Red Stefan (30 page)
Authors: Patricia Wentworth
“And then?” said Elizabeth again. The words were so faint that he hardly caught them. She might have been speaking to herselfâperhaps she was.
Russia was behind them. Their danger, their close companionship, the days and nights when he, and he alone, had stood between her and the nightmare that threatenedâthese too lay behind.
In front of themâwhat? Separationsâa divided path.⦠The future looked as cold as ice and as barren as the snow. She saw these things, like two painted pictures, in a moment of time.
Then Stephen was answering her.
“They'll set us on our way with a horse and sledge in the morning. They're used to my comings and goings, and they don't ask questions. We'll get to the railway and be in Warsaw by the afternoon.”
Warsawâcivilization.⦠She would have to get a passportâclothes.⦠She remembered suddenly and bleakly that she hadn't a penny in the world. She leaned a little more heavily against the wall, and as she did so, the topmost row of Fay Darenska's pearls slipped from the torn collar of her blouse. She put up her hand, remembering. Stephen had given her the pearls to take care ofâand the ringsâhis mother's rings. She must give them back again.
She lifted the pearls over her head and held them out. He had set the torch on a step at the level of his shoulder. The ray cut the darkness between them like a sword. The pearls dipped into the light and slid away to the shadows below.
“What's this?” said Stephen in a startled voice.
“The pearls. Will you take them?”
Her hands felt weak, but they were steady. She thanked God that they were steady.
“But they're yours,” said Stephen with devastating simplicity.
Elizabeth's hands began to shake. Her whole body began to shake. She took a sobbing breath and tried to speak, but the words that should have come failed and became just a stammering murmur of sound.
Stephen took the pearls, knotted them in a dirty red cotton handkerchief, and dropped them into his pocket.
“I'll keep them for you,” he said. Then all at once his voice changed. “Elizabethâyou did know that they were for you?”
She leaned against the wall. One moment not to have a penny piece in the world, and the next to be given the Darensky pearls. One moment to be poor and lonely, and the next to have Stephen's voice changing for her like this. She said,
“How could I know?”
Stephen put his arms round her.
“Didn't you really know? I knew the first time I saw you in that damned bread queue at Tronsk. I knew that I belonged to you, and I knew that I could make you belong to me. And when I found you on the bridge, I knew it all over again. You were all frozen and dead, but I knew that I could get you to come alive. I told you right away that I wasn't going to let you die.”
“My face is dirty,” said Elizabeth. “You mustn't kiss me with a dirty face.”
“Mine's dirty too,” said Stephen. “We'll get baths when we get to Warsaw, but I'm not going to wait to kiss you till then.”
He kissed the eyes which he had always thought were like stars and the soft trembling lips, and then he set her down.
“I want to get you to the farm before it's dark.”
“Won't it be dark yet?”
“Not quite.”
“They won't come after us?”
“They can't. There's a great wire entanglement all along this part of the frontier, and we're on the Polish side of it.”
He picked up the torch and began to help her up the stepsâold broken steps and slippery at the edges. Elizabeth went up them in a dream. Stephen loved her. Stephen really loved her. They belonged to each other. Their love made a safe, light place about them. She would have walked with him through the loneliest, darkest place in the world without a tremor of fear.
They came to where the steps ended beneath a slab of stone. The torch showed a niche with a rude lever. As Stephen put his hand on it, he said,
“We'll get married in Warsaw. I should think it would take about three days.”
Then, before she could speak, the stone pivoted and he was swinging himself through the opening. A sharp piercing air brought down a flurry of snow. Stephen took her under the arms and lifted her up and out. The stone fell back into its place.
It was late dusk. The sky was dark overhead. Black formless shapes of ruined arch and fallen pillar were about them. A glimmering snowfield stretched away on every side.
“Poland!” said Stephen.
About the Author
Patricia Wentworth (1878â1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1935 by J.B. Lippincott Company
Cover design by Maurcio DÃaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3318-3
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
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