“You’ve got an awfully good memory,” said Stephen in an admiring voice.
He had produced pencil and paper. She found him looking at her with a gratified air.
“Do you mind saying it all over again? I want to write it down.”
Elizabeth didn’t mind how often she said it. She wanted to do what Stephen wanted her to do, and to unpack her mind of this dangerous secret stuff gave her a sense of pure relief. She gave the words and figures again with a slow, meticulous accuracy and watched him write them down.
When he had finished, she asked him,
“Where will you hide it?”
Lovely to feel that it was no longer any affair of hers. But just for curiosity’s sake she might ask her question.
Stephen said, “Hush!” and bent a frowning face over the paper. His lips moved in a soundless mutter. He made horrible faces like a schoolboy.
Elizabeth regarded him with tenderness. Men never grew up. No, that wasn’t it—the man you loved never grew up. Behind the grown-up make-believe there was the dear funny little boy whom his mother had loved. Perhaps some day there would be another little boy, very dear and funny, with bright blue eyes and an inky frown.
Stephen’s frown went suddenly. He looked up with a beaming smile, and Elizabeth repeated her question.
“How are you going to hide it?”
He burst out laughing and tapped his forehead.
“Here,” he said, and began tearing the paper into tiny scraps which he tossed out upon the snow.
CHAPTER XII
In the stable behind the tumble-down pot-house where Yuri unharnessed his horse it occurred to Elizabeth for the first time that she did not know where they were going. Perhaps at the back of her mind she had taken it for granted that they would go back to the room to which Stephen had taken her on the first night. It appeared, however, that she was mistaken. Stephen when asked where they were going said that he didn’t know. After which he linked his arm in hers and marched her out into the street.
“Are we not going to the same place as before?”
He shook his head decidedly.
“No. It’s not fit for you—and it’s dangerous.”
“Are we just going to walk about the streets?” said Elizabeth demurely.
Stephen laughed.
“Would you like to? I don’t trust you, you know. You might just slip away into the snow and get lost. There’s not much more of you than a snowflake. Would you like some hot coffee?”
Her lips trembled into a smile.
“I might like the moon.”
He patted her arm.
“Oh, you’ll get the coffee all right. Here—there’s a short cut down this alley. It takes us in by the back way.”
“But in where?”
“It’s a café. I’ll have to leave you there whilst I go and prospect. I think I know someone who will lend us a room, but it might be dangerous to take you there till I’m sure the coast is clear.”
They turned out of the alley into a yard. A path had been cut through the snow to a door in the wall of a ramshackle house. On this Stephen knocked. It was opened by a middle-aged woman with a face heated and reddened by cooking. She beckoned them in, shut the door again, and began to scold Stephen for coming in that way. Talking and scolding all the time, she took them across the kitchen and up some steps, at the top of which she left them. The scolding voice retreated. They were in a narrow, dark passage where Elizabeth could see nothing. She pressed involuntarily against Stephen, and for a moment his arm came round her and held her there. He said something under his breath, but her heart beat so loudly that she lost the sense of what he said. It was just Stephen’s voice which came to her, low and moved. And then a door in front of them was pushed open and a tall, thin man in the dress of a waiter stood aside to let them pass.
They came into a room with alcoves on either side and small tables everywhere. Stephen took her across to one of the alcoves, ordered coffee, and when the waiter had gone put the money to pay for it into her hand.
“Now all you’ve got to do is to sit here till I come back. Keep turned away from the room and drink your coffee. No one will notice you. I shan’t be longer than I can help.” He spoke in Russian, and his voice was as cool and practical as if there had never been that moment in the passage. Then he was gone, threading his way among the tables and disappearing through the door by which they had come.
Elizabeth was glad to be alone. Her heart still beat, and all her thoughts were in confusion. That half embrace had most deeply and sweetly troubled her. She needed time to steady herself again. She leaned her elbows on the little table and hid her eyes. When the waiter put the cup of coffee before her she looked up with a start. She paid him and, taking up her cup, she sipped from it and began for the first time to take in her surroundings. She had thought the room empty, but four or five of the tables were now occupied by quiet people who ate and drank either in silence or with some scarcely audible murmur of speech. Opposite the door by which she and Stephen had come in was an open archway partially screened by curtains. It appeared to lead to an outer room.
Elizabeth drank her coffee. After one glance over her shoulder she kept her face from the room. Presently she found that she could see without being seen. On the wall of the alcove a little above her head was a small mirror in a cheap wooden frame. It was tilted at such an angle that it reflected the curtained arch and about half the room. She sat with her chin in her hand and watched the reflection. Every now and then the curtains in the mirror would part and someone would come through them into the picture—a man with grey hair and a broken nose; an elderly woman with bowed shoulders and a lagging step, in a fur-trimmed coat of incredibly old-fashioned cut; a young man with light, restless eyes; and others. Sometimes they stayed in the picture, sitting down at one of the small reflected tables to eat and drink like the people of a dream. Sometimes they passed across the picture and disappeared from it into some unseen corner of the room. They came for the most part singly, and went, as they had come, without speech or greeting.
