The Intriguers

“She is young, in many things younger than her years, and utterly ignorant of the world. I cannot leave her alone, Baron, in the charge of a careless landlady. I would rather give up the whole thing and risk my chances here in London.”

The Baron thought to himself that here was a more difficult person to deal with than he expected. But it was not very long before his fertile brain solved the difficulty.

“I understand. I am the last man in the world to suggest such an inhuman thing. I can make the way easy for you. Two dear friends of mine, old maids I suppose we must call them, have a big house in Kensington. They are very lonely, without any young relatives. At a word from me they would be delighted to take charge of her during your brief absence. Keep what money you have saved for yourself. I will charge myself with her maintenance, and she shall have plenty of pocket-money, I can assure you.”

Nello grasped the old man’s hand warmly. “You have relieved me of the last ounce of hesitation. A thousand, nay, ten thousand thanks.”

The Baron returned the pressure; he was delighted he had got his own way. “That is understood. On Friday I will have that cut-and-dried also. Now keep up your little sister’s spirits – what is her name? Eh, Anita. Tell her that you are going to make fame and fortune, that you will soon be back, and that she will be very happy with these two dear old ladies, who will cosset her like a baby.”

When he left the Baron he could not quite decide what his feelings were. In a sense he was jubilant at the brilliant prospects before him, but his heart was heavy for Anita. They had lived together all their lives; they had been through terrible and heart-breaking times.

To-night he was playing at Leicester House, the abode of a musical duchess. He wanted to play his best; he would not dare to tell the unsuspecting Anita of his speedy departure. Her tears, her grief, would unman him.

The first persons he met in the specious saloons overlooking the Green Park were the Princess Zouroff and her daughter.

The girl held out her hand. “Ah, Signor, I am so pleased to see you. You must play that lovely little romance to-night. Shall I tell you the reason?”

“I require no reason, Princess. It is enough for me that you request me to play it. It shall be played.” He blushed a little as he spoke. He was not accustomed to indulge in persiflage with great ladies.

A little colour came into her face also. Perhaps the young musician’s tone had been more fervent than he intended.

“But I will tell you the reason, nevertheless. We have been recalled to St. Petersburg; we leave London next week. That is the reason my brother Boris is not here; he is winding up affairs for his successor.”

A deeper flush spread over Nello’s face. “But that is very strange. I am going there myself. I start next Monday.”

The young Princess looked pleased. She turned to her mother. “Signor Corsini must call upon us, mother.” She looked at him with a little smile. “To-night will not then be the last time I shall hear that lovely romance.”

The elder woman seconded the invitation warmly. “You shall come and play for us, Signor. I think you will find the Slav temperament a little more fervent than the Anglo-Saxon one.”

Nello thought this a good time for explanations. Degraux would spread the news about in his world, the Zouroffs would spread it about in theirs.

“You know, of course, the Baron Salmoros?”

The Princess replied that they had a slight acquaintance with that distinguished financier.

“Lady Glendover introduced me to him. He is a very considerable amateur, he has been kind enough to take a very warm interest in me. He is going to push my fortunes in Russia.”

“His name is one to conjure with in Russia,” said the grey-haired Princess. “He stands very high in the favour of his Imperial Majesty.”

Princess Nada nodded him farewell. “It is not good-bye, then, only au revoir. I suppose artists and ambassadors are the greatest cosmopolitans on earth. We shall meet next in St. Petersburg.”

And, on the Monday of the following week, Corsini set out on his expedition.

He had seen Degraux, who had congratulated him heartily. “Salmoros pulls so many strings; he can do more for you in a week than I could do for you in twelve months,” he had told him. “He has run several theatres for people he believed in. He will do anything in the world for you when he once takes a fancy.”

And little Anita had been very brave; she wept a good deal when she was alone, but in her brother’s presence she kept her tears back. Was she to oppose the feelings of her loving and undisciplined heart to the fiat of this new benefactor who had come so unexpectedly into their lives?

So she went meekly to the big house in Kensington, tenanted by the two dear old maids who were prepared to mother her, as much for her own sweet ways as from their ardent admiration for the compelling Salmoros, who had been a bosom friend of their father.

“Two or three months and I shall be back again!” sighed Corsini as he settled himself in the train. Little could he guess what the future would unfold as he made this confident prediction.

CHAPTER IX

Weary and worn with his long journey, Nello dismounted at the little wayside station about thirty miles from St. Petersburg. All passengers were peremptorily ordered to alight. Presently he learned that there had been a slight railway accident in front, and that he might have to wait two or three hours before he could get on to the capital.

