The Red Symbol

by John Ironside

  CHAPTER XI

  "LA MORT OU LA VIE!"

  I took a cab from the newspaper office to Von Eckhardt's address,--aflat in the west end.

  I found him, as Medhurst had reported, considerably agitated. He is agood-hearted chap, and a brilliant writer, though he's too apt to allowhis feelings to carry him away; for he's even more sentimental than theaverage German, and entirely lacking in the characteristic Germanphlegm. He is as vivacious and excitable as a Frenchman, and I fancythere's a good big dash of French blood in his pedigree, though he'd beangry if any one suggested such a thing!

  He did not know me for a moment, but when I told him who I was hewelcomed me effusively.

  "Ah, now I remember; we met in London, when I was there with my poorfriend. 'We heard at midnight the clock,' as our Shakespeare says. Andyou are going to take his place? I have not yet the shock recovered ofhis death; from it I never shall recover. O judgment, to brutish beastshast thou fled, and their reason men have lost. My heart, with my friendCarson, in its coffin lies, and me, until it returns, you must excuse!"

  I surmised that he was quoting Shakespeare again, as he had to Medhurst.I wanted to smile, though I was so downright wretched. He would air whathe conceived to be his English, and he was funny!

  "Would you mind speaking German?" I asked, for there was a good deal Iwanted to learn from him, and I guessed I should get at it all thesooner if I could head him off from his quotations. His face fell, and Ihastened to add--

  "Your English is splendid, of course, and you've no possible need topractise it; but my German's rusty, and I'd be glad to speak a bit. Justyou pull me up, if you can't understand me, and tell me what's wrong."

  My German is as good as most folks', any day, but he just grabbed at myexplanation, and accepted it with a kindly condescension that was evenfunnier than his sentimental vein. Therefore the remainder of ourconversation was in his own language.

  "I hear you've left the _Zeitung_," I remarked. "Going on anotherpaper?"

  "The editor of the _Zeitung_ dismissed me," he answered explosively."Pig that he is, he would not understand the reason that led to myejection from Russia!"

  "Conducted to the frontier, and shoved over, eh? How did that happen?" Iasked.

  "Because I demanded justice on the murderers of my friend," he declaredvehemently. "I went to the chief of the police, and he laughed at me.There are so many murders in Petersburg, and what is one Englishman moreor less? I went to the British Embassy. They said the matter was beinginvestigated, and they emphatically snubbed me. They are so insular, sonarrow-minded; they could not imagine how strong was the bond offriendship between Carson and me. He loved our Shakespeare, even as Ilove him."

  "You wrote to Lord Southbourne," I interrupted bluntly. "And you senthim a portrait,--a woman's portrait that poor Carson had been carryingabout in his breast-pocket. Now why did you do that? And who is thewoman?"

  His answer was startling.

  "I sent it to him to enable him to recognize her, and warn her if hecould find her. I knew she was in London, and in danger of her life; andI knew of no one whom I could summon to her aid, as Carson would havewished, except Lord Southbourne, and I only knew him as my friend'schief."

  "But you never said a word of all this in the note you sent toSouthbourne with the photograph. I know, for he showed it me."

  "That is so; I thought it would be safer to send the letter separately;I put a mere slip in with the photograph."

  Had Southbourne received that letter? If so, why had he not mentioned itto me, I thought; but I said aloud: "Who is the woman? What is her name?What connection had she with Carson?"

  "He loved her, as all good men must love her, as I myself, who have seenher but once,--so beautiful, so gracious, so devoted to her country, tothe true cause of freedom,--'a most triumphant lady' as our Sha--"

  "Her name, man; her name!" I cried somewhat impatiently.

  "She is known under several," he answered a trifle sulkily. "I believeher real name is Anna Petrovna--"

  That conveyed little; it is as common a name in Russia as "Ann Smith"would be in England, and therefore doubtless a useful alias.

  "But she has others, including two, what is it you call them--necknames?"

  "Nicknames; well, go on."

  "In Russia those who know her often speak of her by one or theother,--'La Mort,' or 'La Vie,' it is safer there to use a pseudonym.'La Mort' because they say,--they are superstitious fools,--thatwherever she goes, death follows, or goes before; and 'La Vie' becauseof her courage, her resource, her enthusiasm, her so-inspiringpersonality. Those who know, and therefore love her most, call her that.But, as I have said, she has many names, an English one among them; Ihave heard it, but I cannot recall it. That is one of my presenttroubles."

  "Was it 'Anne Pendennis,' or anything like that?" I asked, huskily.

  "Ach, that is it; you know her, then?"

  "Yes, I know her; though I had thought her an English woman."

