?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth. After a moment she went on, “He was an engineer. His father was Russian. He had the offer of a good job here. We were married and came out to take it up. It was all right at first. Then—” she hesitated—“things went wrong. Nicolas was accused of counter-revolutionary activities. They shot him.”

Even through the thick sheepskin fleece she could feel the warm, strong pressure of his hand. They had turned out of the main road into a side road.

“What did you do?”

“I tried to get home, but they wouldn't let me go. They said I was a Russian subject. I don't know why they didn't shoot me too—it would have saved a lot of trouble. At least—I do know why. The Commissar Petroff had an old mother, and he wanted someone to look after her. She was bed-ridden, and he couldn't get anyone to stay with her, because of her tongue. He told me I might think myself very lucky to get the chance of establishing my revolutionary integrity. I hadn't any money, or any way of getting food, so I took the job.”

“Well?” said Stephen.

Elizabeth shuddered.

“I can't talk about it. She was the most horrible old woman.”

“Was?”

Elizabeth shuddered again.

“She died yesterday.”

“And they turned you out?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“The Commissar wished me to stay.”

“You mean—”

“I thought I would rather freeze.”

She felt that strong pressure on her arm again.

“Oh, you're not going to freeze. I've got a room—or to be quite accurate, a share of a room—and a share of my share is very much at your service. I won't offer to give it up to you, because I shouldn't like to leave you to fend for yourself amongst the other occupants. They're a queerish lot.”

“Mr Enderby—”

“Please!”
said Stephen.

“No—I mustn't say it, I know. I won't again. But I can't let you run yourself into danger.”

“Danger?” He laughed like a schoolboy. “That's rather like telling a duck not to get its feet wet!”

“Do you mean you are in danger already?”

“Already—and all the time.”

“Then I shall make it worse for you.”

“No, I don't think you will. It wouldn't make any difference if you did. But as a matter of fact you'll be rather an asset. Anyone who was looking out for me wouldn't expect me to have a woman with me.”

They turned to the left again and descended a narrow lane which ran down towards the river. It was now very nearly dark. The houses rose black on either side. The path was slippery with ice and trodden snow.

Elizabeth felt as if she were walking in a dream. Presently she would wake up and find herself on the bridge again with nowhere to go. Or perhaps this was the snow-sleep which has no awakening. Perhaps she would just slip down, and down, and down into uttermost depths of unconsciousness.… Perhaps …

Stephen felt her stumble. He threw his arm about her.

“What is it?”

There was no answer. If he had not held her up, she would have slipped from him and fallen. He lifted her and carried her into the house against which they stood.

CHAPTER II

Elizabeth opened her eyes. She was lying on a heap of straw and someone was rubbing her feet. Her eyelids felt very heavy. It was Stephen who was rubbing her feet. He must have taken off her shoes whilst she was unconscious. He was kneeling on the floor. As soon as he saw her eyes open he put a finger to his lips.

Elizabeth looked at him with wide, blank eyes. She was no longer unconscious, but she was not yet fully conscious. She could see and hear, but she did not think about the things which she saw and heard. They made floating pictures in her mind. Stephen's face was one picture. She had not really seen it in the dusk. Now she saw it quite clearly, for there was a light somewhere in the room and it shone on him. She did not see his rough peasant's clothes or the great square hands which were rubbing her feet. She saw only his face with its strong chestnut beard and vigorously curling hair, and between these the bold curve of the nose, the bronzed wind-beaten skin, and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

She looked at this picture and found it a pleasant one. Then, shifting her gaze slightly, her mind received a second picture. There was a lamp hanging from the roof. It gave out a strong yellow light and a strong oily smell. Just below this lamp ran the dark line of a curtain.

Elizabeth shifted her gaze again. She was trying to think about the curtain. The lamp swayed slightly, but the curtain hung dark and straight. She began to wonder about it, and then quite suddenly her mind was clear and she saw that the curtain was a sack ripped open and hanging from a tightly stretched line of string. It screened the corner in which she lay. From the other side of it came the sound of voices and the shuffling of feet. She raised herself on her elbow.

Stephen put his finger to his lips again. Then he pulled the sheepskin coat over her feet and disappeared on the other side of the sacking screen.

Elizabeth sat up and stared about her. The place was warm, and she was warm. Her feet glowed from the warmth of Stephen's hands. It was weeks since she had been warm like this. Mingled with the smell of oil there were other smells. The reek of food, damp sheepskins, coarse unwashed human beings, and rank tobacco all helped to thicken the atmosphere. But it was warm. It was most blessedly warm. She pushed the straw up behind her back and leaned against it. What was to happen next seemed to concern her as little as if she had been in a theatre waiting for the curtain to rise upon the next act of some play the plot of which she did not know. She felt a faint curiosity, a faint thrill of anticipation, but no more. It was as if the events of that first act in which she had herself sustained so tragic a role, had brought her to an end of her capacity to feel. She leaned back against the wall, a mere spectator now.

Then the sack was pushed aside and Stephen came ducking under the line. He had a bowl of steaming soup in his hand, and as the smell of it rose up into her nostrils, Elizabeth felt a frightful pang of hunger. She could have snatched the basin from him and gulped like an animal, but she steadied her hands, and had parted her lips to say thank you, when he again laid a finger on his own. As she took the first delicious mouthful, he was speaking close to her ear.

“Don't speak. Your Russian won't pass muster. You'll have to be dumb. If anyone speaks to you, look vacant and shake your head.”

A faint stab of fear pierced her indifference. Was he going to leave her? She looked at him across the bowl of soup with the question in her eyes.

He shook his head and put his lips to her ear again. His beard tickled her cheek.

“I won't be long. They won't meddle with you. They think you're my wife. Finish the soup, and I'll be back as soon as I can.”

