The Red Symbol. Ironside John

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СКАЧАТЬ have told him that I have never been in Russia,” she continued, “and he is rude enough to disbelieve a lady!”

      “I protest—and apologize also,” asserted Cassavetti, “though you are smoking a Russian cigarette.”

      “As two-thirds of the women here are doing. The others are non-smoking frumps,” she laughed.

      “But you smoke them with such a singular grace.”

      The words and tone were courtier-like, but their inference was unmistakable. I could have killed him for it! A swift glance from Anne commanded silence and self-restraint.

      “You are a flatterer, Mr. Cassavetti,” she said in mock reproof. “Come along, good people; there’s plenty of room here!” as other acquaintances joined us. “Oh, some one’s going to recite—hush!”

      The next hour or so passed pleasantly, and all too quickly. Anne was the centre of a merry group, and was now in her wittiest and most gracious mood. Cassavetti remained with us, speaking seldom, though he could be a brilliant conversationalist when he liked. He listened to Anne’s every word, watched every gesture, unobtrusively, but with a curious intentness.

      Soon after ten, people began to leave, some who lived at a distance, others who would finish the evening elsewhere. Anne was going on to a birthday supper at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s house in Kensington, to which many theatrical friends had been bidden. The invitation was an impromptu one, given and accepted a few minutes ago, and now the famous actress came to claim her guest.

      “Ready, Anne? Sorry you can’t come with us, Mr. Wynn; but come later if you can.”

      We moved towards the door all together, Anne and her hostess with their hands full of red and white flowers. The “Savages” had raided the table decorations, and presented the spoils to their guests.

      Cassavetti intercepted Anne.

      “Good night, Miss Pendennis,” he said in a low voice, adding, in French, “Will you give me a flower as souvenir of our first meeting?”

      She glanced at her posy, selected a spray of scarlet geranium, and presented it to him with a smile, and a word that I did not catch.

      He looked at her more intently than ever as he took it.

      “A thousand thanks, mademoiselle. I understand well,” he said, with a queer thrill in his voice, as of suppressed excitement.

      As she passed on I heard him mutter in French: “The symbol! Then it is she! Yes, without doubt it is she!”

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

THE BLOOD-STAINED PORTRAIT

       Table of Contents

      In the vestibule I hung around waiting till Anne and Mrs. Dennis Sutherland should reappear from the cloak-room.

      It was close on the time when I was due at Whitehall Gardens, but I must have a parting word with Anne, even at the risk of being late for the appointment with my chief.

      Jim and Mary passed through, and paused to say good night.

      “It’s all right, Maurice?” Mary whispered. “And you’re coming to us to-morrow, anyhow?”

      “Yes; to say good-bye, if I have to start on Monday.”

      “Just about time you were on the war-path again, my boy,” said Jim, bluffly. “Idleness is demoralizing, ’specially in London.”

      Now this was scarcely fair, considering that it was little more than a month since I returned from South Africa, where I had been to observe and report on the conditions of labor in the mines; nor had I been by any means idle during those weeks of comparative leisure. But I knew, of course, that this was an oblique reference to my affair with Anne; though why Jim should disapprove of it so strongly passed my comprehension. If Anne chose to keep me on tenter-hooks, well that was my affair, not his! Still, I wasn’t going to quarrel with Jim over his opinion, as I should have quarrelled with any other man.

      Anne joined me directly, and we had two precious minutes together under the portico. Mrs. Sutherland’s carriage had not yet come into the courtyard, and she herself was chatting with folks she knew.

      There were plenty of people about, coming and going, but Anne and I paced along out of the crowd, and paused in the shadow of one of the pillars.

      She looked ethereal, ghostlike, in her long white cloak, with a filmy hood thing drawn loosely over her shining hair.

      I thought her paler than usual—though that might have been the effect of the electric lights overhead—and her face was wistful, but very fair and sweet and innocent. One could scarcely believe it the same face that, a few minutes before, had been animated by audacious mischief and coquetry. Truly her moods were many, and they changed with every fleeting moment.

      “I’ve behaved abominably to you all the evening,” she whispered tremulously. “And yet you’ve forgiven me.”

      “There’s nothing to forgive. The queen can do no wrong,” I answered. (How Jim Cayley would have jeered at me if he could have heard!) “Anne, I love you. I think you must know that by this time, dear.”

      “Yes, I know, and—and I am glad—Maurice, though I don’t deserve that you should love me. I’ve teased you so shamefully—I don’t know what possessed me!”

      If I could only have kissed those faltering lips! But I dare not. We were within range of too many curious eyes. Still, I held her hand in mine, and our eyes met. In that brief moment we saw each into the other’s soul, and saw love there, the true love passionate and pure, that, once born, lasts forever, through life and death and all eternity.

      She was the first to speak, breaking a silence that could have lasted but a fraction of time, but there are seconds in which one experiences an infinitude of joy or sorrow.

      “And you are going away—so soon! But we shall meet to-morrow?”

      “Yes, we’ll have one day, at least; there is so much to say—”

      Then, in a flash, I remembered the old man and Cassavetti,—the mystery that enshrouded them, and her.

      “I may not be able to come early, darling,” I continued hurriedly. “I have to see that old man in the morning. He says he knows you,—that you are in danger; I could not make out what he meant. And he spoke of Cassavetti; he came to see him, really. That was why I dare not tell you the whole story just now—”

      “Cassavetti!” she echoed, and I saw her eyes dilate and darken. “Who is he—what is he? I never saw him before, but he came up and talked to Mr. Cayley, and asked to be introduced to me; and—and I was so vexed with you, Maurice, that I began to flirt with him; and then—oh, I don’t know—he is so strange—he perplexes—frightens me!”

      “And СКАЧАТЬ