Red Shadow (2 page)

Laura stood and looked into the mirror. She saw herself in the white cloud that was her veil. It hid her hair, and the line of her slender shoulders, and the young curve of her breast. It came down in a faint foam about her feet. She lifted it with both hands and looked over her shoulder to say to Jenny,

“It's too long—isn't it?”

The white, veiled Laura in the mirror moved too. The veil floated out, the long straight dress shimmered through it—a silver dress like a silver sheath. Jenny stepped out of the picture with a whisk of her apple-green skirt.

“
Much
too long—
bulgy!
”

Amelia Crofts sniffed. She had a thin pale nose, and could convey practically any shade of meaning in a sniff. She considered that Miss Laura looked a perfect h'angel, and that bulgy wasn't no sort of word for a young lady to use. Her sniff made both of these things perfectly clear.

“I should have a good foot off it,” said Jenny. She tilted her head. “Or two—or three. It makes you look exactly like a parcel done up in white tissue-paper.”

Laura laughed—softly, because her wedding dress made her feel as if she was in church. She held the veil out like wings and turned to the mirror. There was something unfamiliar about the Laura who looked back at her. It was the veil of course; it hid her hair and made her look like a nun. She pushed it back a little and released a soft dark curl on either side.

“Is that better, Jenny?”

Jenny looked over her shoulder and nodded in the glass.

Amelia said, “Oh, miss, that's lovely!” and Laura turned to smile at her.

She saw herself as she turned, the smile in her dark eyes—eyes neither grey nor brown, no-coloured eyes full of a soft darkness—her bloom heightened, the carnation springing to her cheeks. And as she turned, the bell of the flat rang with a hard buzzing sound.

Amelia sniffed—a sniff of pure aggravation. This was perhaps the most enchanted moment of a rather drab life, and it was just bound to be broken into by that there dratted bell, as if there wasn't twenty-three other hours in the day for
them
to come a-banging and a-ringing—the dratted nuisances. Her pale nose twitched angrily as she went out of the room, shutting the door sharply behind her.

Jenny stood on tiptoe listening.

“It's a man.”

Laura's colour sprang up.

“It can't be Jim! To-morrow's the very earliest, and I haven't heard——”

“Of course it's not Jim. He wouldn't stop at the door.” She pounced on Laura and pulled her towards the bedroom. “And I don't care who it is, they're not going to see either of us. Quick—she's letting him in! I'll murder Amelia for this!” She whisked Laura and Laura's train into the bedroom and banged the door. “Tell Amelia I'll come back and murder her in the middle of the night—slowly—something lingering, with boiling oil in it!”

“Tell her yourself!” said Laura, laughing.

And then the door opened and Amelia came in with a card in her hand.

“He says he must see you, miss.”

“But, Milly—I can't!”

Laura took the card, frowning a very little. She read: “Mr Basil Stevens”; and, pencilled above the name, the words: “Very urgent business.”

“But I hardly know him,” she said.

Jenny was half out of her bridesmaid's dress. She wriggled free and threw it over the end of the bed.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Basil Stevens. I've met him—I don't really know him. I can't imagine why he wants to see me.”

Jenny slipped into a dark blue day-frock and crammed on a hat.

“Send him away if you don't want to see him. Golly! It's late! I'm meeting Kathie for a matinée, and she'll be wild. Where's my coat, Amelia? It's a perfectly foul afternoon! I'll leave the dress here. So long, Ducky! Snub Basil if he gets fresh!”

“I didn't know you knew him.”

“I don't,” said Jenny at the door. “
Au revoir!
”

Laura smiled vaguely at the closing door.

“I must change if I've got to see him,” she said; and then, “What is it, Milly?”

Amelia's hands were shaking; she held her apron, but they shook. Her nose twitched, and her long upper lip.

“Oh, Miss Laura!”

“Milly—what is it?”

Amelia put up a trembling hand and touched her smooth grey hair.

