NEWS
The atmosphere of the little study, or library, or whatever it was
called, in which Ruxton carried on the private work of his political
calling, in the diminutive house in Smith Square, Westminster, was
redolent with that delightful suggestion of the old world so dear to
the collector's heart.
Its owner was a collector by instinct and training. He had been brought
up to the study of old-world art, and had learned to appreciate the
beauties of all those delicate and priceless specimens which are the
handicraft of bygone genius. But he was no keeper of a museum. His
little home in the purlieus of Westminster was a storehouse of beauty
and charm. Every piece of furniture, every tapestry, every rug, every
metal gem was full of significance and harmony with its setting. Not
one detail of this home but had cost him hours of thought and
consideration, and the result was all he asked, a perfectly harmonious
whole, a creation of all that made for undemonstrative artistry in his
nature.
Just now even the dying early autumn sun seemed graciously disposed
towards it. It was peeping in through the old Georgian windows and
searching out the mellow beauties of the study. Its softened tone
seemed to somehow belong to the picture it discovered within. The
delicate tracery of the deep, ruddy mahogany furnishings, the design of
which must have given hours of delight to the artist soul of
Chippendale; the softened tints of the ancient Persian rugs upon the
crazily uneven flooring; the exquisite carving of the oaken panels and
the delicate pictures of the hanging tapestries above them,--all these
beauties seemed to belong to a time of softened light which comes with
the ageing of the year.
The calm delight of it all resisted even the touch of a modern figure
suddenly appearing in its midst. Ruxton's modern blue serge suit and
soft felt hat might have been an anachronism, but it gave no serious
offence. He entered the room and glanced swiftly and appreciatively
upon his treasured friends. Then he laid his hat aside, took his seat
at his desk and prepared to attend to some work he had on hand.
But, for once, inclination proved stronger than purpose. He sat back in
the ample chair, such as an elderly ancestor might have revelled in,
lit a cigar, and, for some idle minutes, all effort was abandoned in
favor of the relaxed dreaming of a brain accustomed to high pressure.
It was the late afternoon of a long day spent in endless interviews in
the world of the officialdom to which he belonged here in London. But
his interviews had had little enough to do with the more commonplace
affairs of State. His portfolio in the Cabinet, which left him
responsible for the affairs of the Duchy of Lancaster, also left him
with ample time to carry out those other plans which he believed were
to have so great a significance in his country's future.
His day had been spent in completing the negotiations whereby, for a
considerable period, certain portions of the great ship-building yards
at Dorby were to be adopted and controlled by the Admiralty. It had not
been easy to stir the machinery of departments, and only had it been
made possible by invoking the efforts of the Prime Minister, Sir
Meeston Harborough, and the Foreign Secretary, the Marquis of
Lordburgh, with both of whom he had already established a confidential
understanding. Admiral Sir Joseph Caistor was purely a naval man, a
brilliant officer, but as yet intolerant of desecrating the traditions
of his department by confusing it with civilian controlled
establishments.
However, the last obstacle had been finally surmounted, and, with its
passing, he discovered the real depths of his anxiety. A strong
conviction of impending action by the German Government had taken hold
of him without his being fully aware of it. He had been oppressed by
it. And now, at last, he experienced a deep sense of relief that the
cloak of naval secrecy and protection was to be spread out over the new
construction upon which he and his father had embarked.
He sat thus reviewing these things and smoking leisurely, in the manner
of a satisfied man. He knew he ought to attend to his letters and then
go on down to the House, which was now sitting. But he had no intention
of doing so. There was no debate of importance going on, and he had no
desire to listen to the silly twaddle of a number of men whose
qualifications as legislators would have been insufficient to achieve
for them squatting room on a council of Red Indians, and whose minds
had no other conception of greatness than the limelight of a halfpenny
press.
It was five weeks since his return from Borga. Five weeks of hard,
rushing work in which a confusion of affairs required to be sorted and
carried through; in which plans had to be developed and set in train,
and during which a growing and almost oppressing sense of
responsibility had steadily taken possession of him. There had been no
leisure. It had been work incessant, work, and again work. Now, at
last, he felt that a breathing space was almost permissible.
