John Ironside - The Red Symbol

The more I brooded over it the more bewildered – distracted – my brain became. I tried to dismiss the problem from my mind, “to give it up,” in fact; and, since sleep was out of the question, to occupy myself with preparations for the packing that must be done to-morrow – no, to-day, for the dawn had come – if I were to start for Russia on Monday morning.

But it was no use. I could not concentrate my mind on anything; also, though I’m an abstemious man as a rule, I guess I put away a considerable amount of whiskey. Anyhow, I’ve no recollection of going to bed; but I woke with a splitting headache, and a thirst I wouldn’t take five dollars for, and the first things I saw were a whiskey bottle and soda syphon – both empty – on the dressing-table.

As I lay blinking at those silent witnesses – the bottle had been nearly full overnight – and trying to remember what had happened, there came a knock at my bedroom door, and Mrs. Jenkins came in with my breakfast tray.

She was an austere dame, and the glance she cast at that empty whiskey bottle was more significant and accusatory than any words could have been; though all she said was: “I knocked before, sir, with your shaving water, but you didn’t hear. It’s cold now, but I’ll put some fresh outside directly.”

I mumbled meek thanks, and, when she retreated, poured out some tea. I guessed there were eggs and bacon, the alpha and omega of British ideas of breakfast, under the dish cover; but I did not lift it. My soul – and my stomach – revolted at the very thought of such fare.

I had scarcely sipped my tea when I heard the telephone bell ring in the adjoining room. I scrambled up and was at the door when Mrs. Jenkins announced severely: “The telephone, Mr. Wynn,” and retreated to the landing.

“Hello?”

“Is that Mr. Wynn?” responded a soft, rich, feminine voice that set my pulses tingling. “Oh, it is you, Maurice; I’m so glad. We rang you up from Chelsea, but could get no answer. You won’t know who it is speaking; it is I, Anne Pendennis!”

“I’m speaking from Charing Cross station; can you hear me?” the voice continued. “I’ve had a letter from my father; he’s ill, and I must go to him at once. I’m starting now, nine o’clock.”

I glanced at the clock, which showed a quarter to nine.

“I’ll be with you in five minutes – darling!” I responded, throwing in the last word with immense audacity. “ Au revoir ; I’ve got to hustle!”

I put up the receiver and dashed back into my bedroom, where my cold bath, fortunately, stood ready. Within five minutes I was running down the stairs, as if a sheriff and posse were after me, while Mrs. Jenkins leaned over the hand-rail and watched me, evidently under the impression that I was the victim of sudden dementia.

There was not a cab to be seen, of course; there never is one in Westminster on a Sunday morning, and I raced the whole way to Charing Cross on foot; tore into the station, and made for the platform whence the continental mail started. An agitated official tried to stop me at the barrier.

“Too late, sir, train’s off; here – stand away – stand away there!”

He yelled after me as I pushed past him and scooted along the platform. I had no breath to spare for explanations, but I dodged the porters who started forward to intercept me, and got alongside the car, where I saw Anne leaning out of the window.

“Where are you going?” I gasped, running alongside.

“Berlin. Mary has the address!” Anne called. “Oh, Maurice, let go; you’ll be killed!”

A dozen hands grasped me and held me back by main force.

“See you – Tuesday!” I cried, and she waved her hand as if she understood.

“It’s – all right – you fellows – I wasn’t trying – to board – the car – ” I said in jerks, as I got my breath again, and I guess they grasped the situation, for they grinned and cleared off, as Mary walked up to me.

“Well, I must say you ran it pretty fine, Maurice,” she remarked accusatively. “And, my! what a fright you look! Why, you haven’t shaved this morning; and your tie’s all crooked!”

I put my hand up to my chin.

“I was only just awake when Anne rang me up,” I explained apologetically. “It’s exactly fifteen and a half minutes since I got out of bed; and I ran the whole way!”

“You look like it, you disreputable young man,” she retorted laughing. “Well, you’d better come right back to breakfast. You can use Jim’s shaving tackle to make yourself presentable.”

She marched me off to the waiting brougham, and gave me the facts of Anne’s hasty departure as we drove rapidly along the quiet, clean-washed, sunny streets.

“The letter came last night, but of course Anne didn’t get it till she came in this morning, about three.”

“Did you sit up for her?”

“Goodness, no! Didn’t you see Jim lend her his latch-key? We knew it would be a late affair, – that’s why we didn’t go, – and that some one would see her safe home, even if you weren’t there. The Amory’s motored her home in their car; they had to wait for the storm to clear. I had been sleeping the sleep of the just for hours, and never even heard her come in. She’ll be dead tired, poor dear, having next to no sleep, and then rushing off like this – ”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Pendennis?” I interpolated. “Was the letter from him?”

“Why, certainly; who should it be from? We didn’t guess it was important, or we’d have sent it round to her at Mrs. Sutherland’s last night. He’s been sick for some days, and Anne believes he’s worse than he makes out. She only sent word to my room a little before eight; and then she was all packed and ready to go. Wild horses wouldn’t keep Anne from her father if he wanted her! We’re to send her trunks on to-morrow.”

While my cousin prattled on, I was recalling the events of a few hours back. I must have been mistaken, after all! What a fool I had been! Why hadn’t I gone straight to Kensington after I left Lord Southbourne? I should have spared myself a good deal of misery. And yet – I thought of Anne’s face as I saw it just now, looking out of the window, pale and agitated, just as it had looked in the moonlight last night. No! I might mentally call myself every kind of idiot, but my conviction remained fixed; it was Anne whom I had seen. Suppose she had left Mrs. Sutherland’s early, as I had decided she must have done, when I racked my brains in the night. It was close on one o’clock when I saw her on the river; she might have landed lower down. I did not know – I do not know even now – if there were any steps like those by Westminster Bridge, where a landing could be effected; but suppose there were, she would be able to get back to Cayleys by the time she had said. But why go on such an expedition at all? Why? That was the maddening question to which I could not even suggest an answer.

“What was it you called to Anne about seeing her on Tuesday?” demanded Mary, who fortunately did not notice my preoccupation.

“I shall break my journey there.”

“Of course. I forgot you were off to-morrow. Where to?”

“St. Petersburg.”

“My! You’ll have a lively time there by all accounts. Here we are; I hadn’t time for breakfast, and I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

As we crossed the hall I saw a woman’s dark cloak, flung across an oak settee. It struck me as being rather like that which Anne – if it were Anne – had worn. Mary picked it up.

“That oughtn’t to be lying there. It’s Mrs. Sutherland’s. Anne borrowed it last night as her own was flimsy for a car. I must send it back to-day. Go right up to Jim’s dressing-room, Maurice; you’ll find all you want there.”