THE TIGER SPRINGS
The drawing-room at Redwithy Farm was bathed in the shadows of early
autumn evening. A fire of blazing logs spluttered and crackled in the
great open fireplace. Its ruddy light shed an atmosphere of mellow
comfort and coziness over the entire aspect of the room. Under ordinary
circumstances Vita would have revelled in the delight of these moments
of a great new happiness in her beautiful home.
She was ensconced in an armchair beside the fire which had doubtless,
in years gone by, supported the slumbering form of some bewigged
country squire. Its design was perfect for such a purpose. A small
tea-table stood at her elbow. The muffins were cold upon it, but she
had been glad of the mildly stimulating effects of the tea.
Now she was sitting forward in her chair gazing deep down into the
heart of the fire. A teeming thought was speeding through a brain
which, of late, seemed always to be working at high pressure. The odd
pucker of thought between her brows added charm and character to her
beautiful face. Her eyes, too, had lost something of their profound
serenity. They were alight and shining with a certain nervous
concentration, while her delicate lips were unusually firmly compressed.
She had only returned from London an hour earlier, and now, far from
the distractions of the momentous hours she had spent with the man
whose love had been powerful enough to sweep aside every other
consideration from her mind, she was striving to quell all emotion, and
disentangle the skeins in which she felt hopelessly caught up.
Paramount, her great love for Ruxton stood out and tripped her at every
effort to concentrate upon those matters which related to the plans
upon which they were all at work. Her alarm for her father was real and
almost overwhelming. But her joy in her new-found love robbed it of
half its significance. In the happiness of the moment it was impossible
to believe or accept, even, the suggestion that disaster had overtaken,
or could overtake him.
In the first rush of her dread Ruxton's confidence had reassured her.
Her father must be safe. Her lover's argument had been so clear and
convincing. Then he had promised to meet him on his arrival in England.
Yes, her father was bound to make for Dorby. That was their secret
landing-place. Ruxton would be there. He would not fail. He would warn
him of Von Salzinger's discovery of her house. He would arrange for his
safety. To all these things he had given his word, and his word was
all-sufficient for her. As for his ability to put his promise into
effect there could be no question. The proud thought in her was supreme.
She dwelt upon the glamored picture of her lover which was always in
her mind, and it comforted her and reassured her as she had never found
comfort or reassurance before. No one who knew him could question, she
felt. Her vivid mental vision dwelt upon the sculptured beauties of his
magnificent face and head. The calmly assured manner; the great
physical strength, which reminded her of the men in the wonderful
history of her own country,--these things overbore her woman's
timidities, and reacted upon her in a manner which drove all doubts
headlong.
He would write her. How? Through the post, or would he send a messenger
with the news of her father's safety? It was a useless speculation. All
she knew was that the news would come. He had promised it.
Vassilitz entered the room. Vita knew it because the door had opened,
and the rattle of the handle had disturbed her. Otherwise the man's
movements were decorously silent. He crossed to the windows and drew
the curtains. He glided across the room, and prepared to remove the
tea-things.
Would madame have the lights? No, madame preferred the firelight. The
brighter lights would have disturbed her dreaming. The man bore the
tea-table away, his dark eyes and sallow features perfect in their
immobility.
As the door closed behind him, memory brought Vita a fleeting unease.
She remembered Ruxton's warning about Vassilitz. He had suggested his
possible connection with the Secret Service. It seemed impossible. And
yet Ruxton had been definite. How long had she known him? She cast back
in her mind. Why, as long as she could remember. She remembered him as
a village lout, who sometimes worked for her father in his garden. Then
he had been taken away to the army, as they were all taken away by the
cruel conscript laws. Yes, of course, he had been away in the army,
and--they had lost sight of him all that time--the time he was in the
army.
Then she dismissed the matter. Ruxton must be right. She was sure he
would not say such a thing without some reason. She would send
Vassilitz back to his home. There must be no unnecessary risk of her
father's safety.
Having settled the matter, the fiery caverns in the grate absorbed her
attention once more, and every beat of her heart helped to bridge the
distance which separated her from the lover who had so suddenly thrust
himself into her life.
How long she sat crouching over the crackling fire, dreaming those
dreams of life, which afterwards become the most sacred treasures of a
woman's memory, Vita never knew. Later, when she reviewed those
moments, conviction remained that never for one moment had her eyes
closed in response to the seductive warmth of the fire. Yet she knew
that in some strange manner oblivion must have stolen upon her. Without
a shadow of warning she found herself sitting bolt upright, every drop
of blood seeming to have receded from her veins, leaving her shivering
in a frigid panic. The cold, hard tones of a man's voice were
addressing her.