In his first moment of leisure he was determined to carry out a purpose
upon which he had resolved, even amidst the turmoil of the affairs he
had been engaged upon. For not once during all those weeks had the
haunting memory of his beautiful visitor on the Yorkshire cliffs been
lost to him. He had heard no word from her, he had caught no glimpse of
her since he had watched her finally ascend the companionway of the
submersible to return to the shore. For the first time in his life he
had been made aware that there could be a more imperative claim upon a
man than his simple duty. For the first time in his life he found
himself hearkening to the mandates of Nature in a yielding spirit. He
could no longer resist the haunting charms of the wonderful creature
who had so appealed to his manhood.
He sat revolving his purpose in his mind. And, so doing, he idly drew a
copy of an evening paper towards him. He turned its pages in abstracted
contemplation. Then, suddenly, a head-line caught and held his
attention. It was the announcement of the completion of his
negotiations with the naval department.
He read it eagerly, not with any desire to discover publicity for
himself--rather the reverse. He looked to discover how far the
pernicious habit of publicity might be damaging to the cause in which
he was working. He sighed in relief as he came to the end of the
paragraph. For once the press had exercised laudable restraint. There
was nothing in it calculated to inspire curiosity or even comment. It
simply stated that a department in the Dorby yards had been taken over
by the Board of Admiralty to relieve the congestion in the Naval
Construction yards.
He thrust the paper aside, drew a telegram pad towards him, and indited
an address upon it.
"Veevee, London."
Then he paused and looked up as the door in the panelling of the room
was thrust open and his secretary presented himself.
"It's the telephone, and a woman's voice speaking, Mr. Farlow," he
said, with a whimsical smile. "I endeavored to get her name, but she
refused it. I warned her that I could not call you without she stated
her business, or gave her name. Finally she said I had better tell you
that 'Veevee, London,' wished to speak to you urgently. I wrote the
name down so there should be no----"
"You can put me through--at once."
The crisp response was not without significance to the younger man, and
Harold Heathcote departed with the mental reservation that "even with
Cabinet Ministers you never can tell."
A few moments later the telephone receiver on Ruxton Farlow's table
purred its soft challenge, and he picked it up in hasty and delighted
anticipation. In a moment he recognized Vita Vladimir's voice. His dark
eyes smiled at the sunlit window as he replied to her enquiry.
"Yes. It's Ruxton Farlow speaking. How-do-you-do? Most extraordinary
coincidence. I was just writing out a telegram to you. I was wond----
Yes, it's ages. I've a lot to tell you about--things. Eh? You must see
me to-night. Why, that's delightful. I am in great good luck. Not sure
about the luck?" He laughed confidently. "I am. Eh?" His laugh had died
out abruptly. "Bad news. That's---- Well, where shall I see you? Not
at--all right. Could you manage dinner with me somewhere? Ah, anywhere
you choose. What's that? The Oberon? The West Room? Will that be all
right in view of the--bad news? Yes, I agree. It is sufficiently
secluded. Shall we say at eight o'clock? You're sure it quite suits
you? Splendid. Yes. Then good-bye--till eight o'clock."
Ruxton replaced the receiver, and, for a moment, sat staring out at the
sunlit square. His eyes were half smiling still, but there was a
puzzled, slight elevation of his level brows. He was thinking,
speculating as to the nature of the bad news. But even bad news which
again brought him into contact with the Princess Vita was robbed of
more than half its significance.
Whatever Ruxton Farlow's impressions, drawn from his earlier encounters
with Vita von Hertzwohl, they became totally eclipsed by the delight in
her perfect beauty as it appeared to him when he kept his appointment
for dinner that night.
Her tall figure, so beautifully rounded, so perfect in its delicate
proportions, and so full of a delicious sinuous grace, was gowned to
perfection. Her wonderful red-gold hair, tinged with its soft sheen of
burnished copper, was a perfect setting for the delicate tracery of
jewels which completed its exquisitely unconventional dressing. Her
wonderful grey eyes shone eagerly up into his, lighting the essentially
foreign complexion which was hers with a warm fire of virile mentality.
