Red Stefan

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Red Stefan

Patricia Wentworth

CHAPTER I

The man turned at the end of the bridge and walked back. That he was committing an act of pure folly was, of course, perfectly plain to him, but at the moment that did not matter at all. All that mattered was that he should cross the bridge again.

He turned and walked back slowly in the teeth of the bitter wind. Overhead the sky hung low and dark, and the clouds were heavy with snow. It wanted half an hour to sunset, but the light was failing rapidly. It had not been really light all day, but he could still see the leaden flow of the river, with the ice clinging to its banks and a black mass of buildings rising up on either side like cliffs to meet the arch of the sky. The parapet of the bridge showed dark against the shadowed river. The woman's figure, bent above the parapet, showed darker still. She had not moved. He came slowly up the slight incline and saw that she had not moved at all. She stood as if she had been frozen there, a dark slender figure with bent head and drooping shoulders.

The man looked at her, frowning. He wore a rough sheepskin coat and cap, and the wind cut through them. The woman was thinly dressed. How much longer was she going to stand there? Till she froze where she stood? Perhaps that was what she was doing it for. In Russia nowadays no one cared what became of you. You helped to pull the car of the Revolution, or you crawled away out of its path to die.

He walked very slowly past her and then turned to look back. The act of folly was becoming more outrageous every moment. At a time when it was all important that he should melt inconspicuously into the background, here he was concerning himself with the affairs of a stranger. If he went on loitering like this, somebody would be tolerably sure to come along and notice him—and the one thing he could not afford was to attract notice.

He walked to the parapet and stood there a dozen feet away from the dark bowed figure. He could now see the line of her cheek and chin. She had a round cloth cap on her head. It hid her hair and her ears. Her eyes were open. The thin cheek and temple might have been cut from marble.

It was she.

He had, of course, known it all along. His heart gave an involuntary jerk. Talk of folly—what folly was there like this?—to be unable to pass a chance-met stranger seen half a dozen times in the streets of this Russian town, and, what was more, to be unable to think of her as a stranger. She bore the stamp and strain of utter poverty. He neither knew her name nor who she was. And the least turn of her head, the least movement of her hands, were as dearly familiar as if he had known her always. Well, there was no movement now. The stillness tugged at his heart. Ice is still, death is still. No living flesh should be as still as this. His blood stirred with something like horror, and before the horror had time to die he had crossed the space between them. The impulse carried him into abrupt low-toned speech.

“Why do you stand here in this freezing wind? It's too cold for you.”

He spoke in Russian, and it was in Russian that she answered him. Without any turn of the head or change of expression she said.

“Yes, it is cold.”

His heart jerked again. It was the first time that he had heard her voice. Drained and faint as it was, it could yet touch something in him which no sound had touched before. He stood looking at her, but she did not look at him. She looked at the snow-clouds and the river, but she did not seem to see them. Perhaps she watched the wind go by. He could see her eyes, and there was an awful patience in them. No one looks like that who has not grown used to pain. With a hot anger in his heart he said gently.

“It is much too cold for you. You should not stand here.”

She turned her head a little then and gave him a tired, appraising look. Seen full face like this in the dusk, her face was all shadows. They lay heavily under the fine arch of the brow and in the hollows of the cheeks. She said, with a little more tone in her voice, as if she were making an effort.

“Why do you speak to me?”

If he had been looking for adventure, her look would have checked him, it was so remote. He said, almost roughly.

“You'll freeze if you go on standing here.”

The faintest flicker of something that was not quite a smile touched the pale lips. He had a quick enchanted thought of what it would be to see her smile at him in joy. The thought sank down into the depths of him and stayed there. She said

“It would not matter in the least. Please do not trouble yourself about me.” The words were Russian, but they came haltingly. The accent was not Russian at all.

He looked over his shoulder. They were alone upon the bridge. He completed his act of folly by stepping to her side and saying abruptly.

“You're English, aren't you?”

The voice and the English words struck against her numbness like a blow. They woke her to a faint tingling consciousness.

She said, “Who are you?” and spoke in English too.