"The Princess will forgive the unceremonious nature of this visit," it
said. "It is imperative, for--it is made under the direct authority of
those who claim all subjects of the Fatherland."
The words were in German. They were without a shadow of inflection, and
thereby gained in the consummate tyranny of their meaning.
Vita was on her feet. Nor had the wild panic which swept through her
every nerve centre power to rob her of the regal poise natural to her.
She battled fiercely for calmness, but only achieved it superficially.
In the dark of the room she could see nothing of the intruder
distinctly. A shadowy outline in the direction of the closed door was
all she could make out. Then, with a swift movement, one arm was thrust
out towards the wall beside the fireplace. Her fingers encountered a
group of electric switches. In a moment the room was flooded with a
shaded, mellow light.
"Frederick von Berger! You!"
It was the only exclamation that escaped her parched lips. But it
expressed all the terror which would no longer be denied.
She had recognized the intruder. And behind him she saw the square
figure of Von Salzinger. But the latter meant nothing compared with the
overwhelming personality of the man whom she, with thousands of others,
had always regarded as the Kaiser's evil genius. Probably only once or
twice in all her years she had seen this man in the flesh. But his
pictures, they were known to everybody in the Fatherland, just as was
the sinister reputation which dogged his name.
Oh, yes, she knew him--and he was here, here in England, and had stolen
in upon the privacy and obscurity of her home. What was his purpose?
What? Something of it, at least, was plain to her from the moment of
her recognition. It was the cruel hand of the Teutonic machinery
reaching out towards her and--hers. Hers! The thought seared itself
upon her brain. For herself she had no thought, but for her father she
had become the veriest coward.
The intruder displayed no interest or feeling at the manner of Vita's
greeting. The lines of his face remained as stonily graven as chiselled
marble. So cold was his regard that it even seemed incapable of
interpreting her matchless beauty.
"I am honored that the Princess recognizes me," he said, with a
coldness that made his words an offence. "It will save explanation."
Then he came towards her and stood before the fire confronting her. His
height matched hers, which left him only of medium height for a man.
"Your father has sold the secrets of Borga to--England. Now he has made
good his escape to--England." Then without a sign, or gesture, or
shadow of significance, he added: "So you see it was necessary to visit
you here."
It was well-nigh an impossibility ever to fathom the thought which lay
behind this man's spoken word. There was a directness and simplicity
about him which was utterly confounding. Then there was that dreadful
frigidity of eye and attitude.
Vita realized the impossibility at once. She made no attempt to guess
at that which was in his mind. She contented herself with his admission
of her father's escape. Without it terror alone would have remained.
Instead, now, a wonderful calmness settled upon her. Maybe there was a
touch of desperation in her calm. But there was still the assurance of
her father's security, at least temporarily. She must watch. She must
strive. If there were the smallest possibility she must baffle the
purpose which had brought Frederick von Berger to her home. She waited.
"It is not presumed, of course, that you are aware of these
matters--yet. But it is well known to our agents that you are in touch
with the Prince. Therefore it is probable on his arrival in England he
will communicate with you. It is not our intention to permit you to
thus incriminate yourself. All possibility of the Prince's
communicating with you must be avoided, or you, a woman, will fall
under the penalty of his crimes. You will prepare yourself at once to
make a journey by road. You will leave this house at once, and remain
away from it until the whole unpleasant affair has been settled to the
satisfaction of Berlin. These are instructions direct to you from the
authority of the land which still claims you subject."
Resentment was the dominant emotion the man's pronouncement stirred in
Vita. His authority was unquestioned in her mind, but the manner of him
was infuriating to her hot Polish blood. The sparkle of her beautiful
eyes could not be concealed. She bit her lips to keep back the hot
words which leapt in retort, and, all the while he was speaking, she
reminded herself of the necessity for calm. The moment his last word
died out her reply came.
"Here, in England, I am commanded by German authority to abandon my
home and go whithersoever it pleases you to conduct me. German
authority in a country where German authority does not obtain. You
trespass on my premises, admitted I do not know how. You dictate this
absurd order to me, and expect me to obey it. This is not Prussia."
"Precisely, Princess. If this were Prussia there would be no
discussion." It was the first shadow of threat the man had displayed.
It was not in his tone. It lay in the keen, steely cold gleam of his
eyes. "As for the authority," the man shrugged, "there is no corner in
the world where a German subject exists that German authority does not
obtain--for the German subject. If you have not yet realized this, then
I beg you to do so at once. The method of enforcing that authority
alone differs."
"I understand that. In England it is enforced by the methods such as
any common criminal might adopt. For instance, the burglar who steals
into private houses."
The biting sarcasm left Frederick von Berger quite undisturbed.
"The chief point is, it is, and will be, enforced," he observed coolly.