Elizabeth’s thoughts began to wander. She looked for Stephen’s return and feared it. His touch had moved her so deeply that their next meeting would be full of strange emotions and possibilities. She longed for him to come, and she dreaded his coming. She felt as if she knew neither herself nor him—as if they had suddenly lost their old selves.… Something new lay just beyond this moment.
She looked up from her thoughts into the mirror and saw the curtains part.
Irina stood between them.
The floor seemed to tilt under Elizabeth’s feet. The room reflected in the mirror was tilting too. In a moment the chairs, the tables, the silent guests would begin to slide down that tilting floor towards the curtains between which Irina stood, tall and dark and beautiful, with a scarlet handkerchief knotted at her throat. There was a mist round her. Through the mist Elizabeth saw the curtains move. It was Irina who moved them, thrusting at the heavy folds with a strong bare hand. The room beyond showed through the gap, incredibly far away.
Irina turned and spoke over her shoulder to someone in that faraway room. There was a sound in Elizabeth’s ears like the sound of a high wind, but Irina’s voice cut through it clear and hard.
“This way, Petroff. There is plenty of room in here, and it is warm.”
At Petroff’s name Elizabeth found herself on her feet. The floor still tilted. The noise in her ears confused her. A kind of panic courage carried her towards the door by which she and Stephen had come in. She mustn’t run. She must be quick without seeming to hurry. She must keep her back to the curtain through which Petroff might come at any moment. If he saw her, she was lost. She mustn’t think about Petroff or she would go sliding down that tilting floor right into his arms.
She reached the door. Opened it. Shut it behind her.
In the dark passage she stood, drawing the long breaths of a hunted creature. Her heart still beat and her knees shook, but the floor was ste
ady under her feet. She began to run, and then, remembering that there were steps ahead of her, pulled up with a hand on the wall at either side of the narrow passage. She had stopped only just in time. One foot was over the edge of the topmost step. For a moment all her weight came on her hands. Then, as she steadied herself, someone came running towards her out of the darkness. She had no time to draw back, to turn, or to flatten herself against the wall. Someone large and black loomed up, bumped into her, caught her off her feet, and carried her with a half stride along the passage. An overwhelming rush of happiness swept her clear of all her terror and confusion, because at the first touch she knew that it was Stephen who held her.
They met where they had parted—for, to Elizabeth, they had parted when his arm had loosed her here as the waiter opened the door. But if they had parted on an emotion, they met in an adventure. Each said the other’s name in a laughing, breathless whisper.
“Stephen!”
“Elizabeth!”
“Stephen—”
“Where are you running to?”
“We must run. Petroff is there with Irina.”
He gave a long, soft whistle.
“The devil he is! Did they see you?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t dare look. I got to the door—somehow.”
All this time she was in his arms, held close whilst they whispered. There might not have been any danger in the world. To Elizabeth there was only Stephen, and to Stephen only Elizabeth.
Then in a moment everything changed. With a smothered laugh he set her on her feet, swung round with her, and ran her down the stairs, through the passage, and across the kitchen. Either the red-faced woman had never stopped scolding, or Stephen’s second irruption had started her off all over again. She seemed to be saying the same things that she had been saying when they came in, and in exactly the same angry, dreary voice. Stephen banged the outer door upon her and her complaints and the warmth of her stuffy kitchen, and they were out in the wintry dusk with the sky dark over them and a faint glimmering light striking up from the fresh-fallen snow. The path that had been cut through it to the yard gate was like a strip of black carpet spread for them to walk on. Actually they ran, and came, still running, out of the gate and round the corner into an empty street.
“Well, that’s that,” said Stephen cheerfully. He dropped his arm from Elizabeth’s waist and hurried her along with a hand at her elbow. “Petroff couldn’t have seen you or he’d have been after us by now. Tell me about it.”
Elizabeth told him. Then she said,
“How did they come there? Were they following us? You said they were at the Collective Farm.”
“Yes—I’ve got to think that out—it’s important. By the way, I’ve found a room all right. It belongs to the man I told you about, Boris Andreieff. He’s a very hot Red, so it’ll be a good place for us to stay. It was a bit of luck catching him, because he’s just off to Moscow to attend a Party meeting. He’s one of the Reddest friends I’ve got. Well, now about Petroff and Irina—I should think Irina went pelting off to the Farm in a temper. I don’t suppose she went specially to see Petroff, though of course she knew he was there, because the person who told me was the schoolmaster, and he’d naturally tell Irina too. She may have gone specially to see Petroff, but I don’t think so. I don’t think she suspected enough for that. I think she was just in a generally angry, irritated, suspicious state of mind.” He spoke as if he was thinking aloud. Then he gave a kind of half laugh and turned to Elizabeth. “I’m only guessing, but when you know people you can generally guess right. Let’s go on guessing. I think Irina got to the Farm and started grousing to Petroff about how uncollective the peasants were, and what a lack of Party enthusiasm there was. That’s not guessing, because she always does that when she can get anyone to listen to her. And then, I think, she probably went on to grouse about me—what a pity I didn’t go to an agricultural college and get a government job, and what was I thinking about to go and pick up with a woman whom nobody knew anything about, a half-witted creature who couldn’t put two words together, and all that sort of thing.” He patted her arm encouragingly. “I say, you don’t mind, do you—because you did act it most awfully well.”