  "That is her marvel!" he rejoined eagerly. "In France she is aFrenchwoman; in Germany you would swear she had never been outside theFatherland; in England an English maiden to the life, and in Russia sheis Russian, French, English, German,--American even, with a name to suiteach nationality. That is how she has managed so long to evade herenemies. The Russian police have been on her track these three years;but they have never caught her. She is wise as the serpent, harmless asthe dove--"

  I had to cut his rhapsodies short once more.

  "What is the peril that threatens her? She was in England untilrecently; the Secret Police could not touch her there?"

  "It is not the police now. They are formidable,--yes,--when their grasphas closed on man or woman; but they are incredibly stupid in many ways.See how often she herself has slipped through their fingers! But this isfar more dangerous. She has fallen under the suspicion of the League."

  "The League that has a red geranium as its symbol?"

  He started, and glanced round as if he suspected some spy concealed evenin this, his own room.

  "You know of it?" he asked in a low voice.

  "I have heard of it. Well, are you a member of it?"

  "I? Gott in Himmel, no! Why should I myself mix in these Russianpolitics? But Carson was involved with them,--how much even I do notknow,--and she has been one of them since her childhood. Now they sayshe is a traitress. If possible they will bring her before the Five--thesecret tribunal. Even they do not forget all she has done for them; andthey would give her the chance of proving her innocence. But if she willnot return, they will think that is sufficient proof, and they will killher, wherever she may be."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "Carson told me before I left for Wilna. He meant to warn her. Theyguessed that, and they condemned, murdered him!"

  He began pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself; and I sattrying to piece out the matter in my own mind.

  "Have you heard anything of a man called Cassavetti; though I believehis name was Selinski?" I asked at length.

  Von Eckhardt turned to me open-mouthed.

  "Selinski? He is himself one of the Five; he is in London, has beenthere for months; and it is he who is to bring her before the tribunal,by force or guile."

  "He is dead, murdered; stabbed to the heart in his own room, even asCarson was, four days ago."

  He sat down plump on the nearest chair.

  "Dead! That, at least, is one of her enemies disposed of! That is goodnews, splendid news, Herr Wynn. Why did you not tell me that before? 'Toa gracious message an host of tongues bestow,' as our Shakespeare says.How is it you know so much? Do you also know where she is? I was toldshe would be here, three days since; that is why I have waited. And shehas not come! She is still in England?"

  "No, she left on Sunday morning. I do not know where she is, but she hasbeen seen at Ostend with--the Russian Grand Duke Loris."

  I hated saying those last words; but I had to say them, for, though Iknew Anne Pendennis was
lost to me, I felt a deadly jealousy of thisRussian, to whom, or with whom she had fled; and I meant to find out allthat Von Eckhardt might know about him, and his connection with her.

  "The Grand Duke Loris!" he repeated. "She was with him, openly? Does shethink him strong enough to protect her? Or does she mean to die withhim? For he is doomed also. She must know that!"

  "What is he to her?"

  I think I put the question quietly; though I wanted to take him by thethroat and wring the truth out of him.

  "He? He is the cause of all the trouble. He loves her. Yes, I told youthat all good men who have but even seen her, love her; she is theideal of womanhood. One loves her, you and I love her; for I see wellthat you yourself have fallen under her spell! We love her as we lovethe stars, that are so infinitely above us,--so bright, so remote, soadorable! But he loves her as a man loves a woman; she loves him as awoman loves a man. And he is worthy of her love! He would give upeverything, his rank, his name, his wealth, willingly, gladly, if shewould be his wife. But she will not, while her country needs her. It isher influence that has made him what he is,--the avowed friend of thepersecuted people, ground down under the iron heel of the autocracy. Yetit is through him that she has fallen under suspicion; for the Leaguewill not believe that he is sincere; they will trust no aristocrat."

  He babbled on, but I scarcely heeded him. I was beginning to pierce theveil of mystery, or I thought I was; and I no longer condemned AnnePendennis, as, in my heart, I had condemned her, only an hour back. Theweb of intrigue and deceit that enshrouded her was not of her spinning;it was fashioned on the tragic loom of Fate.

  She loved this Loris, and he loved her? So be it! I hated him in myheart; though, even if I had possessed the power, I would have wroughthim no harm, lest by so doing I should bring suffering to her.Henceforth I must love her as Von Eckhardt professed to do, or was hisprotestation mere hyperbole? "As we love the stars--so infinitely aboveus, so bright, so remote!"

  And yet--and yet--when her eyes met mine as we stood together under theportico of the Cecil, and again in that hurried moment of farewell atthe station, surely I had seen the love-light in them, "that beautifullook of love surprised, that makes all women's eyes look the same," whenthey look on their beloved.

  So, though for one moment I thought I had unravelled the tangle, thenext made it even more complicated than before. Only one thread shoneclear,--the thread of my love.