BAR-LEIGHTON
The face that gazed out at the driving October rain was one whose
expression of unrelieved misery and hopelessness might well have melted
a heart of flint. The wide, grey eyes had lost their languorous melting
delight, which had been replaced by one of driven desperation. Dark,
unhealthy rings had sunk their way into the young surrounding flesh.
They were the rings of sleeplessness, and an ominous indication of the
mental attitude behind them. The oval of the cheeks had become pinched
and pale, while the drooping lips added a pathos that must have been
irresistible to a heart of human feeling.
Vita was a prisoner in the hands of men without scruple or mercy. At
least one of them she knew could claim all and more than such words
expressed. Of the other she was less convinced. In fact, it was the
thought that he was, perhaps, simply under the control of the other
which, she told herself, made sanity possible. But even so it was the
vaguest, wildest hope, and only in the nature of a straw to which to
cling in her desperation.
The window from which she looked out gave upon a wildly desolate scene.
She was down deep, almost in the bowels of the earth, she admitted, and
the rugged sides of the chasm, clad in a garment of dark conifers and
leafless branches, rose up abruptly in every direction her window
permitted her gaze to wander.
She had no understanding of where she was. The journey had been long.
It had been swift, too, under the skillful driving of Frederick von
Berger, beside whom Von Salzinger had travelled. She had a vague
understanding that the moon had been shining somewhere behind the car
most of the time. Therefore she had decided they were travelling
westwards. Then had come the dawn which had found them racing across a
wide and desolate moorland, in a gale of wind and a deluge of driving
rain, with dense mist clouds filling to overflowing sharp and narrow
hollows which dropped away from the high level like bottomless pits of
mystery and dread.
There had been nobody inside the car to question but her maid,
Francella, and Vita had steadfastly denied herself any form of
intercourse with the woman, under the certainty that she formed part of
the Secret Service with which all unknowingly she had been surrounded.
Then had come a moment when her straining eyes, striving to penetrate
the rain-streaming windows, had detected a distant view of a stretch of
water. She had not been certain at first. But later she had detected
the hazy outline of a steamboat upon it, with a long streaming
smoke-line lying behind it. So she made up her mind it was the sea.
Even this, however, gave her no real cue to her whereabouts. For a
moment she thought of Dartmoor, but later on she believed that that
desolate wilderness was well inland.
Later again, all speculation had been yielded up under the painful
interest of the moment. They were driving along the edge of a deep,
mist-laden ravine. Vita had gazed down upon it in awed contemplation.
It was narrow and precipitous. Then had happened something which made
her shiver and clutch at the sides of the car. The driver had swung
round a fierce hairpin bend in the road. The next moment the downward
incline made her seek support lest she should slide from her seat. In a
moment the car was swallowed up in the dense white fog of the ravine.
So she had come to her prison, which she learned accidentally was
called Bar-Leighton. Whether the name applied to the house or to the
locality she never knew. It was a big rambling mansion, deep hidden in
a close surrounding of trees, nor, as far as Vita could see, was the
ravine occupied by any other habitation.
This was the second day of her imprisonment. It had been raining when
she arrived. It was still raining. It looked as if it were likely to
continue raining for a month. Vita had spent most of her time gazing
out of the window. She was heart-broken and desperate.
She had no eyes for anything but the cheerless view beyond the window.
Its attraction was small enough in its repellent austerity, but it
represented freedom. It represented the life which was forbidden her.
Somewhere out there beyond, miles and miles away, was the love of her
life, maybe vainly seeking her. Somewhere out there all that made for
her happiness in life lay beyond her reach. Would she ever recover it?
Would she ever listen to those calm tones of encouragement, and
purpose, and love again? It seemed impossible. It seemed as though the
end of all things was about to be achieved for her, now that the savage
hand of Prussian tyranny had been laid upon her.
The treatment meted out to her had been by no means hard so far. She
occupied a suite of apartments unusually handsome and spacious. But
they led from one into the other, and all the outer doors were securely
locked. She had been handed over to a hard-faced matron of German
nationality on her arrival, nor, from that moment, had she been
permitted sight of either of her male captors.