Such were the feelings she inspired that he wondered absurdly that he
could ever have taken her for anything less than the princess he now
knew her to be. So great was her effect upon him that it was not until
her own low-spoken words, reminding him of the bad news of which she
was the bearer, permitted the memory of the affairs he was engaged upon
to return to their paramount place in his consideration.
They were seated at a small round table in a remote corner of the great
West Room. The table next to them was unoccupied, but, for the rest,
the room was fairly full, and amongst the diners were a considerable
number of notables who preferred the quiet harmonious charm of tasteful
surroundings and excellent cooking to the blatancy of the more
advertised caravansaries.
It was not until the _peches-melba_ had been served, and the order for
coffee had been given to the waiter, that the cloud was allowed to
descend upon Ruxton's perfect enjoyment. They had talked of all he had
seen upon his visit to Borga. They had talked of Vita's father, and the
services he yearned to perform for humanity. Ruxton had described in
detail their flight from the great arsenal and its Prussian commandant.
And all the time Vita had withheld her news, fearing for herself, as
much as for her companion, the complete banishment of the delight of
this moment of their meeting again.
But it had to come, and she faced it resolutely. There had fallen a
pause in their talk, and she drew a deep sigh.
"And now--now for the purpose of this meeting," she said.
Then with a resolute air she rested her elbows upon the table and
clasped her beautiful shapely hands.
"Is there any other purpose than--the present?" enquired Ruxton,
following her example and leaning forward. His smile was one of
whimsical protest. He knew that the moment had come when he must once
more return to the harness of his office. "I feel rather like a navvy,"
he proceeded. "After tremendous exertions I have just been lounging
away my dinner hour. The whistle has blown, and I must get to work
again. You have blown the whistle."
Vita smiled faintly. But her eyes lost none of their seriousness
thereby.
"I'm afraid there are liable to be some heavy penalties if--you do not
respond to it promptly. Oh, dear, I have so enjoyed myself. I wish
there were no Prussians in the world."
"There are fewer than there were."
"Yes, but so long as one remains there are--too many. I have had a
communication from my father. It came to-day."
"A letter?"
Vita shook her head.
"We do not communicate by letter. A messenger. A funny little old man
who carries samples of buttons made in Austria. He represents a button
firm, and sells millions of them over here. He happens to be my
father's brother, although no one is allowed to guess the relationship.
He is my father's most loyal--friend."
"And he has brought you word of----"
"Von Salzinger."
Ruxton waited for her to continue. He was watching her with eyes that
left him utterly incapable of forgetting her wonderful attraction. She
was no longer merely a partner in the work he had marked out for
himself. She was more. She was the woman of his early youthful dreams
come to life, and every word that fell from her lips had for him a
significance which appealed to the big soul within him apart from any
verbal meaning it might convey.
"You know father is the oddest mixture of simplicity and shrewdness I
have ever known. He is utterly without fear, and his trust, to a point,
is childlike. But when he is threatened with serious danger he is
possessed of all the subtlety, it seems to me, of the whole world. That
is perhaps why I do not gravely fear for his personal safety. His
message to me illustrates his simplicity, but gives no inkling of that
wonderful shrewdness which I know him to possess. Perhaps it is worded
purposely so that I should miss its real significance. You see, father
knows I am a coward, and does not like to distress me. Perhaps, on the
other hand, he only sees in the development the dire result of his
protest to Berlin. You see I have had the story of your visit to Borga
from him weeks ago. But I see more in it, and I am right. That's why I
warned you of 'bad news.'"
"And the news?" Ruxton's imagination had been stirred by the girl's
preliminary.
"In brief it is that Captain-General von Salzinger has been relieved of
his command at Borga, as a result of his attitude towards you and my
father."
"That is what your father assured me would happen. He assured me that
in Berlin his power was almost unlimited--as regards Borga. I see
little to trouble us in that."
"No-o."
Vita's whole attitude underwent a change. She became reflective, and
her warm grey eyes grew cold with the bitterness of memory. After some
silent moments she seemed to arrive at a decision.
"To impress you with my point of view I--must make something like a
confession," she went on presently.