“I don't rightly know—it come into the flat with him.”

A cold air blew upon Laura.

“What, Milly?”

“
Trouble,
” said Amelia Crofts. She blinked with reddened eyelids.

Laura stood still for a moment. It was a moment in which she forgot everything except that word trouble. Trouble meant bad news, and bad news meant Jim. She forgot all about being in her wedding dress. When the moment passed, she opened the door and went into the sitting-room with Basil Stevens's card in her hand and an icy fear at her heart. She lifted her train, closed the door again mechanically, and then stood still.

Basil Stevens came to meet her.

“How do you do, Miss Cameron? I must apologize——”

Laura interrupted, first with a movement of the hand, and then with a quick,

“What is it?”

He had left his hat and stick in the hall. He stood before her bare-headed—a good looking man of five or six-and-thirty with widely set eyes of a bright hazel colour, brown hair, and a face that narrowed from the rather high cheek-bones to a pointed chin. He held his tall figure a little bent forward as if he were ready to bow over the hand which Laura had not extended.

She kept her eyes on his face and repeated on a hurrying breath,

“What is it, Mr Stevens?”

Perhaps he had not expected this ready alarm. Perhaps the wedding dress and veil, which she had forgotten, were not without their effect upon him. He was, for the moment, silent; and in that moment Laura came nearer and laid a hand upon his arm.

“Mr Stevens—is it anything about Jim?”

Basil Stevens recovered himself. He said,

“I think we had better sit down.”

Laura took the chair which he offered her. She was glad of it, because, when he did not answer her question, she had felt the floor move under her feet. She sank down into the chair and said piteously,

“Is it Jim? Won't you tell me? I'd rather—know—” And there she stopped, because some bottomless pit seemed to open as she said the words, and out of it there came up the shadows of the things that she might have to know—Jim ill—Jim dying—Jim dead..…

Basil Stevens saw the last of her colour drain away. She had been pale and startled when she came into the room, but now even her lips were white. He had no wish to have her fainting on his hands. He said sharply,

“Mackenzie's alive and well.”

The change came so quickly to her face that it astounded him. Colour and life rushed back to it. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked at him with a kind of gentle reproach.

“You frightened me dreadfully.”

“I'm sorry—I had no wish to frighten you. May I ask when you last heard from Mackenzie?”

“I haven't had a letter since Saturday.”

“And this is Wednesday.”

Laura smiled a little tremulously. Relief had deadened her perceptions.

“Yes—but he may be home to-morrow. I don't think he will, but it's just possible, and he said I could
count
on Friday.”

“I'm afraid you mustn't count on anything.”

Laura's head lifted. She could be angry now. How really impertinent of him to be talking like this!

“Will you tell me what you mean, Mr Stevens?”

“I am going to tell you. I am afraid you must not count upon Mackenzie's return. It is unfortunate that he should have allowed himself to become involved in a political difficulty.”

“I don't understand what you mean,” said Laura.

“I will explain. Mackenzie was arrested a week ago.”

Laura turned startled eyes upon him. They were not terrified yet, but somewhere under the surface terror stirred. She repeated his word under her breath.

“Arrested——”

Basil Stevens said, “Yes,” and waited.

“But why?”

He could only just hear the question.

“I am afraid he has been extremely imprudent. Imprudence is a very dangerous complaint in Russia just now.”

“Where is he?” said Laura.

“In prison.”

“But they
can't!
He's a British subject—they can't do anything to him!”

“They can shoot him,” said Basil Stevens.

Laura thrust away the terror that had come nearer.

“
A British subject
—” she said.

“In Russia he is not considered to be a British subject. I am afraid you must face the fact that he is in an extremely dangerous position. He is, in fact, under sentence of death.”

Laura said, “
No!
”

She heard her own voice saying it. The sound seemed to fill the room. Then she heard Basil Stevens say,

“I am afraid it is a shock. If you are to help him, you must believe me.”