It was this dreadful isolation, this suspense, which affected her. Was
she to remain here indefinitely, ignorant of her father's movements, of
all that might be happening to her lover, of the possible disaster to
all those plans to which she had so completely lent herself? The
thought was maddening. It was completely unbearable. She wanted to
weep, to scream. But she did neither. She sat on in a window-seat in
the splendid sitting-room, and gazed miserably out on the depressing
aspect which thrust her lower and lower in the deeps of despair.
If Vita had been permitted no further sight of her captors it was not
because they had taken their departure from the precincts of the prison
they had prepared for her. On the contrary. With the arrival of Prince
von Berger at this retreat, hidden so deeply in the remoteness of some
of the wildest of the west country, the place became a hive of secret
activity. Many visitors came and went, but mostly at night. And so
contrived were their movements, that never for one moment did the
mansion lose its appearance of neglect in the hands of an indifferent
caretaker.
Amongst those who visited the place at night was Johann Stryj, and with
him a man named Emile Heuferman. It was a far cry from Dorby to
Bar-Leighton, but distance seemed to have no concern for these people,
who were served by cars of great speed and power. It was obvious that
Frederick von Berger's visit to England had been the cue for great
activity in the underworld of the Secret Service, and that far-reaching
powers were in his control.
While Vita watched the desolation of rain-washed woodlands, Von Berger
was occupied with Johann Stryj and Heuferman in a library, which had
obviously once been the pride of a previous owner of the house. Von
Salzinger was in attendance, too, and, for more than two hours, it was
pretty evident these four had been in close consultation on matters of
vital interest.
It was obvious, too, that Heuferman was of lesser degree than his
companion, Stryj, for it was to the latter Von Berger chiefly addressed
himself and from whom he extracted the information he needed. All the
talk was of Dorby, and during it the name of Farlow frequently mixed
itself into the details. The manner of these men was devoid of all
heat. Von Berger might have been a machine, so frigidly precise was his
whole attitude. Johann Stryj spoke only the words necessary, with an
effect and decision which must have left nothing to be desired by his
exalted superior. Von Salzinger was reduced to a mere observer, but
Heuferman became an object for the reception of explicit instructions,
which, for the most part, he received with monosyllabic acquiescence.
It was in the middle of the afternoon that the meeting terminated. When
Johann Stryj and his companion had taken their departure Frederick von
Berger turned to the silent ex-Captain-General. His eyes were
speculative. It was the cold calculation of a mind seeking to complete
a half-formed train of thought.
"What were your relations with this woman--before the war?"
Von Salzinger started. A flush tinted his heavy features a sort of
copper hue.
"I--don't understand, Excellency."
That odd flicker of the eyelids which seemed to be the only indication
of a lighter mood accompanied Von Berger's next words.
"Yet it is not difficult. Information tells us that you at one time
sought to marry her. Since coming to England you renewed your
acquaintance. I desire the exact explanation. I may need to use
the--relationship."
The flush had left the other's cheeks. His eyes took on a smile of
meaning.
"At one time I had such thoughts. Now I have no desire to--marry her."
"Ah!"
Von Berger had faced round from the library table at which he was
seated, and, crossing his legs, sat contemplatively with his elbows
supported on the arms of his chair and his chin resting upon his
clasped hands.
Von Salzinger stirred.
"I regard her now as one of my country's enemies. There can be no
thought of marriage with one's country's enemy. Such can never receive
the consideration we display towards our own womankind. In war the
woman is the prize of the victor. That is real war."
The callous brutality of the man was revolting. But the other gave no
sign. He contented himself with a continuance of his cold regard, and a
further ejaculation.
Encouraged by this negative sign of approval Von Salzinger ventured an
interrogation.
"How can my relations with her further your plans, Excellency?"
"I am not quite sure--yet." Then Von Berger bestirred himself. "It is
necessary to lay hands on Von Hertzwohl--at once, and----"
He broke off. At that moment a knock at the door interrupted him.
Von Salzinger sprang to his feet and hurried across the room. After
reclosing the door he returned to Von Berger.
"Vassilitz has brought this telegram. It arrived last night at Redwithy
Farm. Does your Excellency wish to speak to him?"
