Red Shadow (8 page)

A look of relief passed over Laura's face. The truce held. She had not to make any decision or to sign anything. It would be months before she could be called upon to fulfil her pledges.

Mr Rimington was opening an attaché case. He took out of it a long envelope with a bright green seal.

“My reason for coming down here this afternoon was not to trouble you about business, but to hand you this letter at Mr Hallingdon's request. His instructions were that I should give it to you personally as soon as possible after his decease.” He laid the envelope on Laura's pale hands, closed the attaché case, and pushed back his chair. “I won't stay now. I hope I haven't tired you.”

He touched her cold fingers and said good-bye. Then, as he was going, a thought appeared to strike him, for he turned back again.

“Does your husband expect to be away for long?”

The colour rushed into Laura's cheeks. The beauty which it gave her quite astonished Mr Rimington. It also conveyed a completely false impression to his mind. He had nieces of about Laura's age, and he was very fond of them. He imagined Laura's blush to be a tribute to Mr Basil Stevens, and thought him a singularly fortunate man. He regarded his young client with sympathetic admiration, and it would have required an affidavit to persuade him that her unexpected marriage had been due to anything except the haste of two young people impatiently in love.

He said good-bye again, added his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and left the room completely at his ease.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Laura moved. The sealed envelope lay on the turned-down sheet, just touching one of her wrists. She moved, took it in her right hand, and looked at it. She saw an ordinary manila envelope heavily sealed with green wax. The seals were towards her. She turned it over and saw her lost name staring at her—Miss Laura Cameron. Something pricked at her heart. She felt a pang that turned her faint. And at the same moment the door of the room opened.

On an impulse which she did not understand, Laura pushed the envelope under the bed-clothes and leaned back with half closed eyes. Afterwards she thought that she had hidden the envelope because she could not endure that anyone else should see that lost name of hers. At the time she did not reason; she merely acted.

Catherine Werner came round the screen.

“Faint?” she said.

Laura made an effort and opened her eyes.

“Not now.”

“He has tired you. Men are tiring—except when they are making love. They never know when to stop.” She laughed a little. “I suppose he wanted you to sign a lot of papers?”

Laura shook her head.

“No.”

“I thought a lawyer always made you sign papers—many papers.”

Laura's head moved again.

“You did not sign anything?” said Catherine.

“No.”

“Did he leave you any papers to sign?—because I will not have you troubled any more to-day. You can give them to me, and I will put them away until tomorrow.”

A faint shade of surprise changed Laura's expression. She lay back upon the raised pillows, with the embroidered shawl spread about her and fallen a little open in front, so that her neck showed and the thin silk of her nightdress. Her hands lay palm upwards on the sheet. She could feel the envelope pressed against her right side. Her elbow held it there, and the bedclothes covered it.

Without any conscious reasoning Laura burnt her boats.

“There won't be any papers to sign until the will is proved,” she said; and then, “I'm tired.”

“I'll take away one of those pillows,” said Catherine.

Laura held the letter close against her. She was glad to lie down, and for more than one reason. If Catherine thought she was going to rest, she would leave her alone. Laura wanted to be alone. She wanted to stop holding back the tears that were burning her eyelids, and to weep away the pain at her heart.

CHAPTER X

When she was alone, Laura shed some very bitter tears, but after a while they ceased to flow and she fell into a light uneasy sleep. From this she waked with a start, to hear the clock in the lower hall strike three. It had a deep, booming note that left a tremor upon the air. Laura waked, turned a little, and felt the envelope which Mr Rimington had given her. For the first time she wondered what it contained. After a few moments she drew it out and looked at it, leaning on her elbow. What could Mr Hallingdon have had to say to her?

She turned the envelope over, and then, sitting up in bed, she opened it, without breaking the seals, by tearing the other end. There was rather a thick letter inside. She took it out and unfolded it, and as she did so, a smaller envelope fell down upon the fringes of her shawl. It was written in a decided hand upon greyish-blue paper, and it began:

“My dear Laura——”

There was something strange about getting a letter from a dead man whom living she had never known. Bertram Hallingdon was her grandfather's half brother, but he was only a name to her, and a stranger. He was only a name to her, but by a stroke of the pen he had broken her life in two. If he had not made her his heiress, she would have been Laura Mackenzie now—she would be Jim's wife. Perhaps he had signed his will with the very pen which had written, “Dear Laura.”

Laura did not think these things consciously. They moved in the desolate places of her mind while she looked at the grey-blue paper and the words which Bertram Hallingdon had written. Then she began to read the letter:

Dear Laura,

By the time you read this you will be the head of the Hallingdon combine. Exactly what that means, you will find out by degrees. Put shortly, it involves great wealth, great power, and great responsibilities. I am afraid that I cannot allow you to suppose that it involves great happiness—and I am afraid that you are young enough to expect happiness as a right. My own expectation of personal happiness died nearly fifty years ago. However, I do not wish to force my philosophy on you. You may have a gift for happiness—some people have, and I have known it persist amidst the most untoward conditions.

I am writing this, not to philosophize, but to acquaint you with my reasons for burdening you with the responsibilities which I am about to lay down. The Hallingdon combine is composed of half a dozen firms handling what are commonly called munitions. They are engineering firms; but side by side with the inventions and products of peace they possess the plant, the knowledge, and the formulæ necessary to meet all the requirements of mechanized warfare. I am being as little technical as I can, because I do not wish to confuse you or to distract your attention from the main issue. This I now approach.