Sensitive people very often have a great deal of courage. Laura called on hers. The words “If you are to help him,” spurred it. She said,

“How can I?” And then quickly, “How do you
know
?”

He was ready for this.

“I will tell you in a minute. But I should like first to ask you a question. I should like to ask you what you know about me.”

She looked at him with a rather piteous vagueness. Her mind was so full of Jim that it was very difficult to think about anyone else. For the moment, Basil Stevens was as impersonal to her as the telegraph boy who brings a message of disaster.

He repeated his question.

“What do you know about me, Miss Cameron?”

She forced herself to consider—because he would not ask her such a thing unless it had somehow a bearing upon what was happening to Jim. She said in a hesitating way,

“I don't know..… I met you at the Harrisons'.… You're an engineer, aren't you?”

He nodded.

“An engineer may have connections with many countries. I have connections with Russia. Did you know that?”

Laura said, “No.”

Her hands lay in her lap; they held one another tightly. Her eyes looked steadily at Basil Stevens.

“How have you heard—this—about Jim?”

He shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

“I have just told you that I have a connection with Russia.”

A little colour sprang into her cheeks.

“How do you know—that is true?”

A curious look passed over his face.

“My dear Miss Cameron, I should certainly not have come to you with a piece of hearsay gossip.”

“How can you prove it?”

He put his hand into an inner pocket and took out a pocket-book, which he laid upon his knee. Very deliberately he opened it and took out an envelope, which he handed to Laura.

She took it, and sat there looking at it. It was a square white envelope with her name written on it in a strange hand: “Miss Laura Cameron”—just that and nothing more.

“What is it?” she said in a bewildered voice.

“There is a letter from Mackenzie inside.”

Laura's hand tightened on the letter.

“It's not his writing.”

“The letter is inside. He was allowed to write to you, but”—he shrugged again—“they don't supply envelopes in prison.”

Very slowly Laura tore open the envelope. She tore it without looking at it, and, still without looking, she drew out the enclosure. Then her eyes went to it—quickly. It was a letter, and it was from Jim, but it was written in a pencil scrawl on a crumpled half sheet. She saw her name, and the words that followed it: “Laura—they're letting me say good-bye.” And then she couldn't see any more, because there was a darkness between her and the page. She looked up, her eyes wide, and remained like that whilst she drew half a dozen difficult breaths.

Basil Stevens got up and walked to the window, where he stood with his back to her, looking out at the fog.

When Laura could see again, she went on reading Jim Mackenzie's letter:

“They are letting me say good-bye. I'm to be shot to-morrow. It will be over by the time you get this. I'm making you unhappy, and I'm cursing myself for it. I hope you won't be unhappy for longer than you can help. I don't want you to be unhappy about me. You've made me gloriously happy. I didn't know that there was anyone like you in the world. We've loved each other very much. No one's going to take that away from me. You know how much I love you. I can't say the things that I would like to say—I can't get them into words. I don't want you to wear black for me and be unhappy. Good-bye, my darling.

Your

Jim.”

CHAPTER III

Laura sat for a long time with the letter in her hand. The words had left the paper and were in her heart. She could hear Jim's voice saying them to her. It said them over and over again. It went on and on.

Then there was a movement by the window. Basil Stevens returned to his chair.

Laura came back. She stopped hearing Jim's voice, and she saw her own hand with the letter in it, and, a little farther down, the folds of her silver train. Then she heard Basil Stevens say in his rather deep voice,

“Don't look like that, Miss Cameron—he hasn't been shot.” He made quite a long pause, and then added, “
Yet
.”

The letter shook in her hand. She put out her other hand to steady it, but that shook too.

“Miss Cameron—I give you my word that he's alive.”

“How—do you—know?”

“It is my business to know. I have come here on business. I want you to pull yourself together. Have you any wine here?”

She shook her head.

He brought her a glass of water, and she drank a little. The first impact of the shock was over. She was numbed by it, but her head felt clear.