Von Berger took the message and opened it. It was addressed to Madame
Vladimir at Redwithy Farm. The set of his features relaxed as he read
the brief communication. Then he passed it across to Von Salzinger.
"Much news in a few words," was his comment.
The other perused the telegram carefully. It came from Dorby--
"All's well. Arrived safely. Returning to town. Love.--Ruxton."
"It means----?"
"Von Hertzwohl has arrived in England. At Dorby. Also that he returns
to London--Farlow, I mean, and that he is obviously the lover of the
woman whom you regard as the prize of the victor. Tell Vassilitz to
return to the farm without delay, to remain watchful, and to continue
to act as instructed. I must interview the Princess."
Vita's painful contemplation and misery were rudely broken in upon.
Just as the shadows of the dreary day were beginning to deepen
prematurely the door of her sitting-room was silently thrust open, and
Frederick von Berger made his unwelcome appearance.
He stood for one moment contemplating the beautiful drooping figure
without the smallest sign of emotion. Then he moved forward over the
polished floor, and the sound of his approach acted like an electric
current upon the woman at the window. She had been caught at a
disadvantage, but, in an instant, all her pride and courage rose
superior to every other emotion. She sat up, and the haughty
displeasure in her eyes found vent in cold words which must have stung
deeply any other personality but that of their present object.
"It would be superfluous to protest at an intrusion where neither
honesty, justice, nor a sense of decency exists. All I can hope for is
that whatever your business may be you will complete it, and relieve me
of your obnoxious presence as quickly as possible."
There was a cold scorn in the simple words which was enhanced threefold
by reason of the calm with which they were delivered.
If Frederick von Berger appreciated it he gave no sign. The words might
not have been spoken in so far as they deflected for a second the
purpose of his coming.
He came close up to the window in which Vita was sitting. His gaze
avoided her and was directed towards the gloomy prospect beyond it. His
powerful figure was carried erectly, doubtless from the severity of his
early military training, but it possessed a litheness quite unusual, a
litheness which the angular figure of Von Salzinger completely lacked.
The latent strength of the man was indomitable, and under other
conditions it would have been something the woman must have admired.
Now she only saw the cruelty in his hard eyes, and the absolutely cold
set of the features which seemed rendered immobile thereby.
He raised one foot and rested it upon the window-seat, and, bending so
that an arm rested upon his knee, he glanced down into the averted face.
"I have come to tell you that your position has somewhat changed since
you became my guest here," he said, in level tones. "To my very great
regret it has been discovered that you are as deeply concerned in the
plot which has cost us the secrets of Borga as those others. I have
received a telegram, intended for you, announcing your father's arrival
in this country. The manner in which it is written conveys beyond doubt
that you are perfectly intimate with all the plans of the conspiracy,
and even that one of the people most concerned is your lover. So you
see that changes the aspect of the matter so far as you are concerned."
"You have intercepted a message from Mr. Ruxton Farlow?"
Vita's face was no longer averted. All her woman's pride was outraged.
To think that this creature's eyes should have read the lines which
Ruxton had meant only for hers. She thought nothing of the significance
of her own position as a result of that letter. Only was the sacrilege
this man had committed apparent to her.
She believed she was dealing merely with a mechanism of Prussian
tyranny. She was incapable of regarding this man as anything else. But
Frederick von Berger had calculated every word he had uttered. Human
nature was a lifelong study with him--even that which he could claim
for his own.
"Exactly," he replied. "And the fact has made your position very
precarious, very precarious indeed."
The significance of his simple statement would no longer be denied.
Vita caught her breath. Her swift, upward glance in his direction had
something of the alarm which he desired to witness in it.
He removed his foot from the silken cushion and stood up.
"Princess," he went on, "I came to England with very stringent
orders----"
"Who gives Frederick von Berger orders?" cried Vita impulsively. "Not
even the Emperor. There is only one person who gives orders to Prince
von Berger in Germany--himself. It is useless to deny it. All that you
have done here--are doing--is of your own initiative."
But the man continued as though the interruption had not taken place.
"The orders I have received admit of only one course of action--the
punishment by death of the traitors to my country, and the complete
nullification of the effects of the plot. These things will be carried
out regardless of all cost and consequence. There will be no tempering
with mercy. Justice, cold justice alone will be meted out--regardless
of sex."