He waited till she had drunk it, and then pushed under the sacking again. One of the men in the room beyond said something which she did not understand, and the others laughed. Stephen laughed too, and then she heard the door open and shut again, and knew that he had gone. She found his words ringing in her head: “I'll be back soon”… “They won't meddle with you”… “They think you're my wife.”… She pressed the straw into a pillow and fell asleep with her cheek on her hand.

She did not know how long she slept, but presently she was awake again. Looking down on her from over the top of the screen was a man with a wide pale face and ears that stuck out on either side of his head like bat's wings. She could see the lamplight through them, and the effect was fantastic in the extreme—the blunt, almost featureless face, crowned with a shock of fair hair, and those jutting blood-red ears. He called over his shoulder in a voice thickened with drink.

“Come and look at her for yourself then! I don't think much of Red Stefan's taste, I can tell you!”

Someone guffawed.

“You'll think something of Red Stefan's fist if you take liberties with his property!”

“Who's taking liberties? Who wants to take liberties either? Why, she's more like a bit of scraped bone than a girl!”

“Well, I've seen Red Stefan knock a man into the middle of the year after next for less than you're doing now.”

Elizabeth heard the words and saw the face. She was still so dazed with sleep that she felt neither fear nor offence. She looked up with half opened eyes, and then she saw and heard something else. The door of the room was flung open. Someone came striding in, and over the head of the man who was staring down at her Stephen's face appeared. She had not realized how tall he was till then. He looked over the other man's head and, taking him by the bat-like ears, lifted him right off his feet. Elizabeth saw the white convulsed face jerk up, and down again. She heard his yell of anguish, the clatter of his feet upon the floor, and Stephen's great schoolboy laugh.

“Dance, little man, dance!” he said, and once again up came the face—up, and down again. Yell, scuffle, and laugh were repeated. There was the sound of a heavy slithering fall, and, still laughing, Stephen pushed under the sacking. With his fingers to his lips he said.

“He didn't frighten you?” And, as she shook her head, “He's like a bat—nasty, but harmless. He won't look at you again in a hurry. It's going to take him all his time being sorry for himself and telling the others how badly he's hurt. Now look what I've brought you.”

He dropped a bundle on the floor, unrolled it, and showed her with pride a sheepskin coat and cap, and a peasant woman's skirt, blouse, kerchief and boots. The things were decent, but not new. “Better put them on,” he said, dropping his voice until it only just reached her. “You won't want the coat in here, but you'd better get into the other things. Then give me what you've got on and I'll get rid of it.”

She nodded, and he ducked under the sack and went out into the room. As she put on the things he had brought her, she could hear him chaffing the man whose ears he had wrung. He began to tell a story against him which made the other men laugh. There seemed to be two or three of them, and at least two women, from the voices.

Elizabeth rolled her old clothes into a tight bundle and waited for Stephen to come back. When he came he smiled approvingly, took her bundle, went off with it, and presently returned, breathing a little quickly as if he had been running.

“They're gone,” he said at her ear. “I chucked them into the middle of the river beyond the ice. The current will take them away.” He looked at her critically. “You haven't got the handkerchief tied right. It doesn't matter to-night. I'll show you how to do it in the morning. You'll remember not to speak—won't you? It's a whole heap safer for you—in fact it's the only way, because your Russian's really dreadful.” He laughed a little. “It's dull for you, I'm afraid, not being able to speak. They've been congratulating me on getting a wife who can't give me a tongue-lashing.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly. It warmed her to be near him. His good spirits, his strength, his easy friendly manner broke in upon the cold trance of loneliness and misery in which she had lived, moved and had her being for the last year. For his part, he was filled with a sense of triumph which he could hardly contain. To look at her sent tremendous currents of happiness swirling through him. He had got her, and he felt completely competent to keep her safe.

She had taken off her cap with the other things which she had worn, and he could see her hair—dark hair, as fine as silk, very thick, and cut irregularly as if she had tried to do it herself. She had grey eyes with a ring of black about the iris, which gave them a starry look, and her lashes were very fine and soft, and as black as ink. The arch of the brows made him think of wings. She was much too pale—much, much too pale. That damned Commissar must have starved her. Her cheeks had no business to fall in like that. But what a lovely line from cheek to chin. Her lips should be red, not faint and pale. They looked as if they held secrets which they would never tell. They made you wonder what the secrets were—sweet, wild, mournful, tender. Well, some day she'd tell them—to him. He meant to see about that. He said abruptly.

“Will you have some more cabbage soup?”

CHAPTER III

In that crowded room, with its heavy air and its rough snoring denizens, Elizabeth slept more peacefully than she had done for a year. Stephen lay stretched on the floor between her and the mixed company beyond the sacking screen. He had rolled up his coat for a pillow, and his head had scarcely touched it before his slow, deep breathing told her that he was asleep. The sound gave her a most perfect sense of safety. She thought how strange life was. A few hours ago she had been alone and in despair—most cold, most wretched, and most friendless. Now she was warm, and fed, and comforted. She had not really begun to think. She only knew that she felt safe. And so fell asleep.

She woke with a hand over her mouth and a voice at her ear. It was Stephen's hand and voice. He was saying “Ssh!” The lamp had been extinguished and it was quite dark. She ought to have been frightened, but she was not frightened at all. She blinked at the darkness and waited for Stephen to speak.

He said “Ssh!” again. And then, “Did I frighten you? I hope I didn't—but you were talking in your sleep.”

He had taken his hand away from her mouth, but it rested on her shoulder. He felt the sudden upward leap of her heart. So she was afraid of what she might have said.… He cast his mind back over the soft, rapid utterance which had waked him. And then she was whispering on a scarcely audible breath.