THE MYSTERY
Ruxton Farlow's return home was even more preoccupied than had been his
going. An entirely new sensation was stirring within him. Before, his
thoughts had been flowing along the troubled channel of affairs, all of
which bore solely upon the purpose of his life. Now their flow had been
further confused by the addition of an emotion, which, under ordinary
circumstances, might well have leavened the most gloomy forebodings.
Instead, however, it was rather like an artist engaged on painting a
picture of tragic significance who suddenly discovers that another hand
has added some detail, which, while it is still a part of the subject
portrayed, yet renders the whole a masterpiece of incongruity.
The coming of a woman into the affairs of his life seemed to him as
incongruous as it was pleasant, and, in the circumstances, justified.
It was an element all unconsidered before. His association with women
until now had been the simple parrying of the feminine shafts levelled
at him in the process of ordinary social intercourse in the position he
occupied in life. He was by no means a man who took no delight in
women's society. On the contrary. But his purpose in life had always
been too big as yet to permit his dwelling upon those pleasures which
no real manhood can ever ignore.
Women were to him part of the most exalted side of a man's life. His
ideals in that direction were as wholly unworldly as his ideals were
practical in every other direction. From his earliest youth, due to the
death of his mother at his birth, he had never experienced a woman's
influence upon his life, and thus he had been left to the riot of
imagination, which, in very truth, had been his safeguarding against
the operation of the matrimonial market of social London in the midst
of which he had found himself plunged.
Now, under conditions wholly robbed of every convention, he had
suddenly been confronted by a wonderful creature, who, to his vivid
imagination, appealed as the most beautiful of all her beautiful sex.
Furthermore the contact had been brought about through those very
ideals and purposes to which he had devoted his life. And, moreover,
the wonder of it all was that his purpose was apparently her purpose,
and she had sought him because this was so. Herein lay the
extraordinary incongruity of a sex attraction brought about by the
threatened tragedy overshadowing them all.
Vita Vladimir!
It was a name such as he might have discovered anywhere amongst the
foreign colony in Soho. His attraction towards the woman afforded no
glamor to the name. None at all. He told himself frankly it did not fit
her. Furthermore it left him unconvinced that it truly belonged to her.
Yet she said she was a Pole. And somewhere in the back cells of memory
there was a sort of hazy recollection that "Vladimir" had some
connection with Polish history.
However, the question of her name left him cold. Only the vivid picture
of her personality remained in his mind. Her charm, her ardor, her
beauty, and that extraordinary suggestion of mystery, conveyed in her
costume, and the evasion of the details of her coming and going--these
things had caught the imagination and the youth in him, and acted upon
them like champagne.
He strove to thrust aside these things and consider her only through
the purpose on which she had sought him out. She knew, and had seen,
the realities of the threat which he believed to be hanging over his
country. She could, and would, show him these things.
Suddenly on the impulse of a reasonable incredulity he asked himself if
he were dreaming. The whole thing must be a mere phantasm, the outcome
of all the troubled thought which had occupied him for so long. But she
had told him he would hear from her again, and then that tiny
white-gloved hand. He felt its clasp now, as it had lain in his strong
palm. No, it was no dream. She was real--and she was very, very
beautiful.
By the time he reached the great colonnade which formed the entrance
porch of his home the woman's personality had dominated all his
endeavor to regard the incident from any other point of view. The woman
had absorbed all that was in him, and a curious, deep, thrilling
sensation of delight at the encounter had completely thrust into the
background the purpose which had brought it about. All that which we in
our consideration of the affairs of life are apt to despise, and even
leave out of our reckoning altogether, had asserted itself. It was the
sex instinct, which no power of human mentality can resist.
Ruxton had no wish to meet his father again that night. He wanted
solitude. He wanted to think and dream, as all youth desires to think
and dream, when the floodgates of sex are opened, and it finds itself
caught in the first rush of its tide.
Glancing at his watch he discovered it to be close upon midnight. But
the hour had no significance in his present mood. His father would have
retired, and the library would be empty, so he passed up the oak
stairway with the determination to smoke a final cigar, and let his
thoughts riot over the delectable banquet the evening had provided for
them.
But that particular pleasure was definitely denied him. When he entered
the library the lights were still on, and he beheld his father's curly
white head still bent over the table at which he was wont to attend to
his private correspondence.
The old man looked up as the other walked down the long book-lined room
towards him. His deep-set eyes were smiling as they were ever ready to
smile upon the companion of his wifeless life.
"Finished your ramble?" he enquired pleasantly.
