Red Shadow (4 page)

Then she shut her eyes and stayed there motionless, with the cloud of her veil failing about her.

Basil Stevens came to her elbow and said quietly,

“You must be careful what you say.”

She spoke into the telephone again.

“I want to speak to Mr Peter Severn..… Miss Laura Cameron. It is very urgent.”

After that they waited. It seemed a very long time. Laura had a picture of Peter walking towards her down an endless cold corridor—his footsteps echoed in it, but he never came any nearer. And all the time Jim was waiting to be shot. When Peter's voice came suddenly along the wire, she started violently, and her heart beat so hard that she could not hear what he was saying at first. Then she heard her name.

“Laura—is that you?”

Her “Yes” told Peter Severn that at least he would not have to break anything to her.

“What is it, Laura?”

“I've had a letter—from Jim.”

“Yes?”

“He's—in prison.”

There was a silence. Laura caught her breath.

“Peter—is it true?”

“I'm afraid it is.”

“He says—he says——”

“When did you hear?” said Peter Severn.

“Just now.” She forced her voice. “He says they're going—to shoot him.”

Another silence.

“Peter—is it true?”

“I'm afraid——”

“Tell me what you've heard.”

“We had a report from Trevor yesterday. We wired at once. There was an answer half an hour ago. I was coming round to see you.”

“They
haven't!
” Laura's tone was sharp with agony.

“No—not yet.”

“When?”

“Trevor says to-morrow. He's doing all he can. But they're claiming him as a Russian national. His grandfather took out papers in order to get some concession or other, and both Jim and his father were born in the country. It's a most damnable business. We're—we're doing all we can, Laura.”

Laura drew a difficult breath.

“Do you think there's—any—hope?”

“We're doing all we can,” said Peter Severn. There was no hope in his voice.

She stayed silent, her eyes fixed, her hand rigid on the receiver. At last she said,

“Are you sure—he's still—alive?”

Peter's answer came quickly.

“Oh yes. Trevor was to see him to-morrow. We've got till to-morrow.”

After a pause Laura repeated his words: “We've got till to-morrow.” Then she said,

“Thank you, Peter. You'll let me know if you hear?”

“Shall I come round?”

Basil Stevens laid a hand on her arm. She looked up and met an emphatic shake of the head. She bent again to the mouthpiece.

“No, don't come—ring up.”

She hung up the receiver and turned.

“He said——”

“I heard what he said—he has a very good telephone voice. Well? Are you convinced?”

“Can you save him?” said Laura with sorrowful simplicity.

“Yes,” said Basil Stevens.

“How do I know?” She put her hand to her head. “I can't think—but I must—I must think!” She covered her eyes for a moment, leaning her elbow upon the little table.

“Perhaps,” said Basil Stevens, “you would like me to repeat the terms of the—exchange. It is natural that you should be feeling a little confused. This is the position. Mackenzie will be shot to-morrow unless you can offer the Russian Government a sufficient inducement to let him go free. You are able to do this, but it involves a sacrifice that you find painful. You cannot marry Mackenzie, because you will be required to marry some one to whom the Russian Government can entrust their trade interests. When you are married, it will be natural for you to nominate your husband to the boards of the various companies controlled by Mr Hallingdon. I am very sorry to have to press this upon you, but you can see for yourself that there would be no guarantee of permanency unless the Russian nominee was your husband.”

Laura's hand dropped from her eyes. She looked up wildly.

“I can't marry—anyone—but Jim!”

“You cannot marry Jim if he is shot to-morrow,” said Basil Stevens.

Laura flinched as if he had struck her. She said “
Don't!
” in a quivering voice.

Basil Stevens shook his head slightly.

“Just consider for a moment. You have not to choose between marrying Mackenzie and marrying—well—me. You cannot in any case marry Mackenzie now. You can let him be shot, and remain Miss Cameron—or you can enter into a business arrangement with me, and have the satisfaction of knowing that you have saved his life.”

“
You?
” said Laura in a tone of horror.