"Will you be kind enough to prepare for that journey?"
"If I refuse?"
Von Berger shrugged.
"You will still make it. The preparations will be made for you."
"By whom?"
"By your servants."
There was just the faintest flicker of the eyelids as the man assured
her. There was no smile, and yet there was a change from the frigidity
which had been so poignantly marked up to that moment.
"My servants! Are they, too, bound to obey the mandates of Berlin in
violation of the laws of free England?" Anger was getting the better of
her resolve.
"They, too, are children of the Fatherland."
"Spies!"
The exclamation broke from the angry woman with fierce heat.
"Certain of them have their orders."
They stood eye to eye. The anger of the Princess flamed into the cold
gaze of the man. There was no yielding in either at the moment.
"I refuse."
The words came full of desperate determination. But even as Vita
pronounced them she felt their futility. Swiftly she cast about in her
mind for a loophole of escape, but every avenue seemed to be closed.
The house was isolated. It was attended by seven or eight servants, and
bitterly she remembered that they all came from a country which yielded
allegiance to Teutonic tyranny. Ruxton had been right. Oh, how right!
Which of these servants were under the orders of this man? She could
not be sure, excepting in the case of Vassilitz. Again panic grew and
reached a pitch of hysteria as she listened to the man's easy level
tones.
"You are angry, and your common-sense is blinded by it," he said
without emotion. "Were it not so you would see the absurdity of your
refusal. I am not without means of enforcing authority. Listen. At the
front door stands a powerful car. A closed car, which is fictitiously
numbered. While we are talking your maid is packing for you. She has
orders to prepare for you every luxury and comfort you are accustomed
to require. This luggage will be placed in the car, and she will travel
with you. If you persist in your refusal you will be dealt with. If you
seek to call for aid you will be silenced. The servants in your house
will not dare to raise a finger in your assistance. You will be
conducted to a place already prepared to receive you. You will be
treated with every courtesy your rank and sex entitles you to. And when
these affairs are settled to suit Berlin you will be released. Do you
still refuse?"
The recital of the conditions prevailing possessed a conviction that
suggested the inevitability of Doom, Vita realized. Coming from another
than Frederick von Berger she might have hoped. But this man--she
shivered. A conscienceless mechanism as soulless as cold steel.
Her answer was delayed. Her eyes, searching vainly, swept over the
room. Finally they encountered the square face of Von Salzinger. She
had forgotten him. Her gaze was caught and held, and, in a moment, she
realized that he was endeavoring to convey some meaning to her. Its
nature was obscure, but the expression of his usually hard face
suggested sympathy, and almost kindliness. Could it be that in the
grinding machinery of Prussian tyranny she possessed one friend? She
remembered Von Salzinger's protestations. She remembered that he had
spoken of love to her. Love--what a mockery! But might she not hope for
support from him? No, he was bound hand and foot. She dared hope for no
open support. But----
Von Berger displayed the first sign of impatience. He withdrew his
watch.
"I cannot delay," he said. "It is not my desire to use the force at my
command. Being in England, and you being a woman, discussion has been
permitted. You will now choose definitely, within one minute, whether
you will submit to the orders of Berlin, or resist them. I am
considering your convenience. It is immaterial to me which course you
adopt."
He held the watch in the palm of his hand, and his eyes were bent upon
its face, marking the progress of the second hand. The influence of his
attitude was tremendous. He was a perfect master of the methods which
he represented. No one could have observed him and failed to realize
that here was a man who, with the same extraordinary callousness, could
easily have stepped to the side of a fainting woman, and, without a
qualm, have placed the muzzle of a revolver to her temple and blown her
brains out, as had been done in Belgium.
Vita watched him, fascinated and terrified. The silent moments slipped
away with the inevitability which no human power can stay.
Von Berger looked up. The measure of his eyes was coldly calculating.
"You have ten seconds," he said, and returned to his contemplation of
the moving hand.
The strain was unendurable. Vita felt that she must scream. Her will
was yielding before the moral terror this man inspired. There was no
hope of help. No hope anywhere. The fire shook down, and she started,
her nerves on edge. She glanced over at Von Salzinger. Instantly his
features stirred to that meaning expression of sympathy. Now, however,
it only revolted her, and, as though drawn by a magnet, her eyes came
back to the bent head of Von Berger.
Simultaneously the man looked up and snapped his watch closed and
returned it to his pocket.
"Well?" he demanded, and the whole expression of him had changed.
Vita saw the tigerish light suddenly leap into his eyes. The man was
transfigured. She warned herself he was no longer a man. She could only
regard him as something in the nature of a human tiger.
"I will go," she said, in a voice rendered thick by her terror-parched
throat.
"Ja wohl!"
Von Berger turned and signed to his confederate.