Ruxton returned the smile and flung himself upon a long old settle
before he replied.
"The ramble is finished," he said, preparing to light a cigar.
Their eyes met. The father knew there remained something as yet
unspoken behind the reply. He waited. But Ruxton's decision was not yet
taken.
"Finished your letters yet?" he enquired from behind a cloud of smoke.
The bright blue eyes surveying him twinkled.
"One more," his father said.
"Go ahead then."
Sir Andrew knew by the tone that ultimately the unspoken word was to
come. He glanced down at his papers with a sigh.
"I believe, after all, I shall have to break with some of my
old-fashioned habits. It is an awful thing to contemplate at my time of
life. I think I must be getting old. The burden of private
correspondence begins to weigh. I have always held that a private
secretary for such a purpose is waste of money, and the undesirable
admission of another into one's private life."
Ruxton stretched out his long legs. His bulk almost completely filled
the settle.
"It's hard work for Yorkshire to change its habit. A feature applying
pretty generally to the Briton. I only wonder a man of your vast
fortune has clung to such habits so long. I, who possess but a
twentieth of the fortune you possess, find I cannot do without one."
"But then you are a political man," his father smiled drily.
Ruxton nodded. "And in consequence I am saved much heartburning."
"Yes." Sir Andrew gathered up a sheaf of sealed envelopes and flung
them into his post basket. "Twenty-five letters. Answers to cranks.
Answers to those philanthropists who love to do good with other folks'
money. Answers to beggars, to would-be blackmailers, to public
institutions whose chief asset is a carefully compiled list of likely
subscribers, and then--those whom we have decided to encourage--the
inventors. Here is our friend Charles Smith." He picked up the last
letter remaining to be dealt with. "What am I going to say to him?"
The old man scratched one shaggy eyebrow with the point of his
penholder--one of his signs of doubt and perplexity.
"This secrecy business adds importance to the reply," he added.
Ruxton held out his hand.
"Let's read it again," he said.
His father passed the letter across, and sat watching the concentrated
brows of his son, while the latter re-perused the contents.
The watching man was about to turn back to his desk when his eyes
abruptly widened questioningly. Ruxton had suddenly sat bolt upright,
and a quick flush of suppressed excitement spread over his strong
expressive features.
"Veevee, London!" he exclaimed. "A code address which is obviously a
word made out of initial letters. V. V." Then he looked across at his
startled parent. "I say, Dad, there's mystery here all right--mystery
everywhere to-night. V. V. Those initials fit Vita Vladimir exactly."
"Precisely. Also Vivian Vansittart," smiled his father. "Or any other
high-sounding names beginning with V."
Ruxton passed the letter back with a laugh. Then he flung himself back
on the settle.
"Wait until I have told you what happened to me to-night. Then write to
that man and give him a definite appointment at some time when you can
devote several hours to him--if necessary."
Sir Andrew pushed his high-backed chair well away from the desk and
helped himself to a cigar.
"This is one more than I have any right to to-night, Rux," he said, as
he crossed his stout legs, "but go ahead."
Ruxton seemed in no hurry to begin his story. The truth was he felt
reluctant to let any one share his secret. Furthermore he was doubtful,
in the light of cold words, if that which he had to tell would carry
the conviction which possessed him. It seemed impossible; and then the
personality of Vita. No. But he felt that the story must be told, if
only in justification of his demand for Mr. Charles Smith.
"Look here, Dad," he began at last. "I know you regard me as a bit of a
dreamer, but on more than one occasion you have been pleased to say you
consider my judgment pretty sound. Perhaps it is. I don't know. Maybe
to-night I have been unduly affected by feelings which don't usually
carry me away; but, even so, I think I have retained sufficient of our
Yorkshire phlegm to get a right estimate of things, and the things
which have happened to-night I am convinced are connected with the V.
V. in that letter. I was on the cliffs, lying on the heather, looking
out to sea, when a woman came along who had been endeavoring to hunt me
out for three hours. She was the most beautiful creature I have ever
seen. She does not belong to Dorby, or the neighborhood. She was
dressed to perfection, and was hatless, and her name was Vita Vladimir.
I tell you these details because they are all significant, and I want
you to understand that first."
"Go on," his father nodded.
"Go on?" Ruxton gave a short laugh. "It's easier to say than to
do--adequately. Anyway this is the whole story."
Both men's cigars had been entirely consumed by the time Ruxton Farlow
had finished his long recital. He told his story of his meeting with
Vita Vladimir with all the simple force which was part of the Russian
nature in him. And, in spite of his fears to the contrary, none of its
dramatic significance was lost in the telling.