Basil Stevens made her a queer, un-English bow.

“I, Miss Cameron.”

“Oh, no, no,
no!
” said Laura.

Basil Stevens flung up his hands. It was exactly as if he were throwing off the polite formality which had clothed him. He made a guttural sound of anger.

“Ah! Do you suppose that I have a passion for you? Do you? Then I will tell you that you do not appeal to me in the least! I will tell you that this is a matter of pure business! Will that make you see reason? Listen to me! Did you ever see a play called
Hassan
? There is a woman in it who behaves exactly like you. If she will marry the Sultan, she can save her lover from death. Does she want to save him? Does she act like a sensible human being? Not in the least! She requires him to die with her by lingering tortures. And the young man—” he waved his arms in a vigorous gesture and laughed loudly—“the young man, does he thank her?—does the prospect enchant him—has he the least desire to die with her?” He laughed again, more loudly still. “He is—what is the word—fed to the teeth! It was a play that amused me very much because it was so true to life. You women are all sentiment, but a man thinks about other things. Do you think that Mackenzie wants to die? He is in love with you—that goes without saying. He wishes to marry you, and he will suffer when he finds that you have married some one else. But he will get over it—he has other interests in his life—he has youth, and health, and some money, and an invention for which he has great hopes. In a little while he will be very grateful to you. At the first it will be a blow. But that kind of blow will not kill him—it is not like a bullet. One can recover from a broken engagement, but not from an encounter with a firing-squad.”

Laura had turned in her chair, her wide horrified gaze upon his face. At the brutality of his last words she shrank back as far as she could. The man who had poured out this rapid tirade was some one she had never seen before; his manner, his intonation, the movement of his hands were no longer those of an Englishman. But this change went far to accomplish its purpose. Whilst she was speaking to Basil Stevens, whom she had met at the Harrisons, English like herself, an engineer like Jim, a man who had taken her in to dinner, with whom she had danced, the things that he had said had somehow fallen short of that final reality from which there is no escape; but this man with the savage un-English inflection in his voice—all at once he made her feel that the thing was true. Jim was going to be shot. It wasn't too bad to happen—it was going to happen unless—unless——

“Who are you?” she said.

He burst out laughing.

“Why do you ask me that?”

“Because I must know. You must tell me the truth—nothing else will do. You're not English.”

He was still laughing.

“I am a British subject, Miss Cameron. You find that funny? Well, so do I. I am Vassili Stefanoff—and in English that is Basil Stevens. I have not one drop of your English blood, I am pleased to say; but I am a British subject, because my father was a Tsarist exile, and I was born in England. In some ways, you see, my situation resembles Mackenzie's. I find that amusing. But I am in a more favourable position than he is—I am not expecting to be shot.”

Laura did not flinch this time. Something had happened to her. At the touch of that inescapable reality her confusion and her tremors had passed. She had reached the point at which a man turns and, with his back to the wall, prepares to sell his life as dearly as he may. It is the point at which, hope being dead, courage takes its place.

Laura folded her hands in her lap. She sat up straight and pale, and said what she had to say in a quiet voice that no longer shook.

“If I do what you want, I have got to be sure about Jim. You can't expect me to trust you.” She used no sarcasm; it was a mere statement of fact.

She was recollecting a terrible little story of the French Revolution read years ago in some forgotten book of memoirs. There was a girl who had sold herself to one of the Terrorists to save the father whom she adored, and when she had made her sacrifice she was shown his head. Laura's mind was cold and clear. There should be none of that.

Basil Stevens had stopped laughing.

“Now we talk business!” he said, and took a chair.

“I must know that Jim is safe before I do anything,” said Laura.

“My dear Miss Cameron—be reasonable! When Mackenzie is safe, how do we know what you may do?”

Laura took him up with a quickness he had not expected.

“And when I have done what you want, how do I know that he will be safe? You might come to me and say that there has been an accident—that you were too late. No! I don't trust you—you can't expect me to trust you!”