"The question of justice I doubt. The matter of sex is a foregone
conclusion. There is ample precedent for that."
The bitterness of the woman's words came from her heart. She knew that
he was threatening that her life was forfeit, but the fact seemed to
leave her untouched since that first swift glance of apprehension.
"The point is not one which I care to debate," the man returned, with
his curious, simple directness. "It is not for me to possess an opinion
on any matter where authority or the conduct of the State is concerned.
I can only assure you that duty will be carried out inexorably. For you
the position becomes deplorable. For you to have committed yourself to
intrigues which have for their purpose the betrayal of your country is
an outrage which calls for no mercy. You will have to face a penalty
similar to that which awaits your father. That penalty is--death."
"Death!"
The echo came in a whisper. It was a startled whisper, as though Vita's
brain were striving to grasp the full significance of the word as
applied to herself. Her eyes were no longer on the man's face. They
were contemplating the scene beyond the window without observing it.
Then, slowly, a change came over her. Her body seemed to draw itself
erect. The scorn that had lain in her eyes a few minutes ago had given
place to a curious cold calm. Her shapely lips compressed tightly, and
she faced unflinchingly the man who had pronounced the sentence. Her
eyes regarded him for some thoughtful moments. It almost seemed as
though she were striving to probe beneath that cold mask to the
thoughts and emotions which she felt must lie behind it. Then a curious
smile grew in them, a smile of renewed contempt that must have been
insupportable to a man of any feeling.
"And the alternative? I suppose there is an alternative. A death
sentence so pronounced is generally inspired by an all-important
alternative. Do you desire me to betray my friends? Do you desire me to
hand my father over to execution? Do you desire me to tell you where
the secrets you desire to recover are bestowed? Do you desire me to
assist you to restore to your country the cruel means with which you
hope to crush the heart of humanity some time in the future? Let me
hear it all, the whole depth to which you desire to force me to
descend. I have always wondered at the possible profundity to which the
Prussian mind can descend in its lack of human understanding. Well,
Prince, you had better say all you have to say now. For after this I
shall claim the privilege of every condemned person to pass out of the
world in peace." Then her contemptuous smile deepened. "But perhaps I
am to be denied that privilege. Perhaps there is no such privilege in
the Prussian code. Perhaps I am to be placed upon the rack, and
tortured until I confess. I feel it would only be a fitting outcome of
the Kultur to which your countrymen have risen. I am waiting to hear
anything further you have to say."
It would have been impossible to tell from the man's attitude the
effect of these words. Not a muscle of his features stirred. His regard
remained coldly contemplative.
"There is no alternative," he said. "Your crime admits of none. We
place no value upon any information you could give us. Our means are
perfect for obtaining it ourselves. To prove it I can assure you of
things which perhaps you do not know yourself. The plans which your
friends stole are even now in the yards at Dorby in Yorkshire. The
construction of submersible vessels is going on under Admiralty
supervision and protection, a matter carefully arranged by your lover,
Ruxton Farlow. Your father is at Dorby, and his private submersible is
moored in an inner dock at Farlow, Son and Farlow's yards. These are
all facts you may be aware of, but there are others which you certainly
are not. One of them is that these constructions are about to be
destroyed by explosion, and the plans too. Later on there will be
further developments. As for the torture you suggest, that, too, is
unnecessary. I have yet to learn of a greater torture which a young,
rich, and beautiful woman can endure than the thought of being torn
from the arms of the hero whom she has foolishly permitted herself to
worship. There can be nothing more painful to her than to contemplate
in her last moments the happiness which she is denied being enjoyed by
some other woman when her own penalty has been paid. My reasoning is
only a man's, but----"
"A devil's!"
Vita's calm had deserted her. Horror and loathing struggled for place
in her wide shining eyes.
The man looked on unmoved.
"As you will, Princess," he said, with that curious flicker of the
eyelids. "But now, since I have completed the business of my visit, I
will relieve you of my obnoxious presence. When the time comes you will
be given half an hour to prepare yourself for the execution of your
sentence."
He moved away. The shadows of the room swallowed him up. Then, a moment
later, Vita heard the door close behind him.