His father read in the story all his son wanted him to read. But he
read deeper even than that, and the depth of his reading was a trespass
upon the ground which Ruxton fondly believed he had kept to himself.
The shrewd Yorkshire mind probed deep to the vivid impression this Vita
Vladimir had made upon his only son, and as yet he was not sure that he
shared the boy's enthusiasm. However, long years of understanding had
convinced him of Ruxton's clarity of judgment in vital matters, and his
earnest recital of the woman's warning and promises carried the
conviction that, in spite of the boy's attraction, his judgment in this
matter had remained unimpaired. He accepted the facts, but, to himself,
deplored the means by which they had been conveyed.
"It is quite remarkable, boy, quite remarkable," was his only comment
at the conclusion of the story. Then he held the man Smith's letter in
his hand and glanced at the postscript.
But Ruxton was not satisfied with such comment. He was anxious that his
hard-headed father should see eye to eye with him.
"But what do you think of it?" he demanded, with suppressed feeling.
The great ship-owner took some moments formulating his reply.
"One's impression from your telling is the honesty of the woman," he
said deliberately at last. "There are three possibilities in the
matter. First that she is honest. Second that she--belongs to our
enemies. Third that she is a--crank. But the second and third I think
can be dismissed. Why should our enemies make such an extraordinary
proposal to you, or to anybody, short of a man important enough to be
done away with? The suggestion of 'crank' is quite dispensable, in view
of the significance of the story as it bears on all the possibilities
of the future we have discussed. Accepting her honesty, I should say
that the answer to this letter will be received by her
for--transmission. Well?"
"Then answer that letter in the affirmative, and see this Charles
Smith, Dad," cried Ruxton, rising and pacing the floor. "I am going to
probe this matter to the bottom." Then he came to a halt before the
desk, and gazed down into his father's serious eyes. "There is mystery
abroad, Dad. There is more than mystery. There is something tangible. A
great and threatening danger which must be nullified. We don't know
what it is yet. We can only surmise, but surmise is futile. We must go
and find out, as she said. We must learn these things first hand. I
shall go."
"That is what I felt you had--decided." The old man sighed. "I can't
disguise my regret, my boy, but it is--in the light of your life's
purpose--your duty to go. I will do my part. I will see this--Charles
Smith."
The General Election had come and gone like a hurricane of emotion
sweeping the country from one end to the other. Passionate opinion had
been stirred, it had been brought to a feverish surface and had been
hurled from lip to lip in that spirit of contention, than which no more
bitter feeling can be roused in the affairs of modern life. For once,
however, Britain was far less divided than usual. Even prejudice, that
blind, unreasoning, unthinking prejudice which usually characterizes
the voter, who claims for himself "good citizenship," had somehow been
shaken to its foundations. It was an almost awakened Britain which
marched on the polls and registered its adhesion and support to the men
who, out of the muckhole of demagoguery, had risen superior even to
themselves and yielded to the real needs of the country.
And the voice of the new Britain had been heard like a clarion across
the Empire, so that, at the close of the polls, the world knew that, as
Ruxton Farlow had said, the British housewife had determined upon that
sweeping and garnishing so sadly needed, and that once and for all she
had decided to bolt and bar the back door through which for so long she
had been assailed by her enemies.
Ruxton Farlow was on his way to his little old Georgian house in Smith
Square, Westminster. He was returning from Downing Street, where he had
been summoned hastily and urgently by the new Prime Minister. He had
found that electrical individual busily engaged in superintending the
removal of his effects, aided by his equally energetic secretary, from
one house in Downing Street to that Mecca of all political aspirations,
"No. 10."
Ruxton had avoided the vehicles and packing-cases at the door and was
conducted to the great little man's library. And on his entry the
secretary had been promptly dismissed. The interview was brief. It was
so brief that Ruxton, who understood and preferred such methods, was
not a little disconcerted. There had been a hearty hand-shake, a few
swiftly spoken compliments and a quick assurance, and once more the big
man found himself picking his way amongst the debris on the doorsteps.
But this time he had scarcely seen the obstructions he had to avoid. He
dodged them almost mechanically. His heart was beating high with a
quiet exultation, for he had left the presence of the wonderful little
man, who seemed to live his whole life on the edge of his nervous
system, with the assurance of a junior Cabinet rank in the new Ministry.
But the first rush of his tumultuous feelings quickly subsided, as was
his way, and he remembered that which was at once his duty and desire.