I am, and have been for the last thirty years, what is called a pacifist. That is, I believe firmly that no nation can either thrive by war or find any solution of its problems through war. After the Great War I set myself the gigantic task of assembling under a central control as many as possible of those firms whose plant was capable of being turned to the uses of war. The Hallingdon combine is the result, and I am leaving the direction of its policies to you, a young girl. It is a crushing responsibility, but I have my reasons. They are these.

I believe that the interests involved will be safer in the hands of a woman than of a man. I have been observing you carefully for some years. During the last year a weekly report has been submitted to me. I could turn to these reports and tell you just where you were, and what you were doing upon any given day. In addition to these reports, I have observed you myself, though I have taken pains that you should not know it. You resemble very closely both in body and mind my mother—your great-grandmother, who became Laura Cameron. She was the best and sweetest woman whom I have ever known, and in her youth rarely beautiful. I can think of no human being to whom I could more safely entrust the peace of the world—for that is what it comes to. You will have the controlling interest in six companies. You will have the power to appoint a proportion of the directorate. You will have, through interlocking trade relationships, a power and an influence extending far beyond this country. Use it in the cause of peace. I believe in the wisdom of the simple. I believe in the intuition of a good woman. I believe in Laura Cameron's great-granddaughter. If I have misplaced my faith, I shall not know it. But I will not believe that I have misplaced it. I have watched the man whom you are to marry. He has, I believe, the qualities which will make him your complement. Together, I have faith that you will fulfil my hope.

And now you may ask why we have never met. After much thought I decided against any personal contact. I did not wish to be biased by personal affection. In fact, my dear, I decided that it would be very easy to love you—and love is a disturbing factor, to the absence of which I have for many years accustomed myself.

Do not read the enclosure until you are quite alone.

God bless you, Laura.

B
ERTRAM
H
ALLINGDON
.

A faint steady colour came into Laura's cheeks as she read. Something in her rose to meet Bertram Hallingdon's trust. The reference to Jim Mackenzie stabbed deep, but the very pain of it helped to rouse her. Since these great responsibilities were laid upon her, she must carry them; and if she must carry them alone, she would need all her courage and all her strength. At the call, courage and strength began to rise. She had lain prostrate because, having made her sacrifice, there was no more that she could do. She had come to the foot of a frowning wall and there sunk down. Now, with a vehement grating of hinges, a door had opened in the wall, and all at once she was on her feet again and ready to go forward.

She read the letter again, and then, with the enclosure in her hand, looked anxiously at the clock on the chest of drawers. It was twenty past three. Catherine would not come near her till four at the very earliest. Bertram Hallingdon had said that she must read the enclosure when she was alone. She was alone now.

She opened the envelope, and there fell out a small thin packet wrapped in green oiled silk and fastened with a cord and sealing-wax. Laura broke the seal and undid the cord. When she had opened the packet, she found that it contained a small envelope and three sheets of paper folded separately. She picked up the first sheet that came to hand, and found it covered with Bertram Hallingdon's writing. She straightened the sheet and read:

My dear Laura,

When I wrote in the letter which you will have read already that I was leaving the peace of the world in your hands, you probably discounted the statement as a mere picturesque phrase. I used it because I wished to strike your imagination and to set you thinking. But it was more than a phrase. It has a basis in fact.

I am now going to tell you something that has never been public property. During the autumn of 1917 and the early months of 1918 the Government was earnestly seeking for something which would be a decisive factor in bringing the war to an end. To this end a number of confidential experiments were carried out. One series of experiments concerned what was known as the Sanquhar invention. The experiments carried convincing proof that the Sanquhar invention would give to the country employing it an overwhelming and decisive advantage. I do not propose to indicate the nature of this invention. You must take my word for it that the effect would have been staggering. But on the very eve of success a terrible disaster occurred. An explosion took place in which Mr Sanquhar himself, together with his two assistants, several mechanics, and three highly placed officers of the Navy, Army, and Air Force all lost their lives. A fire followed the explosion, wrecking the plant and destroying—as it was believed—Mr Sanquhar's notes, plans, and formulæ. No one survived who possessed sufficient knowledge to enable the invention to be reconstituted. Fresh experiments yielded nothing. A few months later the war ended.

The papers were, however, not destroyed. They were stolen. I have reason to believe that the explosion was designed to cover the theft. After the Armistice they were offered to me for sale in circumstances into which I do not propose to enter. I was, and am, determined that the Sanquhar invention shall not be thrown into the arena where armament contends with armament and each lethal invention provokes another still more deadly. At the same time, I dare not destroy what might prove the salvation of my country in a time of danger. It is inconceivable that this country or the United States of America should ever willingly enter upon another war; but they may be called upon to stand together for peace. The future is to the young. I am leaving the Sanquhar invention to three trustees, of whom you are one. They are all young. Your mother was American, and this fact links you with the United States.

These papers, plans, and formulæ are deposited in a safe the whereabouts of which are known to only one person. This person has also the key of the safe, but has no idea of what it contains. For the moment I will designate this person as Z. Z knows where the safe is, and Z has the key.

Now I come to your part. You are only one of three persons amongst whom I propose to divide the responsibility of deciding whether the Sanquhar invention is ever to be used. You are, in fact, trustees. Each one will receive separately the torn third of a five-pound note. The note entire constitutes an authority which Z will recognize. When this authority is presented, Z will inform whoever presents it of the whereabouts of the safe and will hand over the key. Nothing less than the whole note—that is, the three torn pieces reassembled—will be recognized by Z. Should a crisis arise comparable to the world crisis of 1914, you may confer with the holders of the other thirds. Should you all three be agreed, you may approach the Prime Minister of the day.

Read what follows very carefully.

You, Laura, will know the holders of the other two thirds; but they will not know each other, and they will not know you. The ultimate responsibility therefore lies with you, since without you the divided note cannot be reassembled.