Basil Stevens had resumed that reasonable, formal manner of his.

“If you think, you will see that you can trust us. The marriage is only the first step. In itself, it does not help us at all. You trust us by taking the first step—then we trust you, because we release Mackenzie. It will be some months before we reap any real advantage, because it will be some months before Mr Hallingdon's will is proved and you can obtain any effective control of his affairs.”

“How do I know that you will release Jim? I won't trust you!” she said.

Vassili Stefanoff emerged with sudden violence.

“You will, and you won't! You bargain—you make terms! You do not trust! Do you think it is for you to make terms like that? You may be thankful if you get Mackenzie's life! I say you may be thankful!”

When he shouted at her, Laura's resolve hardened.

“I shall be thankful when he is safe,” she said. “I won't do anything till he's safe. I've got to know that he's safe before I do anything.”

“You propose that he shall be a witness to the marriage, perhaps!”

Her pallor and her calm were unbroken. She said quite gently, “You mustn't speak to me like that.” And then, “I have thought of a way.”

“Well—what is it?”

“He must be out of Russia before I do anything. If he was in Germany, I should know he was safe. He could telephone to me from Berlin—he has done it before. When I have spoken to him—when I am sure that he is safe—I will do what you want.”

“And be made fools of? That's a very nice plan—for you!”

“No,” said Laura. “I'll keep my word—when he's safe.”

There was a curious silence. Laura was aware of a pressure, an insistence, but it was outside the walls of her mind. She was aware of it only as an outside thing. It had not the slightest power to touch her thought or turn her purpose.

All at once Vassili Stefanoff sprang up.

“You will swear to go through with the marriage?”

“I'll give you my word.”

He made a quick gesture.

“You will swear? What is there that is sacred to you? Are you religious? Have you a Bible?”

“If I give you my word, I shall keep it.”

“Oh, naturally you do not wish to take an oath. But you will take one!”

“If you like,” said Laura—“it makes no difference.”

She got up, went into the bedroom, and came back with her Bible in her hand. Her silver train whispered behind her. The folds of her veil fell all about her as she put the book into his hand.

“What do you want me to say?”

He dictated the oath. His vehement tone left her unmoved. It was no more to her than her word would have been. She was giving her word to marry Vassili Stefanoff as soon as she knew from Jim himself that he was free. She laid her hand on the Bible and took tremendous words upon her lips. The whole thing was no more than something that had to be done for Jim.

Vassili Stefanoff put down the book.

“You have your way,” he said. “You will bear in mind that if you do not keep your oath, no place in the world will be safe for Mackenzie. You will not expect to hear from him for thirty-six hours. There are formalities—and he will have to reach Berlin. This is Wednesday. He should be able to ring you up on Friday morning. We shall be married at the Chelsea registry office that afternoon. I have made all the necessary arrangements.”

He bowed ceremoniously and went out of the room.

CHAPTER V

Laura Cameron remembered neither her father nor her mother, and with the exception of the cousin, whom she called Aunt Agatha and who had brought her up, she had no near relations.

Miss Agatha Wimborough, last survivor of an old Virginian family, was an acid, upright, competent lady, handsome in person and decided in her views. Feminism was her religion. Man was vile, and woman his suffering victim. That Laura should contemplate marrying, actually marrying, a man, was almost past her powers of belief—Laura, brought up from infancy to look upon marriage as a degrading survival of the days of woman's subjection—Laura, her pupil, accustomed to hear daily, almost hourly, of woman's wrongs and man's depravity. Alas, it is possible to hear a thing so often that the mind develops a callous and refuses to respond. When Laura at eighteen began to meet young men, she looked at them with a kind of horrified curiosity. But this very soon wore off. She found them pleasant, and most undoubtedly she pleased them. Before she knew where she was, she was making friends with the monsters and beginning to think that Aunt Agatha might be mistaken. Man might be capable of anything; but Buster, and Freddy, and Dick, and Bimbo were not Man with a capital “m”; they were her friends—and Laura could never believe anything but good of a friend.