“No, I don’t mind,” said Elizabeth in a dreamy, contented voice.
Stephen patted her arm again.
“It was a compliment really. Anyhow I meant it to be a compliment. Well, then I expect Petroff asked questions, and Irina probably described you enough to make him prick up his ears. They couldn’t get over last night because of the snow, but I rather guess they took a drive this morning—and thank the Lord they just missed us. I had a feeling we’d been long enough in that village. Well, they found we were gone and they came along after us. It’s all guessing, but that’s how I think it was. I don’t see any other way of it, unless they’re not thinking about us at all. I think they are, but perhaps they’re not. We’re feeling awfully important to ourselves, but it’s just on the cards that they’re not giving a damn for us. Irina often goes off into the blue when anything has put her out, so it’s quite likely she got Petroff to give her a lift and came here to work things off. She’s got friends in Tronsk.”
Elizabeth was not really caring very much about Irina and her tempers. One thing that Stephen had said was giving her a curious thrill of surprise. He said they were feeling very important to themselves, and—this is where the thrill came in—it was true. It was such a long time since she had found anything in herself which could interest anyone, because she had been dead, and the dead are not interesting. At Stephen’s words she became aware that she was alive, and not only alive but full of a vivid, vital interest in herself, and in Stephen, and in the world which surrounded them.
They turned another corner and went in at the door of a dark, forbidding house four stories high. None of the bare, blank windows showed any light. They climbed a black stair to the third storey, where Stephen produced a key and unlocked the door which faced them. She heard him moving, but could see nothing until a match spirted and gave her his face suddenly like a picture on the dark. He was lighting a lamp, and in a moment the dull yellow glow showed a good-sized room with a large window, a bed in the corner, and an old comfortable chair. A stove, which had been allowed to go out, still radiated a little heat, and to anyone coming in from the street the room felt warm.
Stephen turned from the lamp and shut the door. He emptied his pockets and put on the table bread, tea, cheese, and a chunk of cold sausage, after which he set himself to stoke the stove, filled a kettle, and put it on to boil.
Elizabeth became aware that she was very hungry.
CHAPTER XIII
When they had eaten, Stephen went out. He had talked cheerfully throughout the meal, but his talk somehow gave Elizabeth the feeling that she was being shut out. She felt vaguely rebuffed. She wanted to know what he was thinking and planning. She was quite sure that behind the talk his mind was busy with plans. When he got up to go, she got up too and stood in his way, one hand upon the door.
“What are we going to do?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said Stephen—“Get away from here as soon as we can.”
“How soon can we get away?”
“Not to-night, I’m afraid.”
She felt a little shock of surprise. She had not thought of going on that night, but when he spoke of it the desire to go swept over her like a sudden gust of wind. It shook her, and she was afraid.
“No, I don’t think we could get away to-night,” Stephen repeated. “I’ve got one or two things to see about. I hope you don’t mind being left. It won’t do for you to go out and risk being seen. I hope Irina didn’t see you.”
Elizabeth hoped so too. Her hand dropped from the door. She was chilled and weary. She stood aside for Stephen to pass. Then all at once, with his hand on the latch, he turned round and came to her.
“Will you rest?”
“I’m not tired.”
They stood for a moment clo
se together without speaking. Then Stephen took both her hands in his and lifted them to his lips. He kissed first one and then the other. Then he let them go and ran out of the room and down the stair.
He was in a state of extreme exhilaration as he came out into the cold street. He had held Elizabeth in his arms, and she had let him kiss her hands. Of course holding her in his arms had been more or less of an accident, but if she had been offended she wouldn’t have let him kiss her hands. The question was, had she let him kiss them, or had he just kissed them? A moment ago he had been sure; now he wasn’t. After all, how could she have stopped him? He had just grabbed her hands and kissed them. It was a very disquieting thought, and he must be more careful another time. It would be horrible if Elizabeth were to think that she couldn’t trust him.
He had got as far as this in his thoughts, when he heard Irina’s voice. He had come the width of three houses from Boris Andreieff’s lodging and he was just about to turn the corner, when from the other side of it he heard Irina speak his name. She said “Stefan,” and he did not wait to hear what else she said.
Irina being one of the two last persons on earth whom he desired to meet at this moment, he swung round and dived into the nearest doorway. It stood recessed under a half porch, and, flattening himself against the door with his face towards it, he waited for Irina to pass by.
She did not pass. She turned the corner, still talking, and there stood no more than a couple of yards away, the centre of a group which, from their voices and the sounds of their feet, must consist of some half dozen men. The street was very dark. The shadow of the porch was opportune. Stephen hoped for the best. Having tried the handle and found that the door was fast, he could do no more. If he were seen, it would be only as a shadow, an unknown man entering or attempting to enter an unknown house. Even Irina would not stand talking at a street corner for long in this bitter weather.
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