She was interrupted by the returning waiter, who removed the sweet
plates and cleared the table for the coffee. After he had poured it out
and departed, Vita went on. All doubt had gone from her manner, and her
eyes smiled back into the eager face of the man who had made for
himself the discovery of the woman in Eden.
"It is just a little bit difficult to tell you these things," she
smiled. "But I must do so, or you will not see the danger as I see it.
It is about an early love affair of mine with--Von Salzinger. Oh, don't
make any mistake," she cried hastily, at the abrupt, ingenuous change
in the man's expression. "I was never in love with him. But he was with
me. Ugh! Von Salzinger. A Prussian from head to foot. A typical,
soulless Prussian. No, no. This man is ambitious. That is all he cares
for in life--himself and his ambition. My father was a great man in the
country, and would have been an excellent lever to further his ends. So
he strove to--enlist my sympathies. I was very young, and--well, I
think most women, even at an early age, like being made love to. I did
not so greatly discourage him at first. Then came the War, and I
discovered many things about the German people I had never dreamed of.
I also discovered the Prussian in Von Salzinger. He strove his utmost
to enlist me in the Secret Service, of which, to my horror, I
discovered he was a prominent member. Need I tell you what happened?
There was a scene--a dreadful scene, which he has probably never
forgiven, and--may never forgive. Now here is the complication of which
my father is unaware. It is my father who has brought about his
downfall. Do you see? He undoubtedly has suspicions of you.
Consequently he has suspicions of my father. He is bred to the Secret
Service. Where has he gone, and what will he do? What has he told
Berlin, and--what understanding has he come to with them? My simple
father believes he has settled the matter definitely in the only way
his position entitled him to settle it. I think he has set an unusually
swift and poisonous snake upon the tracks of all of us. Now you tell me
what you think. You can probably judge the position better than I. You
can look upon it from a detached point of view."
"Detached?" Ruxton smiled dubiously. But his interrogation seemed to
pass Vita by. She sipped her coffee and waited. Her grey eyes were
completely veiled beneath her long, dense lashes. Ruxton pushed his
empty cup aside. "The danger I see is for your father. Not for you, or
for anything over here. That, of course, may come later. The immediate
danger is for your father."
Vita sighed.
"You have lightened my fears." She raised her shining eyes. "That
sounds terrible, doesn't it? But--I would rather have danger threaten
him, personally, than threaten his project--our project. His position
is unique, and I doubt even if you can appreciate it. And then he has a
means of protecting himself which even Berlin has no understanding of.
Father can escape at any moment he considers it necessary. That was all
thought out, with many other things, before we approached you. _Our
visit to Dorby is still all unsuspected_. Remember that."
"Yes."
"But, in spite of your view-point, we shall hear from Von Salzinger, if
I am not very much mistaken. You see, he knows I am in London. Unless
we hear soon that he has been given another appointment in Germany,
then I feel certain we shall have him swiftly on our tracks. What can
he do--to hurt us?"
There was unmistakable apprehension in the girl's eyes. There was a
gravity in her assertion that would not be denied, and even Ruxton
realized the soundness of her argument. But he sought to console her,
to lessen her fears. He desired more than all things to see her warm
smile replace the apprehension she was now displaying.
"He can do nothing here, should he favor us with a visit," he said
lightly. "I have taken no chances. Only to-day I have completed
negotiations by which our new constructions are definitely placed under
the control and protection of our Admiralty. If your father is safe,
then I think we can snap our fingers at Captain-General von Salzinger."
"I'm--glad," cried Vita. Then impulsively: "So glad. Perhaps you don't
quite understand _our_ feelings. You see," she went on warmly, "our
project has been placed before everything else in life. Life and death
or imprisonment are secondary--quite secondary--with us. It is this
effort to save humanity from the disaster which is being engineered in
the Teutonic mind that is all that we care for. If necessary we shall
not shrink from yielding up our lives to that cause. I wonder. Can you
understand? Yes." She nodded decidedly. "You do understand. That is why
we came to you. Now you have reassured me. Germany cannot stop the work
going forward. It has become a British national effort." She sighed
again, however. "But for all that my news is bad. I am sure of it.