So he turned into a post-office and despatched a code wire to his
father in Yorkshire that he might be the first person in the world to
learn of his early triumph. Yes, he wanted his to be the first
congratulations. He smiled to himself as he left the post-office. The
entire press had been devoting itself to forecasting the personnel of
the new Cabinet, but not in one single instance had his name been
included in the lists.
It was with a sense bordering on perfect delight that he turned into
the calm backwater of Smith Square. And for once the dingy atmosphere
took on a reflected glory from his feelings. The square church, with
its four squat towers, handsome enough in its architecture but drab of
hue, might have been some structure of Gothic splendor. Even the
impoverished trees which surrounded it had something of the verdant
splendor of spring in them on this late summer afternoon. The sparrows
and the pigeons failed even to bring home to him the greyness of life
in a London square. For the moment those mental anxieties which had
haunted him ever since the Great War were powerless to depress his
outlook. Life was very good--very good indeed.
He crossed the square and let himself into his house with a latch-key.
He crossed the panelled hall and flung his hat and cane upon a table
and hurried up the stairway to his study. He had been interrupted in
his correspondence by the Prime Minister's summons, and now he was
anxious to be done with it, and be free to contemplate the new
situation in the light of those many purposes he had in view.
As he sat down at his desk the door in the oak panelling at the far end
of the room was thrust open and his secretary appeared. In a few
moments these two were absorbed in their work with a thoroughness which
was characteristic of Ruxton. Thus for two hours and more the memory of
his promotion was completely thrust into the background.
The butler had just brought him in a tray of afternoon tea, and the two
men took the opportunity to abandon their work for a few minutes'
leisure.
Ruxton leant back in his chair and lit a cigar, while the secretary lit
a cigarette and poured out the tea.
"Our labors have borne fruit, Heathcote," said Ruxton, seizing the
moment to impart his good news. "We are raised from the rank and file.
Our future lies on the front benches."
"The Cabinet?"
"Yes, the Cabinet."
Nor could Ruxton quite control the delight surging through him.
"Now we begin to see the development of all those long-laid plans we
have so ceaselessly worked upon, Heathcote," he went on. "Now we are
getting nearer to the position which will enable us to bring about
something of that security for this old country for which we both so
ardently long. Now--Heathcote--now!"
There was a passionate triumph underlying the idealist's words which
found ample reflection in the dark eyes of the keen-faced secretary.
The Honorable Harold Heathcote, a younger son in an old English family,
had been Ruxton's secretary from the beginning of his political career;
he was a brilliant youngster who had determined upon a political career
for himself, and had, with considerable shrewdness, pinned his faith to
the banner which, from the beginning of his career, Ruxton Farlow had
unfurled for himself. These two men were working for a common purpose.
"I knew it would come, Mr. Farlow," said Heathcote with cordial
enthusiasm. "And there'll be more to follow, or I have no understanding
of the times. I am glad. Very glad."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Heathcote rose to
answer it. When he returned he handed two telegrams to his chief.
"Telegrams," he said laconically, and returned to his seat and to his
tea.
Ruxton ran a paper knife through the envelopes. The first message was
from his father. It was brief, cordial, but urgent.
"Heartiest congratulations. Immensely delighted. Must see you at once.
Inventor turned out most important as well as mysterious.--Farlow."
Ruxton read the message over two or three times. Then he deliberately
tore it up into small pieces and dropped it in the waste-paper basket.
He opened the second message with a preoccupied air. He was
thinking--thinking deeply. But in a moment all his preoccupation
vanished as he glanced over its contents. He hungrily devoured the
words written on the tinted paper.
"Am delighted at your promotion. I anticipated it. My most heartfelt
good wishes. Do not let this success make you forget our meeting. Dare
I hope that you may find your way to 17, Streamside Mansions,
Kensington?--Vita Vladimir."
It was some moments before Ruxton's eyes left that message. A world of
unsuspected emotion was stirring within him. He had not forgotten. He
was never likely to forget. But in the midst of his emotion some freak
of mind had caught and held the significance of this mysterious
creature's congratulations. How--how had she learned of--his promotion,
when no one but himself and the Prime Minister knew of it?
Suddenly he bestirred himself. He carefully refolded Vita's message,
and placed it in his pocket. Then he turned to Heathcote.
"I shall have to go to Dorby to-night. My father wants me. It is rather
important. Fortunately things here will not require me just now. But
you must notify me of anything important happening. Meanwhile give
orders to have my things got ready, and look me out a train. I must run
out to send a wire."
"Can't I send it for you?"
"No-o. I think not, thanks."