With a complete absence of hesitation he put his life into her hands.

“My name is Stephen Enderby.”

“English?”

“Of course.”

“Is that why you spoke to me? Do you know me?”

“No, I don't know you—at least I don't know who you are. I've seen you. Does one have to know a woman to try and stop her freezing herself to death?”

If he had not been so near, he would have missed that second flicker of a smile.

She said, “I think so. It is very much one's own affair.” And then, “How did you know I was English?”

He laughed. There was warmth and assurance in his tone.

“You don't speak very good Russian, and—I chanced it. And now that we are introduced, may I see you home, because you really oughtn't to be standing here in this wind.”

For a moment she really smiled.

“Are we introduced, Mr Enderby?”

He laughed. The sound had a queer careless gaiety.

“Stefan Ivanovitch, if you don't mind. The other would probably mean a firing-squad if anyone heard you.”

He saw her face change. It was as if all the shadows had deepened and frozen there. She swayed a little, and he put his hand on her to steady her.

“Then why did you tell me?” she said. “I'm a stranger. Why do you tell a thing like that to a stranger?”

His hand was on her arm. He felt it thrill as she spoke. She was very cold to touch, but it was not the coldness of death. Pain thrilled through her. He felt it under his hand. He said,

“No—you're not a stranger. I've watched you. Won't you tell me your name?”

She released herself and leaned against the parapet. The wind went past her. She said,

“My name is Elizabeth Radin.”

Stephen laughed again.

“Now we're really introduced! Please may I see you home?”

“No, I don't think so, Stefan Ivanovitch.” Her fingers lay on the cold stone and traced some pattern there. They were only half hidden by a tattered glove.

“Why?” said Stephen. He too leaned on the parapet. The river below them was unseen and the darkness had begun to close them in.

There was no answer. Her cold thin fingers moved upon the stone.

“Why?” said Stephen very insistently.

Elizabeth looked across the dark river. The black houses which stood over it like cliffs showed here and there a lighted pane. The wind went by. She said in a sweet, quiet voice,

“I haven't anywhere to go.”

Stephen's heart gave a bound of angry excitement.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I say, Mr Enderby—I beg your pardon, Stefan Ivanovitch.”

Stephen caught her wrist.

“What nonsense is this?” Then he had his coat off and was putting it round her. “Here—slip your arms into the sleeves. It's a beastly fuggy old hide, but it will keep the wind out.”

She had not known how cold she was till the warmth came round her. In these days, since Nicolas Radin's death, she had grown used to being cold. Life was one long nightmare. To freeze—to starve—perhaps to freeze to death.… The sheepskin, warmed by Stephen's vigorous body, gave her a momentary sense of awakening. In the days before the nightmare began one had been warm and cared for. A shudder ran over her as she said very faintly,

“You mustn't give me your coat. You'll freeze.”

“Not if we walk,” said Stephen firmly.

He fastened the coat as if he were dressing a child and, taking her by the elbow, began to walk her down the incline towards the left bank of the river. He talked as they went, and his blood raced. The coldest wind in the world could not have frozen him just then. He was alive, warm, and dominant. He felt capable of striding straight on to the frontier and over it with Elizabeth in his arms. He had never been so happy in his life.

“Now,” he said, “you'd better tell me why you haven't got anywhere to go. Then we can think what's the best thing to do. By the way, what were you going to do?”

“Stay there, I suppose.”

He could only just hear the words.

“And freeze?”

“I suppose so.”

He felt a boiling anger which merged into triumph. Freeze, would she? Not with him to take care of her! He laughed out loud. She had again that sensation of awakening. In the nightmare no one laughed. They starved, fought, agonized, intrigued, and died, but they didn't laugh. Stephen was talking in that warm, confident voice.

“Please tell me why you've nowhere to go. I'm all in the dark, and I can't help you while I'm in the dark. Why are you stranded here? What has happened? I'll be able to help you much better if I know.”

They had left the bridge and were following the darkening road. Elizabeth said under her breath.

“I don't think anyone can help. I want to go home, but they won't let me go.”