Perhaps it is only relatively so. I cannot say. If the work goes on no
news can be really bad. Yes, I am relieved, and I am glad I 'phoned
you. I wish my father had been here to hear you say that the work would
go on. It would have been the greatest moment of his life."
There was a great striving for reassurance in her manner. Ruxton
watched it, as he watched every other play of light and shade in her
voice and expression. Nor was it until he witnessed the return of her
brilliant smile that he felt content. With its advent he returned again
to the serene enjoyment of the moment.
At length, no further excuse for remaining would serve, and at
half-past nine they rose to go. For Ruxton it was the passing of an
important milestone on his journey through life. There remained no
longer any doubt of his feelings. He knew he had met at last the only
woman in the world who could reveal to him the true depths of happiness
in life. His full realization had come with her frank avowal of the
place Von Salzinger had striven to hold in her life. It had been a
threatening cloud, a summer billow of cloud tossed up by some adverse
air-current, and, for the moment, it had obscured his sun. Its passing
had left him in the full blaze of a radiance which he now appreciated
at its true worth. He knew that he loved this wonderful Princess Vita.
Once again the hand of Destiny had been revealed. He was moving blindly
at its bidding. Nor had he will or inclination to diverge from the
course marked out. He was content--more than content, and his only
alloy was the rapidly approaching termination of the all too short
evening.
His car rolled up to the door. He had handed Vita into it, and stood
leaning in through the doorway.
"Where shall he drive to?" he enquired, with a smile of amusement.
"Kensington?"
"Please, Kensington."
There was almost a challenge in the smile with which Vita replied to
him.
A moment later he was sitting beside her in the cabriolet as they drove
on towards the crossing of Piccadilly Circus.
"It is too late to let you take me all the way to my home," Vita said
quietly. "Besides, I would rather remain in town for the night." Then
she broke off in an undecided fashion.
Ruxton caught at the pause.
"Do not think about it. I have no desire to know anything but that
which you choose to tell me."
Vita laughed. And Ruxton felt that her laugh was slightly embarrassed.
"It seems strange not to tell you where my real home is," she said.
"There is no adequate reason for not doing so--and yet--I will tell you
the reason that I occupy my Kensington flat in my two Christian names,
and keep my real home away in the country. Father and I thought it out
when we embarked upon our plans. We decided that in emergency it would
be necessary to have a secure retreat. We endeavored to forestall all
possibilities. We----"
She broke off, gazing across the car at the open window of the door
beside Ruxton. Her eyes were full of alarm. The car had stopped in a
stream of traffic, held up by the imperious arm of the point policeman.
A taxicab had come to a stop beside them, and slightly in advance. A
hatless head had been thrust out of the window to observe the cause of
the delay. It was a square head upon still squarer shoulders. The neck
that linked them was fleshy and powerful. The hair was short and
stubbly.
Vita's hand reached swiftly and caught Ruxton's arm.
"Quick," she whispered. "Quick--but cautiously. Don't let him see you.
There, leaning out of that cab. It is Von Salzinger."
Ruxton, his pulses quickened at the touch of Vita's hand upon his arm
and the eager alarm of her whisper, leant forward and cautiously peered
out of the window. Instantly the inevitable happened. The car moved
forward and closed up on the cab. They had drawn abreast. The movement
distracted the occupant of the cab. His head turned and Ruxton found
himself gazing squarely into the fleshy features of the Commandant of
Borga. He promptly drew back, but it was too late. Von Salzinger had no
scruples. He had obviously recognized the Englishman, for now he leant
farther out of the window and deliberately peered into the well-lit
interior of the car for a second look at its occupants.
It was a desperate, trying movement. Ruxton was helpless. There was
nothing to be done. The man's scrutiny of both himself and his
companion remained until the traffic moved on. Then, and then only, did
he withdraw his head.
"He has lost no time, and has had all the--luck," said Vita in a hard,
bitter tone.
But Ruxton smiled and spoke down into the tube to the chauffeur.
"There is a taxi beside us. Avoid it." Then he put up the tube and
turned to the girl at his side. "Your fears were well grounded. With
Von Salzinger in London there can be only one possible interpretation
of the fact. But I don't think he has had all the luck. You forget that
I have completed my arrangements with the Admiralty."