He walked in the direction of the little village. There was evidently a great stir taking place in this ordinarily quiet neighbourhood. Mounted soldiers were drawn up before the old posting-inn.

Nello happened to get hold of a man who could speak a little French, in a halting, but intelligent way.

“Quite a commotion for such a tranquil spot. What is it that is on the tapis?” inquired Corsini.

The man explained in his slow French. “Something out of the usual, Monsieur. Have you ever heard of a terrible fellow, one Ivan, nicknamed ‘The Cuckoo’?”

No, Nello had never heard of him. “Is he a very formidable personage this ‘Ivan the Cuckoo,’ then?”

The man explained elaborately that Ivan was a much-feared outlaw, that he was in the vicinity with a gang of desperadoes and assassins. He was a convict who had escaped from the mines of Siberia, and had gathered round him a band of miscreants as desperate as himself, and as careless of consequences. They had lived by preying on the peasants and stray travellers.

“The police are endeavouring to block the roads, so that, in desperation, he and his associates may be driven into the village and captured,” concluded the man who had volunteered the explanation in his halting French.

Corsini thanked him, and strolled along down the straggling village street. What was he to do till the railway service was restored? The village inn was open, where, if he pleased, he could go and saturate himself with vodka or some other potent spirit; but the young man had the abstemiousness of the Latin races. He did not want to amuse himself in this fashion.

He would take a little stroll. Occupied with his own thoughts of the life and reception awaiting him in St. Petersburg, with those powerful introductions from the influential Salmoros, he did not think of the risk he was running in wandering away from the protected precincts of the quiet village, guarded as it was by those stout mounted soldiers. Ivan and his band were lurking about somewhere, ready to pounce on the unwary traveller.

After a few minutes’ slow walk, he came to a roadside ikon. Mechanically he stopped and crossed himself. He was a man of deeply religious feeling, and he fancied he had been blessed with a good omen on his entrance into this strange country. A few prayers to the Blessed Virgin and he would be sheltered from all harm.

Hardly had his lips ceased moving in reverent supplication, when he was aware of a strange presence. A tall, bearded man emerged from the semi-gloom and held out his hands with an imploring gesture.

“Save me for the sake of her whom we both reverence,” he cried. He spoke, like the last man who had addressed Nello, in lame and halting French. He had evidently appreciated the fact that Corsini was not a fellow-countryman.

Corsini started back and his hand stole to his hip pocket, from which he produced a very serviceable revolver, which he levelled straight at the intruder.

“Who and what are you?” he cried loudly, with a resolution he was far from feeling. This rough, unkempt man looked as if he was possessed of giant strength. If it had come to a hand-to-hand tussle, he could have broken the slim young Italian in two. But Nello would not let it come to that. He kept his pistol well levelled at the stranger’s head. The least movement and he would fire.

“Save me for her sake, for the sake of the Virgin,” pleaded the man in despairing accents. “You are not an outlaw like me; you have not been through what I have. I trust you, for a man who says his prayers with the devotion you do – I watched you behind the trees – would never betray his hunted fellow-creatures.”

And then a light came suddenly to Corsini, standing there, armed with that eloquent pistol.

“You speak of yourself as an outlaw. I have just come from the little village yonder, which is in a state of commotion with mounted soldiers. They are looking for an outlaw, a convict escaped from the mines of Siberia. I am right in saying that you are ‘Ivan the Cuckoo.’ Where is your band of assassins and robbers who prey upon the travellers and peasants?”

The miserable man fell at his feet. Nello, in the dim light, saw that his face had gone livid.

“You have guessed, Monsieur. It is true. I am Ivan the outlaw. You cannot appreciate the misery that drove me to this.”

In a dim sort of way Nello understood. This man was an outlaw. Was it not just a chance that he was not one himself? Many a night, as he had played in the cold streets for a few miserable pence, he had passed the flaring restaurants, the well-lighted shops, their windows full of precious things to be coveted by the poor and hungry. He could not deny that many a time he had railed at the world’s injustice, that criminal thoughts had surged through his half-maddened brain.

He thought of the saying of the old Quaker, whenever he heard of a criminal on the road to death. “There, but for the grace of God, goes myself.”

Yes, but for the sudden intervention in the shape of good old Papa Péron, he might have drifted into evil courses like the wretched creature grovelling at his feet. It was not for him to judge.